Slash Fiction
Title: Foot Loose Deux
Premise: Watson finally manages to take revenge for the incident in the bathtub. The fact that Holmes is incapacitated by a cold is just coincidence... or is it?
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Warning: More foot worship. Also some sexual content although it's pretty tame. Holmes talking with a horribly stuffy nose.
+++It had taken longer than I expected for Watson to exact his revenge for the evening in the tub. Many months had passed in fact, and I had simply written it off as forgotten. Watson is a most passionate man, but he is less enduring in his vengeances than I.
The weather had turned sour in the meantime, rolling into a version of cold and wet London labeled "winter", but to which I affectionately referred to as "mud". Alas, neither sleet nor rain nor the occasional snow could slow the trickle of interesting crimes occurring. And it was with one of these cases that I found myself entertained these past few days.
It involved a bowler hat, three pence, a dog, and an extremely upset nanny. Surprisingly enough it also had nothing to do with the address of 221B Baker Street, though it certainly could have if circumstances had been different. Needless to say I had the case solved within a few minutes of setting foot on the scene, but manners dictated that I solve it "properly". This resulted in Watson and myself standing shin deep in the frigid waters of the Thames for exactly seven and three quarters hours.
That was nine hours ago. Eight hours ago I had retied to bed, solo, complaining of an ache in my head and general malaise of the body. Approximately fifteen minutes ago I had awoken to the most unpleasant haze, finding no cavity in my skull devoid of pressurized phlegm, my throat clenched shut with a texture reminiscent of sand paper, and my body curled around itself like that of an infant, covered in a damp sweat, despite my general opinion that the flat was approximately ten degrees too cold.
I, the great Sherlock Holmes, England’s greatest mind... Was ill. Deplorably, horribly, ill.
Seven minutes ago Watson burst in with a painful cheeriness, already dressed in a clean white shirt, suspenders, and black pants, demanding I extricate myself. Seeing as this was quite impossible (my head having adhered itself to the pillow through a mixture of mucus and saliva) he did so himself, manhandling me to the living room in nothing but my house coat, albeit in a gentle and compassionate manner. For a gorilla.
Five minutes ago the damnable man plunged my feet into a pan of hot water, which steamed pleasantly enough up to my face, warming my aching body wrapped in a thick blanket - one of his, if my plague-addled brain did not deceive me.
At this precise moment, he was pouring herbal oils into the water, their scents wafting up to my regrettably dysfunctional nostrils.
"Attembing to poisom be?" I asked, though the sharp bite of the sarcasm was lost somewhere in the unbecoming liquids dripping from my nose. He attempted to stifle his laugh, a kind gesture I suppose, but it was altogether lost due to the fact that he was, in fact, amused with my misery. I bristled at this affront to my honor, and was rewarded with a warm teacup.
"Just drink it, Holmes. Don't ask questions; trust me, I'm a doctor." he replied with a dark grin. I lifted an eyebrow and hesitated.
"You mabe id den?" I asked, silently cursing this ailment's destruction of my usually meticulous speech patterns.
"Yes, I made it, not the landlady." he replied with a chuckle. "So rest assured that there is no poison in it. Just a few herbs to alleviate the production of mucus and to soothe your throat, and to suppress what I guess will soon be a very deep, rattling cough."
I regretted to prove his prediction correct, but found myself incapable of ignoring the sudden tightening in my chest. I coughed, meekly, the tea shaking on its saucer in my hands. With a quiet gesture he reached up, steadying the cup, wrapping his hands around my own.
"Relax, Sherlock." he muttered, his voice soft. He looked up at me through long lashes and I sighed deeply, an action that results in a full-blown coughing fit. He supported my shoulders as I finally wheezed back into control over my lungs, comforting me with gentle words, his mouth soft against my cheek, the whiskers of his mustache scratching against my stubble. As soon as I could support my own weight again he was gone, and the next touches he gave me were his hands, gently lifting one of my feet out of the hot water. I hissed hoarsely as the chilling air hits my skin but even this Watson cared for, throwing a small towel over my foot and drying it as if it were a newborn babe. So swaddled, he began gently rubbing, and with a shudder caused not only by the warm, firm sensations but also my own deductions, I spoke with another deep sigh.
"Complebely unfair John," I croaked, knowing now the meaning behind the dark grin he'd given before. "My faculties are impaired, and I can'd eben crawl." The smirk hidden beneath his mustache widened as his hands worked quietly, drawing out hoarse whispers from my dry, cracked lips. "Oh John…"
My eyebrows knotted together as he worked between the ball of my foot and the arch, directly beneath my toes. The towel was subsequently left to hang over my foot, and the direct sensation of his skin against mine forced my mouth into an "o", his fingers working relentlessly. It seemed agonizing how slowly he explored my foot, as if he were acquainting himself with every metatarsal bone and each ligament on his way down to my heel. He looked up to find me splayed precariously against the back of the chair, one arm thrown over my head, my face buried deeply in the crook of my elbow as if to fend off the electric sensations flooding from my lower extremities.
