It was easy enough to make their way to another hotel; Watson was glad enough to let Holmes lead the way to what was judged the safest place for them to stay.
His head was positively spinning. Now that he had said that he loved Holmes, part of him was tempted to just say it over and over until it properly sank in. Add in the general rush that came with risking life and limb (even unintionally), and it was hard to know what to do with himself.
At the same time, he was feeling genuinely tired out by the events of the day.
He set down his bag as they came into this second hotel room, and looked it over, comparing it to the one they had left behind. It would do.
"Shall I wait for you to give the room a glance over for traps?" Watson asked, only half joking.
"Yes," he says simply, not joking at all, and he lays a hand on Watson's arm, silently telling him to hold still, as he sets about the room. He checks the windows first, very carefully, looking for suspicious characters; he makes sure the windows are securely fastened and the curtains closed. Then he looks for more immediate threats in the room with them. The room is thankfully clean, however.
It's still so unfair that he must worry for their safety when he and Watson should be cuddling in bed, though maybe without their snake interruption, there wouldn't have been any confession at all.
"We're safe for now, my dear." Crossing the room to Watson, he reaches out for him, wanting very much to have him near.
Watson was only too glad to reach back, to slide his arms around Holmes and draw himself close. It seemed like the world was falling apart around them, that disaster was waiting for them at every turn, but Holmes was here, and they were (for the moment) safe, and in love. That was the biggest miracle of all.
He closed his eyes, drawing in Holmes's warmth and familiar presence. Watson tucked his face into Holmes's neck, kissing him gently. He felt like just clutching, holding tight, being safe in this strange, illegal way.
"Do you have any objection to retiring now?" he murmured.
"None at all," he murmurs against Watson's hair, and he wraps his arms snugly around Watson. It's infinitely comfortable to stand here in the familiar warmth, though he doubts 'I would like to stand here and embrace you for a while' makes a good objection to getting into bed.
Not that Holmes would sleep much tonight. But laying by Watson's side is enough for him, anyway.
"Shall I help you out of this again?" He draws away and reaches for Watson's waistcoat, smiling faintly. "I think I enjoy unbuttoning it more than buttoning it."
"How very kind of you," Watson smiled. He ran his fingers over Holmes's front, almost wonderingly, savouring the sensation before beginning to work at a few buttons.
One or two cheeky comments occurred to him, but he wasn't, he found, in the mood for teasing and games. He worked silently for a moment, enjoying peeling Holmes out of his clothing every so slowly, wondering at what his life had become. Not so long ago he would never have allowed himself imagine this sort of relationship. And now...
Now things were perfect, if dangerous. And Watson's life had always been dangerous.
He peeled back Holmes's shirt and pressed his mouth to a patch of skin on his collarbone, his eyes closed in nothing short of bliss.
Usually Holmes's mind can process several things all at once, but that's so much more difficult when Watson is crowding out his thoughts. He should have noticed the snake sooner, should have noticed if anyone was following them, but he'd been far too wrapped up in Watson. Even now, when he ought to be more concerned about keeping a covert eye on the windows, he's far more interested in unbuttoning Watson's shirt and baring his skin.
Dammit, they're in love. They're owed this time together.
He pushes Watson's shirt out of the way enough to reveal his shoulders, and he leans down to kiss the patch of scars at Watson's shoulder, defying that proof of their mortality and fragility with tenderness.
Watson drew in his breath, very slightly, unnerved and delighted and horrified as he ever was when Holmes paid any attention to his scars. Perhaps this was unwise, perhaps this was only going to make their situation worse, but just then... he couldn't really bring himself to care, overmuch.
That was probably a bad thing. There was, he was beginning to feel, no justice in a world that could stand so strongly against such a sin as love, and it was greatly, grossly unfair. Strange, how time and experience could change these ideas.
"I survived that," he whispered, "because of the actions of a very dear friend. And once again, someone has thought me worth saving. I'm very thankful."
"I'm very thankful for him as well," he murmurs, ghosting kisses across the map of Watson's scars. "Though I'm not surprised he thought you worth saving. That isn't very difficult to perceive." He turns his face and presses it against Watson's neck, breathing him in and nuzzling against him.
The enormity of his feelings for Watson are overwhelming, and the thought that if it hadn't been for some person he'd never met, Watson might not be in his arms now, is rather taking his breath away. He doesn't know if he could stomach the thought of Watson needing someone else to save him again.
If Watson hadn't been so seriously injured, they never would have been together. Is that twisted? Does that doom them?
Drawing away, he resumes his undressing of Watson, reaching for his flies.
"I'm also very thankful we could take a room with one bed," he says thickly.
At the time, it had seemed very much a surprise that anyone had thought Watson worth saving, and afterwards he had not been certain of what sort of life he was being thrust into, if it were actually worth it. He felt now that it was certainly worth it.
