Sherlock Holmes - Fever
Title: Fever
Word Count: 813
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Nothing besides the rating
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, I am de-annoning because of my insane need to archive. (And my complete lack of shame)
It is not reasonable, Holmes thinks, for a doctor to be ill. Doctors do not get ill, they treat illnesses. That is how the world works.
“This is most inconvenient, my good fellow,” Holmes makes his feelings on the matter known.
Watson chuckles bitterly as he is taken by another bout of chills. “Terribly sorry about that,” he mutters through clattering teeth.
“And so you should be,” The detective takes in the sweat-soaked sheets and pillow, the hair which is pasted to his friend's brow, and occasional tiny noises of pain which escaped him, certainly without his consent. He looked awful. “You look awful,” he repeated his thoughts out loud.
“Thank you for not sparing my vanity, I do cherish your brutal honesty,” Watson curled up tighter in an attempt to stop himself shivering. The effect was limited.
Holmes sighed, “my poor, poor Watson; what ever are we going to do with you?”
The doctor's only answer was a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
“All right, all right, don't say I never do anything for you,” Holmes spoke softly and began to unbutton his shirt. That caught Watson's attention.
“What are you doing?” The doctor gritted the question out, mustering enough energy to raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Helping.” Holmes stated this as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He wondered if Watson wasn't rather more ill than he seemed. Perhaps the fever had gone to his brain.
Continuing to undress, he added, “you need the warmth; I may not be the warmest person temperamentally, but I have more than enough body heat,” by now he was down to his underwear, making his way around to the other side of the bed.
Watson gave up on trying to understand what was going on, and was greatly surprised when another body slid into the bed behind him. Arms like steel bands encircled his chest and held him fast to a slightly narrower form than his own. Holmes' warmth seeped into him slowly and eventually he got his outright shaking down to occasional trembles. The death-grip that his friend had on him eased off a little, and Watson was faced with the curious sensation of being cuddled by Sherlock Holmes. He imagined he might be the only person in the world to have experienced it. It was not unpleasant.
The doctor wasn't entirely sure when it had started, but he became aware of a hand carding through his hair soothingly. He hummed with pleasure at the sensation, and heard a small chuckle from the man behind him. He found himself not overly worried about his dignity, though. After all, he was ill, and he knew that Holmes would never tell anyone, since then it might be known that he actually had a heart, as well as his unfailing logic, and he couldn't have that.
As he felt the last of the tension from the shivers dissipate, he became increasingly aware of Holmes' hand on his hip, toying with the waistband of his underwear. He froze as it moved under the waistband, brushing across the crease of his thigh and...oh dear God what was Holmes thinking?
He jerked away reflexively, despite his incredibly embarrassing reaction. The hand in his hair never stilled, but the other one took a firm grip of his hip. “Shh, Watson...please, let me do this for you, it will help.”
The doctor in him wanted to argue that there was no medical reason why it should, but the tired, ill, and now half-hard man he was at the moment decided that it couldn't hurt, and no-one would ever know. He also knew that he wouldn't dislike it, but that was for entirely less logical reasons. He relaxed back into his friend and nodded his consent.
Holmes inched his hand slowly along his friend's lower belly and down under his waistband to his cock. The slow, deft teasing which ensued found the doctor at full hardness quickly, and then secured in the tight circle of Holmes' fist. For his part, he was all detached efficiency outwardly, but Watson could feel a tell-tale press against the back of his thigh. He tried to move one hand back, to return the favour, but it was slapped away once and he didn't bother trying again. Instead he gave himself over to precise, skilled hands without thinking too closely about who they belonged to, and how much the person attached to them had to do with his reaction.
Watson fell over the edge without warning and only gasped sharply as he did. He soon felt sleep gnawing at the edges of his mind, and gave into it without protest. The last sensation he remembered before falling into unconsciousness was the light press of lips to the back of his neck.
Word Count: 813
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Nothing besides the rating
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, I am de-annoning because of my insane need to archive. (And my complete lack of shame)
It is not reasonable, Holmes thinks, for a doctor to be ill. Doctors do not get ill, they treat illnesses. That is how the world works.
“This is most inconvenient, my good fellow,” Holmes makes his feelings on the matter known.
Watson chuckles bitterly as he is taken by another bout of chills. “Terribly sorry about that,” he mutters through clattering teeth.
“And so you should be,” The detective takes in the sweat-soaked sheets and pillow, the hair which is pasted to his friend's brow, and occasional tiny noises of pain which escaped him, certainly without his consent. He looked awful. “You look awful,” he repeated his thoughts out loud.
“Thank you for not sparing my vanity, I do cherish your brutal honesty,” Watson curled up tighter in an attempt to stop himself shivering. The effect was limited.
Holmes sighed, “my poor, poor Watson; what ever are we going to do with you?”
The doctor's only answer was a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
“All right, all right, don't say I never do anything for you,” Holmes spoke softly and began to unbutton his shirt. That caught Watson's attention.
“What are you doing?” The doctor gritted the question out, mustering enough energy to raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Helping.” Holmes stated this as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He wondered if Watson wasn't rather more ill than he seemed. Perhaps the fever had gone to his brain.
Continuing to undress, he added, “you need the warmth; I may not be the warmest person temperamentally, but I have more than enough body heat,” by now he was down to his underwear, making his way around to the other side of the bed.
Watson gave up on trying to understand what was going on, and was greatly surprised when another body slid into the bed behind him. Arms like steel bands encircled his chest and held him fast to a slightly narrower form than his own. Holmes' warmth seeped into him slowly and eventually he got his outright shaking down to occasional trembles. The death-grip that his friend had on him eased off a little, and Watson was faced with the curious sensation of being cuddled by Sherlock Holmes. He imagined he might be the only person in the world to have experienced it. It was not unpleasant.
The doctor wasn't entirely sure when it had started, but he became aware of a hand carding through his hair soothingly. He hummed with pleasure at the sensation, and heard a small chuckle from the man behind him. He found himself not overly worried about his dignity, though. After all, he was ill, and he knew that Holmes would never tell anyone, since then it might be known that he actually had a heart, as well as his unfailing logic, and he couldn't have that.
As he felt the last of the tension from the shivers dissipate, he became increasingly aware of Holmes' hand on his hip, toying with the waistband of his underwear. He froze as it moved under the waistband, brushing across the crease of his thigh and...oh dear God what was Holmes thinking?
He jerked away reflexively, despite his incredibly embarrassing reaction. The hand in his hair never stilled, but the other one took a firm grip of his hip. “Shh, Watson...please, let me do this for you, it will help.”
The doctor in him wanted to argue that there was no medical reason why it should, but the tired, ill, and now half-hard man he was at the moment decided that it couldn't hurt, and no-one would ever know. He also knew that he wouldn't dislike it, but that was for entirely less logical reasons. He relaxed back into his friend and nodded his consent.
Holmes inched his hand slowly along his friend's lower belly and down under his waistband to his cock. The slow, deft teasing which ensued found the doctor at full hardness quickly, and then secured in the tight circle of Holmes' fist. For his part, he was all detached efficiency outwardly, but Watson could feel a tell-tale press against the back of his thigh. He tried to move one hand back, to return the favour, but it was slapped away once and he didn't bother trying again. Instead he gave himself over to precise, skilled hands without thinking too closely about who they belonged to, and how much the person attached to them had to do with his reaction.
Watson fell over the edge without warning and only gasped sharply as he did. He soon felt sleep gnawing at the edges of his mind, and gave into it without protest. The last sensation he remembered before falling into unconsciousness was the light press of lips to the back of his neck.