goodbye: holmes/watson: nc-17: 1400~ words
Um. So. I've still been reading fanfic for the last year but haven't posted any. THAT IS ALL ABOUT TO CHANGE APPARENTLY.
Thing is, I love kink memes (even though I never post prompts or whatever). So I decided to go through the Sherlock Holmes unfilled prompts (from shkinkmeme) last night and found one and wrote it and come on guys it's my first foray into fandom in like a year so pleaseeeeeeee cut me some slack?
Mmkay.
Title: Goodbye
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Movieverse)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,446
Summary: Written for this prompt over at shkinkmeme (TL;DR: Watson isn't going to get the desperate goodbye fuck he had been fantasizing about.)
Notes: My first Sherlock Holmes fic, my first proper smut!fic and my first fic in about a year. Please be gentle? Also, thanks to my little beta-ing cheerleader radioactivekate <3
If an outsider looks into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street on this particular night, they might notice the brittle tenseness of the atmosphere, but taking in the apparently relaxed postures of the two men inside, they might also be inclined to ignore it. John Watson, doctor and soon to be former resident of these rooms occupies one of the arm chairs, a book in his right hand, his chin propped up by his left. His eyes scan the pages slowly, but he turns them -- and so appears to be reading.
The other inhabitant, one Sherlock Holmes, sits in the chair by the window, chewing on the bit of his pipe. There is no tobacco inside but the heavy scent lingers in the room; he has smoked it all, but does not seem inclined to move.
All in all, the two men present a picture of familiar domesticity and our outsider most likely will dismiss their instinct that the room is tense, instead believing that the situation is exactly as it seems.
It, unsurprisingly, is not.
John Watson -- Watson -- is not reading. Not that he isn't trying. His eyes scan the pages and he looks at the words, but he has to admit, to himself, that he hasn't taken in anything since Holmes' return two hours ago. The detective had walked in, cast his eyes around the room (and they had slid past Watson, like he wasn't even there) and had settled in his chair, with his pipe and that brooding stare. He's been staring out of the window for two hours. Watson knows there's nothing out there worth looking at. That's what's worrying him; he can handle Holmes being destructive, being dangerous, even. He doesn't know what to do with a brooding Holmes. Not brooding like this, just sitting and staring.
It's unnerving.
Another hour and Watson's patience is worn thin, and he stands. It's past eleven now. More than a reasonable time for him to turn in, to prepare for his move tomorrow.
He glances around the room. To a stranger, it won't be obvious; Holmes has so many things and they're spread out and scattered -- but there are gaps, where Watson's things belong- used to be.
He sighs and shifts his book from hand to hand. "Holmes." The detective doesn't look up. There's no change in him; no indication that he's even heard what Watson said. "Holmes," he tries, again. When it gets no reply, he shakes his head. There's anger and disappointment rising in his throat -- because he knows Holmes hates this; him and Mary; he knows why, but it doesn't mean they can't be- "I'm going to turn in," he says instead. "I'll see you in the morning."
Watson stalks into his room but doesn't shut the door, leaving it open just a crack. If Holmes decides to be destructive in the night, he can be there, that way.
The book is thrown onto the bed, where it lands with a soft thud. So much for friendship! He knows -- has known for a while -- that Holmes might take this badly (though he's hoped he won't, has hoped for something desperate and needy and-), but this- this is rude and ridiculous and he can't act like Watson is just not there, like he's died or something-
He stomps over to his dresser and rips a drawer open, almost growling when he realises he's already packed all his clothes -- they're all in the trunks out there in the sitting room. Where Holmes is.
Watson snarls. He drops himself onto his bed and reaches blindly behind for his book, opening it at the page he was reading when Holmes returned.
It doesn't help. He can't get into it. He can't stop thinking about that bloody insufferable man and his-
The door clicks shut. Watson leaps to his feet and turns, somehow surprised to see Holmes standing there, his smile slow and easy. Heat curls in Watson's belly and then Holmes is there- his hands tighten in Watson's shirt and Watson's mouth opens for him; he gasps at the sharp nip of teeth on his bottom lip, at the way his cock hardens when Holmes slips a leg between his thighs.
Holmes twists a hand in his hair and pulls Watson's head back, pressing hot, wet kisses to the bare expanse of neck revealed to him. Watson squirms and whimpers as that causes his cock (not quite hard, but - almost) to rub against Holmes' thigh. He feels the detective grin against his neck. Watson smirks and decides two can play at this game; he scrabbles at the hem of Holmes' shirt until his hands are up underneath, and he drags his nails across Holmes' back, down to his hips where he pulls, rocking them together. Holmes shudders and moves from where he's been sucking a mark onto Watson's collarbone, nipping at the underside of his jaw.
