The chair creaks noisily under his weight when Watson sinks into it, head lulling back against the engraved frame and feeling the wood hitting his skull. His necktie is undone, held shakily between fingers as his other hand gripping the armrest, nails scraping against the lacquer. The room is far too hot despite it being a winter night. The air around him feels humid, musky, smells too much like sweat and whiskey and incense from the East - a compliment from the hotel, no doubt - but he can hardly think right now.
More out of habit than anything, his hand reaches up to press against his neck, checking the pulse. Too fast. He can't count. He gropes his pockets for something - anything - to calm him down, even a flask of wine, or a cigar, but he finds nothing but his gun. Utterly useless, unless he is to shoot himself.
A tempting idea, actually, compared to the way his body is feeling like it's on fire, a scorching heat unlike a bottle of scotch, a crackling fire on dried wood, or Mary's breath on his skin.
Oh God, Mary.
Part of him wants to blame Holmes, but even when the haze is clouding his mind he still knows - it's not Holmes' fault. It was Watson's decision to come along, and neither of them expected this from their suspect. It had been a rapid decision - that they would rush to the nearest hotel and barricade themselves in there until the effects of the aphrodisiac wore off. But this was no ordinary drug, he found! Or perhaps it was because he had never been this fully exposed to anything like it before.
He wants - so much, so desperately - for something to quench the thirst in his throat. His eyes glaze over the pot of tea on the table. No, not that. Watson isn't naive. But it's precisely because of that that he is loathing this so much, hating how he, a doctor, cannot even cure this affliction.
"Bloody hell," a curse leaves his lips, no more than a frustrated groan as he slides off the chair, staggering to his feet and walking towards the bathroom. Perhaps-- perhaps this would simply be resolved if he gave in a little to ease the pain, the erection straining and rubbing against the fabric of his pants. He has never been so aroused before, so much that he could lose his mind like how he's feeling right now, the animalistic urges that are so strange and foreign to him, as if he would be upon the nearest breathing, living person the instance he sees them.
So when he catches the sight of Holmes out of a corner of his eye, his face just as red and his pupils just as dilated, walking - no, stumbling into the room, Watson's heart stills.
"No," he stammers, breathless, "Holmes, no, we can't-"
But damn it all - he already feels his control slipping with every step his friend takes into the room, closer to him and God the look on Holmes' face, the way his lips are parted and the way he stares so fixedly at Watson alone-
There is nothing else that is within Holmes's gaze right now; nothing that captures his attentions so completely and utterly as the sight of Watson - eyes wide, lips red and wet and parted (and the lewd images that Holmes' mind immeiately conjured- his friend is right: there is truly no limit to his depravity), with his back half-bent as he stumbles and nearly trips over his own feet. This clumsiness is entirely unbecoming of him, because Holmes, even when he is at his most unstable and drunk, or even when drugged up with cocaine, has a certain sort of cat-like grace to him. An ability to hold onto his own coordination.
But apparently lust is a greater destroyer than drink. Holmes pants hard, lips parted and trembling, shaking more than a little from the sensations gathering at the base of his groin; the brush of the coarse wool of his trousers against his cock. He bites down hard on his lip, already regretting coming over to Watson but- it is the most logical step. It is simply the best and easiest way to get rid of this ailment that had struck the both of them, to be able to return to normality. And though the less pragmatic part of Holmes wonders how would they be able to return to normality after what they have done- that is, assuming that they will carry on with this act, the voice is quickly drowned out by the very bizarre combination of logic and lust.
He moves even closer, bridging the gap between him and his dearest friend, almost reaching out to touch. At the corner of his mind, Holmes notices that Watson is an extraordinarily attractive man - the fine bone structure evident in the prominent of his cheekbones, the strong, though slightly narrow chin, the well-built and muscled figure from much of fighting, the shapely wrists... and most of all, the bright blue eyes, a striking shade that he has never seen on anyone else or anyone else. A particular Indian blue, perhaps, and his mind wanders slightly, thinking about the odd insects that he had once saw, with their jewel-blue wings, and he wonders if he crushes them and mix them with black ink he can reproduce the colour of Watson's eyes.