"As am I," he murmured back. "Thank heavens for the excuse of thrift. You certainly don't waste time, do you?" His voice was fond, deeply so, and on the verge of throaty laughter, vaguely amused and delighted at finding himself being undressed so systematically. He could do nothing but match Holmes's progress, to mirror Holmes's movements, to slide close into familiar intimacy. He wanted skin against skin, heat and comfort and love.
As he undid buttons, Watson kissed lazily, lingeringly over Holmes's chest.
"Why shouldn't I? There's nothing to be gained from taking my time. In certain situations, prolonging the moment is preferable. This is not one of them." His smirk is suggestive, but there's no suggestion in his hands as they thumb over Watson's hips as he gently works Watson's trousers down his hips.
Is it foolishly sentimental to look at Watson's body with almost new eyes now that he knows they're both in love? He gives up worrying about it and instead ducks his head to kiss along his shoulder softly.
"And now, if we're both nearly undressed, I would like you in that bed."
At another time, Watson's smile might have been playful, but now it was only genuine and warm. It was hard to be really playful with the situation as it was, but it was remarkably easy to want to simply slip into warm and comfortable intimacy. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to carry on where they'd been before and have sex, honestly; he would have been content to curl up with Holmes like a pair of puppies and sleep, feeling safe even if they weren't in reality.
Not that he could have turned down sex, either.
"I have no complaints with that idea," he said. Watson wrapped his hands around Holmes's waist, and drew him backwards towards the bed, kissing him. "I'd rather like you in bed, myself, if it comes to that."
"I'm afraid, my dear, that it has come to that." He wraps his arms around Watson and kisses him deeply, needing the reassurance and warmth that comes from such physical interaction that had seemed out of place at the other hotel. His mind isn't necessarily leading him toward sex, but he does want to share some intimacy before Watson sleeps.
He fits himself easily over Watson as they settle on the bed, satisfyingly drunk with the warmth of Watson's body. He draws out of the kiss, lightly cupping the back of Watson's neck.
That was still a remarkable thing to hear. Watson shut his eyes, pressing himself close, strangely content with how perfectly they seemed to fit together. That was a remarkable thing he had never expected. In all his confused, self-loathing imaginings of what a relationship between two men would be, he had never considered the intimacy of being held.
"I love you too," he said, scarcely believing he was saying it, in awe that it was true, savouring every word like it was formed of fine dark chocolate on his tongue. Sometimes he imagined he must be a frustrating sort of lover for an avowed and unapologetic queer, so unnerved about what they were doing, so uncertain, so afraid of the consequences. Sliding his leg between Holmes's, Watson leaned forward to kiss him again, slow and gentle kisses, savouring him.
Though he really ought to be keeping an ear out for any signs of threat, he indulges himself in Watson, recording every taste and smell and touch in his mind. This is how he looks when he says 'I love you' in bed. There's a special box in the attic of his mind for Watson, as every detail is necessary for Holmes to function.
The longer he lays atop Watson, their bodies stretched out together, the more he rethinks his previous feelings that any sort of sexual activity would be out of place tonight. He very much would like to lose himself inside Watson, but doubts that's an option, which is fine. He hadn't been sure Watson would come around to admitting so freely that he loved Holmes, so sex in that regard seems a long way off.
"Our 'firsts' seem to be doomed," he murmurs against Watson's lips, tracing his fingers down Watson's chest. "Our first kiss was marred by my split lip, and our first 'I love you' involved an unwelcome guest." He chuckles thickly and presses open-mouthed kisses to Watson's neck, tasting his skin.
Watson let out a breath that was nearly a sigh. There was something very vulnerable about this position, being surrounded by Holmes, to a certain degree at his mercy, and that was frightening, but that was also rather wonderful. He trusted Holmes far too deeply to be greatly disturbed by any of it.
"We are," he breathed, "merely very good at making the best of unhappy situations." His voice was shaky; he was still uneasy, and their luck seemed to be very bad sometimes, but he was beginng to find it far easier to slide into these moments, to accept them.
No snake could change that, amazingly. Watson leaned up into Holmes's touch, savouring it.
Watson's shaky voice concerns him; how much is it leftover fear and adrenaline, and how much is prolonged discomfort and uncertainty about relations with men? He keeps his attention to Watson's neck and (unscarred) shoulder gentle and tender, and he seeks out one of Watson's hands, clasping it with his own.
"We are very good at distracting ourselves," he agrees, leaving a few more soft kisses to his collarbone before he draws away.
"Are you alright, my dear?" he asks, cupping Watson's face.
His head was positively spinning. Now that he had said that he loved Holmes, part of him was tempted to just say it over and over until it properly sank in. Add in the general rush that came with risking life and limb (even unintionally), and it was hard to know what to do with himself.
At the same time, he was feeling genuinely tired out by the events of the day.
He set down his bag as they came into this second hotel room, and looked it over, comparing it to the one they had left behind. It would do.
"Shall I wait for you to give the room a glance over for traps?" Watson asked, only half joking.