He pushes Watson down to the floor, kissing him again -- Watson curls his tongue in Holmes' mouth when the detective moves his usually nimble fingers to attack Watson's shirt buttons. He gets it half-undone, pushes the material from Watson's shoulders and Watson reaches for him, but Holmes grabs his wrists and pins them to the carpet. The smirk he throws Watson's way is positively lewd and he's hard now, so hard, straining against his trousers, but he-
Holmes' mouth closes around a nipple and Watson moans, arching up into that wet heat. He knows it's a preparation of what's to come but that doesn't mean he has to-
"Holmes, please, Holmes-"
The detective lifts his head, one eyebrow raised. His left hand trails down Watson's chest, nails scratching, leaving light, white marks that will turn to red later, and he deftly flicks open Watson's trousers, leaning back down and laving Watson's nipple as his hand curls loosely around Watson's prick.
"Holmes - Sherlock, pleasepleaseplease - we can't-" He arches up when Holmes' hand tightens on his cock, frowns in puzzlement when the detective sits back on his heels.
Watson lifts his head from the ground. His body feels cold now, exposed to the air-- he glances down. Exposed, all right.
He looks up at Holmes, wondering if he'll look hurt or angry or-
He looks calm.
Very calm, considering the erection that's straining against his trousers.
"Holmes," Watson says through clenched teeth. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
Holmes waves a hand. "You said we shouldn't," he says, like it's normal to just stop and like Watson actually meant it and oh-
Watson narrows his eyes. Holmes' eyes are heated, lust-blown. He licks his lips.
The doctor bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk and lays his head back down, closing his eyes. "Don't mind me, old cock," he says casually, licking his hand all over before he closes it around his prick. "I'll just- finish up here."
He doesn't open his eyes, even though he can feel the heat, the weight of Holmes' gaze on him the whole time. Instead, he slides his hand up and down as he thinks of what could have happened, had Holmes not decided to be such an unbearable prat - Holmes could have swallowed him by now, might be letting Watson fuck his mouth as he looks up at him with wide, adoring eyes. He might be fucking Watson instead, might have him face down on the bed, holding him in place by the back of the neck. Or Watson might be riding him instead, fighting the strain it puts on his bad leg each time he has to lift himself up and then drop back down-
Watson comes so hard his back arches up off the floor and his heels dig hard into the carpet. He's not too sure what he shouts but he has a feeling he knows -- his eyes flutter open as he pants, hand and belly sticky -- Sherlock is looking at him, calm and collected as ever.
For one short, terrible moment, Watson hates him. The moment passes quickly.
He reaches up and brushes sweaty hair back from his forehead. Holmes' lips quirk slightly and he crosses the room, planting his knees on either side of Watson's hips as he leans down.
They kiss, long and searing hot and when Holmes pulls back, Watson can't breathe again; can't do anything with those eyes on him.
Holmes runs a hand through Watson's hair and stands. He walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Watson stares at the door before he lets his head drop back to the carpet.
What the fucking fuck?!
Thing is, I love kink memes (even though I never post prompts or whatever). So I decided to go through the Sherlock Holmes unfilled prompts (from shkinkmeme) last night and found one and wrote it and come on guys it's my first foray into fandom in like a year so pleaseeeeeeee cut me some slack?
Mmkay.
Title: Goodbye
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Movieverse)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,446
Summary: Written for this prompt over at shkinkmeme (TL;DR: Watson isn't going to get the desperate goodbye fuck he had been fantasizing about.)
Notes: My first Sherlock Holmes fic, my first proper smut!fic and my first fic in about a year. Please be gentle? Also, thanks to my little beta-ing cheerleader radioactivekate <3
If an outsider looks into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street on this particular night, they might notice the brittle tenseness of the atmosphere, but taking in the apparently relaxed postures of the two men inside, they might also be inclined to ignore it. John Watson, doctor and soon to be former resident of these rooms occupies one of the arm chairs, a book in his right hand, his chin propped up by his left. His eyes scan the pages slowly, but he turns them -- and so appears to be reading.
The other inhabitant, one Sherlock Holmes, sits in the chair by the window, chewing on the bit of his pipe. There is no tobacco inside but the heavy scent lingers in the room; he has smoked it all, but does not seem inclined to move.
All in all, the two men present a picture of familiar domesticity and our outsider most likely will dismiss their instinct that the room is tense, instead believing that the situation is exactly as it seems.
It, unsurprisingly, is not.
John Watson -- Watson -- is not reading. Not that he isn't trying. His eyes scan the pages and he looks at the words, but he has to admit, to himself, that he hasn't taken in anything since Holmes' return two hours ago. The detective had walked in, cast his eyes around the room (and they had slid past Watson, like he wasn't even there) and had settled in his chair, with his pipe and that brooding stare. He's been staring out of the window for two hours. Watson knows there's nothing out there worth looking at. That's what's worrying him; he can handle Holmes being destructive, being dangerous, even. He doesn't know what to do with a brooding Holmes. Not brooding like this, just sitting and staring.
It's unnerving.
Another hour and Watson's patience is worn thin, and he stands. It's past eleven now. More than a reasonable time for him to turn in, to prepare for his move tomorrow.
He glances around the room. To a stranger, it won't be obvious; Holmes has so many things and they're spread out and scattered -- but there are gaps, where Watson's things belong- used to be.