An experiment for another time. Holmes feels the thought being involuntarily pushed out of his head. He will like to linger upon them a little longer, really, because it would be a semblance of normalcy, a piece of logic and rationality in the sea of lust and fire that threatens to drown and burn him at the same time. Holmes wants to categorise this feeling, wants to investigate more upon it and upon the drugs that had caused it so strongly, but--
Later. Later. There's an urgency in him that he has never felt outside of his cases, outside of events when he can almost literally feel the clock ticking against him, a gullotine hanging over the heads of the next victims unless he stops them and wins. Holmes swallows, runs a hand through his face and feels the edges of stubble that is pushing through the skin.
"Watson-" he chokes out finally. "Watson, this is entirely illogical and irrational and yet this is truly the most logical solution of all that I have considered." The words are spilling out of him in a hurried rush, barely coherent. "We can either stay in our rooms and wait it out, which might take days and might have a horrible effect on our healths, especially given the fever the drug had caused; or we can solve it now and prevent further side effects."
A breath because his head is spinning. "I should've been able to predict that such a trick would be used and taken precautions against it. Watson- My dear Watson, I am very, very sorry."
And he lunges forward, crashing their lips together with all the expertise of a child trying to kiss.
There is nothing. Nothing. Attractive about Holmes. Or so Watson tells himself. His hair is a mane of scraggly, coarse threads, his face overgrown with speckled stubbles and there are permanent dark bags under his eyes from sleepless nights when he insists that Watson must share his insomnia. His person perpetually smells of tobacco, faint cocaine, and the musky scent of spilled whiskey mixed with dirty clothing-
--certainly. That does not a desirable man make. Not even the muscles that rip under the thin layer of Holmes' shirt could rectify that, even when Watson can see it move, each pane of flesh and muscle defining itself because Holmes' shirt is so drenched in sweat it's practically obscene-
He's going out of his mind.
Watson could barely utter the start of a protest when Holmes' lips crashed against his, wet and clumsy and Watson might have wanted to pull away and chastise him on the sheer lack of skills (my God, he didn't even know how a man could be so bad at this simple act-), but that is what he would do had it been in a normal situation, and this is anything but normal. And because he is too busy throwing reigns around his mind as it reels at the touch, the kiss, Holmes' breath pungent in his nose and their teeth bumping and sliding against tongues in the mad, desperate dance of moths to a flame.
"H-... mph- Holmes!!" He pants, pulling away to gasp at air while his heart continues to race like a mad horse, his eyes seeing sparks and his lips swollen from the sheer force of their kiss - if that was even a kiss, because he can only register lips and teeth and the want that drums unrelentingly in the back of his mind.
His legs wobble. "This is illegal," a breath, as he tries to blink himself out of the stupor, the bulge between his legs straining painfully against his pants, "and you know that. We can't- we mustn't!"
More out of habit than anything, his hand reaches up to press against his neck, checking the pulse. Too fast. He can't count. He gropes his pockets for something - anything - to calm him down, even a flask of wine, or a cigar, but he finds nothing but his gun. Utterly useless, unless he is to shoot himself.
A tempting idea, actually, compared to the way his body is feeling like it's on fire, a scorching heat unlike a bottle of scotch, a crackling fire on dried wood, or Mary's breath on his skin.
Oh God, Mary.
Part of him wants to blame Holmes, but even when the haze is clouding his mind he still knows - it's not Holmes' fault. It was Watson's decision to come along, and neither of them expected this from their suspect. It had been a rapid decision - that they would rush to the nearest hotel and barricade themselves in there until the effects of the aphrodisiac wore off. But this was no ordinary drug, he found! Or perhaps it was because he had never been this fully exposed to anything like it before.
He wants - so much, so desperately - for something to quench the thirst in his throat. His eyes glaze over the pot of tea on the table. No, not that. Watson isn't naive. But it's precisely because of that that he is loathing this so much, hating how he, a doctor, cannot even cure this affliction.
"Bloody hell," a curse leaves his lips, no more than a frustrated groan as he slides off the chair, staggering to his feet and walking towards the bathroom. Perhaps-- perhaps this would simply be resolved if he gave in a little to ease the pain, the erection straining and rubbing against the fabric of his pants. He has never been so aroused before, so much that he could lose his mind like how he's feeling right now, the animalistic urges that are so strange and foreign to him, as if he would be upon the nearest breathing, living person the instance he sees them.