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It's still so unfair that he must worry for their safety when he and Watson should be cuddling in bed, though maybe without their snake interruption, there wouldn't have been any confession at all.
"We're safe for now, my dear." Crossing the room to Watson, he reaches out for him, wanting very much to have him near.
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He closed his eyes, drawing in Holmes's warmth and familiar presence. Watson tucked his face into Holmes's neck, kissing him gently. He felt like just clutching, holding tight, being safe in this strange, illegal way.
"Do you have any objection to retiring now?" he murmured.
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Not that Holmes would sleep much tonight. But laying by Watson's side is enough for him, anyway.
"Shall I help you out of this again?" He draws away and reaches for Watson's waistcoat, smiling faintly. "I think I enjoy unbuttoning it more than buttoning it."
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One or two cheeky comments occurred to him, but he wasn't, he found, in the mood for teasing and games. He worked silently for a moment, enjoying peeling Holmes out of his clothing every so slowly, wondering at what his life had become. Not so long ago he would never have allowed himself imagine this sort of relationship. And now...
Now things were perfect, if dangerous. And Watson's life had always been dangerous.
He peeled back Holmes's shirt and pressed his mouth to a patch of skin on his collarbone, his eyes closed in nothing short of bliss.
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Dammit, they're in love. They're owed this time together.
He pushes Watson's shirt out of the way enough to reveal his shoulders, and he leans down to kiss the patch of scars at Watson's shoulder, defying that proof of their mortality and fragility with tenderness.
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That was probably a bad thing. There was, he was beginning to feel, no justice in a world that could stand so strongly against such a sin as love, and it was greatly, grossly unfair. Strange, how time and experience could change these ideas.
"I survived that," he whispered, "because of the actions of a very dear friend. And once again, someone has thought me worth saving. I'm very thankful."
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The enormity of his feelings for Watson are overwhelming, and the thought that if it hadn't been for some person he'd never met, Watson might not be in his arms now, is rather taking his breath away. He doesn't know if he could stomach the thought of Watson needing someone else to save him again.
If Watson hadn't been so seriously injured, they never would have been together. Is that twisted? Does that doom them?
Drawing away, he resumes his undressing of Watson, reaching for his flies.
"I'm also very thankful we could take a room with one bed," he says thickly.
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"As am I," he murmured back. "Thank heavens for the excuse of thrift. You certainly don't waste time, do you?" His voice was fond, deeply so, and on the verge of throaty laughter, vaguely amused and delighted at finding himself being undressed so systematically. He could do nothing but match Holmes's progress, to mirror Holmes's movements, to slide close into familiar intimacy. He wanted skin against skin, heat and comfort and love.
As he undid buttons, Watson kissed lazily, lingeringly over Holmes's chest.
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Is it foolishly sentimental to look at Watson's body with almost new eyes now that he knows they're both in love? He gives up worrying about it and instead ducks his head to kiss along his shoulder softly.
"And now, if we're both nearly undressed, I would like you in that bed."
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Not that he could have turned down sex, either.
"I have no complaints with that idea," he said. Watson wrapped his hands around Holmes's waist, and drew him backwards towards the bed, kissing him. "I'd rather like you in bed, myself, if it comes to that."
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He fits himself easily over Watson as they settle on the bed, satisfyingly drunk with the warmth of Watson's body. He draws out of the kiss, lightly cupping the back of Watson's neck.
"I love you," he murmurs, smiling.
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"I love you too," he said, scarcely believing he was saying it, in awe that it was true, savouring every word like it was formed of fine dark chocolate on his tongue. Sometimes he imagined he must be a frustrating sort of lover for an avowed and unapologetic queer, so unnerved about what they were doing, so uncertain, so afraid of the consequences. Sliding his leg between Holmes's, Watson leaned forward to kiss him again, slow and gentle kisses, savouring him.
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The longer he lays atop Watson, their bodies stretched out together, the more he rethinks his previous feelings that any sort of sexual activity would be out of place tonight. He very much would like to lose himself inside Watson, but doubts that's an option, which is fine. He hadn't been sure Watson would come around to admitting so freely that he loved Holmes, so sex in that regard seems a long way off.
"Our 'firsts' seem to be doomed," he murmurs against Watson's lips, tracing his fingers down Watson's chest. "Our first kiss was marred by my split lip, and our first 'I love you' involved an unwelcome guest." He chuckles thickly and presses open-mouthed kisses to Watson's neck, tasting his skin.
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"We are," he breathed, "merely very good at making the best of unhappy situations." His voice was shaky; he was still uneasy, and their luck seemed to be very bad sometimes, but he was beginng to find it far easier to slide into these moments, to accept them.
No snake could change that, amazingly. Watson leaned up into Holmes's touch, savouring it.
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"We are very good at distracting ourselves," he agrees, leaving a few more soft kisses to his collarbone before he draws away.
"Are you alright, my dear?" he asks, cupping Watson's face.
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