He sighs and shifts his book from hand to hand. "Holmes." The detective doesn't look up. There's no change in him; no indication that he's even heard what Watson said. "Holmes," he tries, again. When it gets no reply, he shakes his head. There's anger and disappointment rising in his throat -- because he knows Holmes hates this; him and Mary; he knows why, but it doesn't mean they can't be- "I'm going to turn in," he says instead. "I'll see you in the morning."
Watson stalks into his room but doesn't shut the door, leaving it open just a crack. If Holmes decides to be destructive in the night, he can be there, that way.
The book is thrown onto the bed, where it lands with a soft thud. So much for friendship! He knows -- has known for a while -- that Holmes might take this badly (though he's hoped he won't, has hoped for something desperate and needy and-), but this- this is rude and ridiculous and he can't act like Watson is just not there, like he's died or something-
He stomps over to his dresser and rips a drawer open, almost growling when he realises he's already packed all his clothes -- they're all in the trunks out there in the sitting room. Where Holmes is.
Watson snarls. He drops himself onto his bed and reaches blindly behind for his book, opening it at the page he was reading when Holmes returned.
It doesn't help. He can't get into it. He can't stop thinking about that bloody insufferable man and his-
The door clicks shut. Watson leaps to his feet and turns, somehow surprised to see Holmes standing there, his smile slow and easy. Heat curls in Watson's belly and then Holmes is there- his hands tighten in Watson's shirt and Watson's mouth opens for him; he gasps at the sharp nip of teeth on his bottom lip, at the way his cock hardens when Holmes slips a leg between his thighs.
Holmes twists a hand in his hair and pulls Watson's head back, pressing hot, wet kisses to the bare expanse of neck revealed to him. Watson squirms and whimpers as that causes his cock (not quite hard, but - almost) to rub against Holmes' thigh. He feels the detective grin against his neck. Watson smirks and decides two can play at this game; he scrabbles at the hem of Holmes' shirt until his hands are up underneath, and he drags his nails across Holmes' back, down to his hips where he pulls, rocking them together. Holmes shudders and moves from where he's been sucking a mark onto Watson's collarbone, nipping at the underside of his jaw.
He pushes Watson down to the floor, kissing him again -- Watson curls his tongue in Holmes' mouth when the detective moves his usually nimble fingers to attack Watson's shirt buttons. He gets it half-undone, pushes the material from Watson's shoulders and Watson reaches for him, but Holmes grabs his wrists and pins them to the carpet. The smirk he throws Watson's way is positively lewd and he's hard now, so hard, straining against his trousers, but he-
Holmes' mouth closes around a nipple and Watson moans, arching up into that wet heat. He knows it's a preparation of what's to come but that doesn't mean he has to-
"Holmes, please, Holmes-"
The detective lifts his head, one eyebrow raised. His left hand trails down Watson's chest, nails scratching, leaving light, white marks that will turn to red later, and he deftly flicks open Watson's trousers, leaning back down and laving Watson's nipple as his hand curls loosely around Watson's prick.
"Holmes - Sherlock, pleasepleaseplease - we can't-" He arches up when Holmes' hand tightens on his cock, frowns in puzzlement when the detective sits back on his heels.
Watson lifts his head from the ground. His body feels cold now, exposed to the air-- he glances down. Exposed, all right.
He looks up at Holmes, wondering if he'll look hurt or angry or-
He looks calm.
Very calm, considering the erection that's straining against his trousers.
"Holmes," Watson says through clenched teeth. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
Holmes waves a hand. "You said we shouldn't," he says, like it's normal to just stop and like Watson actually meant it and oh-
Watson narrows his eyes. Holmes' eyes are heated, lust-blown. He licks his lips.
The doctor bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk and lays his head back down, closing his eyes. "Don't mind me, old cock," he says casually, licking his hand all over before he closes it around his prick. "I'll just- finish up here."
He doesn't open his eyes, even though he can feel the heat, the weight of Holmes' gaze on him the whole time. Instead, he slides his hand up and down as he thinks of what could have happened, had Holmes not decided to be such an unbearable prat - Holmes could have swallowed him by now, might be letting Watson fuck his mouth as he looks up at him with wide, adoring eyes. He might be fucking Watson instead, might have him face down on the bed, holding him in place by the back of the neck. Or Watson might be riding him instead, fighting the strain it puts on his bad leg each time he has to lift himself up and then drop back down-
Watson comes so hard his back arches up off the floor and his heels dig hard into the carpet. He's not too sure what he shouts but he has a feeling he knows -- his eyes flutter open as he pants, hand and belly sticky -- Sherlock is looking at him, calm and collected as ever.
For one short, terrible moment, Watson hates him. The moment passes quickly.
He reaches up and brushes sweaty hair back from his forehead. Holmes' lips quirk slightly and he crosses the room, planting his knees on either side of Watson's hips as he leans down.
They kiss, long and searing hot and when Holmes pulls back, Watson can't breathe again; can't do anything with those eyes on him.
Holmes runs a hand through Watson's hair and stands. He walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Watson stares at the door before he lets his head drop back to the carpet.
What the fucking fuck?!