So when he catches the sight of Holmes out of a corner of his eye, his face just as red and his pupils just as dilated, walking - no, stumbling into the room, Watson's heart stills.
"No," he stammers, breathless, "Holmes, no, we can't-"
But damn it all - he already feels his control slipping with every step his friend takes into the room, closer to him and God the look on Holmes' face, the way his lips are parted and the way he stares so fixedly at Watson alone-
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But apparently lust is a greater destroyer than drink. Holmes pants hard, lips parted and trembling, shaking more than a little from the sensations gathering at the base of his groin; the brush of the coarse wool of his trousers against his cock. He bites down hard on his lip, already regretting coming over to Watson but- it is the most logical step. It is simply the best and easiest way to get rid of this ailment that had struck the both of them, to be able to return to normality. And though the less pragmatic part of Holmes wonders how would they be able to return to normality after what they have done- that is, assuming that they will carry on with this act, the voice is quickly drowned out by the very bizarre combination of logic and lust.
He moves even closer, bridging the gap between him and his dearest friend, almost reaching out to touch. At the corner of his mind, Holmes notices that Watson is an extraordinarily attractive man - the fine bone structure evident in the prominent of his cheekbones, the strong, though slightly narrow chin, the well-built and muscled figure from much of fighting, the shapely wrists... and most of all, the bright blue eyes, a striking shade that he has never seen on anyone else or anyone else. A particular Indian blue, perhaps, and his mind wanders slightly, thinking about the odd insects that he had once saw, with their jewel-blue wings, and he wonders if he crushes them and mix them with black ink he can reproduce the colour of Watson's eyes.
An experiment for another time. Holmes feels the thought being involuntarily pushed out of his head. He will like to linger upon them a little longer, really, because it would be a semblance of normalcy, a piece of logic and rationality in the sea of lust and fire that threatens to drown and burn him at the same time. Holmes wants to categorise this feeling, wants to investigate more upon it and upon the drugs that had caused it so strongly, but--
Later. Later. There's an urgency in him that he has never felt outside of his cases, outside of events when he can almost literally feel the clock ticking against him, a gullotine hanging over the heads of the next victims unless he stops them and wins. Holmes swallows, runs a hand through his face and feels the edges of stubble that is pushing through the skin.
"Watson-" he chokes out finally. "Watson, this is entirely illogical and irrational and yet this is truly the most logical solution of all that I have considered." The words are spilling out of him in a hurried rush, barely coherent. "We can either stay in our rooms and wait it out, which might take days and might have a horrible effect on our healths, especially given the fever the drug had caused; or we can solve it now and prevent further side effects."
A breath because his head is spinning. "I should've been able to predict that such a trick would be used and taken precautions against it. Watson- My dear Watson, I am very, very sorry."
And he lunges forward, crashing their lips together with all the expertise of a child trying to kiss.
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--certainly. That does not a desirable man make. Not even the muscles that rip under the thin layer of Holmes' shirt could rectify that, even when Watson can see it move, each pane of flesh and muscle defining itself because Holmes' shirt is so drenched in sweat it's practically obscene-
He's going out of his mind.
Watson could barely utter the start of a protest when Holmes' lips crashed against his, wet and clumsy and Watson might have wanted to pull away and chastise him on the sheer lack of skills (my God, he didn't even know how a man could be so bad at this simple act-), but that is what he would do had it been in a normal situation, and this is anything but normal. And because he is too busy throwing reigns around his mind as it reels at the touch, the kiss, Holmes' breath pungent in his nose and their teeth bumping and sliding against tongues in the mad, desperate dance of moths to a flame.
"H-... mph- Holmes!!" He pants, pulling away to gasp at air while his heart continues to race like a mad horse, his eyes seeing sparks and his lips swollen from the sheer force of their kiss - if that was even a kiss, because he can only register lips and teeth and the want that drums unrelentingly in the back of his mind.
His legs wobble. "This is illegal," a breath, as he tries to blink himself out of the stupor, the bulge between his legs straining painfully against his pants, "and you know that. We can't- we mustn't!"
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