"Oh Holmes," he murmured with a beaming grin, "I do say, I must see you more often in such disarray. It's quite enchanting." I groaned pitifully, drawing my hands down my face. I did not attempt to say anything more at this point; the combination of my overstuffed head and growing need below would have rendered any such attempt useless and far too amusing for my torturer. I would not give him the pleasure.
"Hnn! J-John!" Or I wouldn't have, if he had not subsequently devoured several of my toes with his hot, slick mouth. I saw stars erupting behind my eyes and I buried my face in my hand shuddering and jerking at each flick of his tongue that was working its way between my petite digits. Within a few moments I found myself reaching for the heat pressing desperately against the inside of my robe. Watson reached a hand up to block mine, and I keened with need, gripping his hand tightly. "Oh John please, I neeb…"
He chuckled again, his hot breath whispering across the bottom of my foot. "I want to see if you can come undone with just my mouth against your foot. Consider this revenge." he purred, and my hips bucked involuntarily from the sound. He nudged the pan of hot water, sliding it and my free foot to the side, positioning himself between my legs with a most self-satisfied grin. The pause in attention allowed me a few spare seconds to regain some of my faculties, and I attempted a sarcastic, witty reply.
"John, you are truly - guh!" I failed as the attention of his tongue returned to my foot, teeth now joining to make my toes curl and my back arch painfully agains the upholstery. My hand gripped his fiercely, shaking at each twist of his tongue, each nip he took of my tender, sensitive skin. I writhed in the chair, trying desperately to gain any friction against the inside of the house coat as Watson drew his teeth down the outside of my foot. When he pressed his tongue firmly against the arch a harsh groan exploded from my tight chest, my breath wheezing unsteadily. "John! Oh John, John please, John, John, John-" My voice, hoarse and thick, did not even sound like my own as his name fell from my lips. My knuckles were turning white in his grasp, and I thought I was truly going mad beneath the ministrations of his mouth.
Finally my incoherent pleading must have hit a soft spot in his heart, for he at last lowered our entwined hands to between my thighs, giving me the pressure I so desperately needed. I gasped and came quickly, not even three strokes against the inside of the house coat before it was at last done. I shivered, my body still felt like it was electrified despite my release. Watson slowly set down my foot, resting his head on my thigh, coaxing me to relax, to come down from the high place I had gone. I curled over him, the last shudders leaving my body for now. We sat like that for many minutes, until I felt the need to sniffle, deeply snorting against his warm back.
Watson sat up, a bit of a disgusted look upon his face. "Holmes, you did not just wipe your diseased nose all over my shirt, did you?" I looked at him, a bit sheepishly, and perhaps a tad bit smugly.
"I drooled on ib, too."
Premise: Watson finally manages to take revenge for the incident in the bathtub. The fact that Holmes is incapacitated by a cold is just coincidence... or is it?
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Warning: More foot worship. Also some sexual content although it's pretty tame. Holmes talking with a horribly stuffy nose.
+++It had taken longer than I expected for Watson to exact his revenge for the evening in the tub. Many months had passed in fact, and I had simply written it off as forgotten. Watson is a most passionate man, but he is less enduring in his vengeances than I.
The weather had turned sour in the meantime, rolling into a version of cold and wet London labeled "winter", but to which I affectionately referred to as "mud". Alas, neither sleet nor rain nor the occasional snow could slow the trickle of interesting crimes occurring. And it was with one of these cases that I found myself entertained these past few days.
It involved a bowler hat, three pence, a dog, and an extremely upset nanny. Surprisingly enough it also had nothing to do with the address of 221B Baker Street, though it certainly could have if circumstances had been different. Needless to say I had the case solved within a few minutes of setting foot on the scene, but manners dictated that I solve it "properly". This resulted in Watson and myself standing shin deep in the frigid waters of the Thames for exactly seven and three quarters hours.
That was nine hours ago. Eight hours ago I had retied to bed, solo, complaining of an ache in my head and general malaise of the body. Approximately fifteen minutes ago I had awoken to the most unpleasant haze, finding no cavity in my skull devoid of pressurized phlegm, my throat clenched shut with a texture reminiscent of sand paper, and my body curled around itself like that of an infant, covered in a damp sweat, despite my general opinion that the flat was approximately ten degrees too cold.
I, the great Sherlock Holmes, England’s greatest mind... Was ill. Deplorably, horribly, ill.
Seven minutes ago Watson burst in with a painful cheeriness, already dressed in a clean white shirt, suspenders, and black pants, demanding I extricate myself. Seeing as this was quite impossible (my head having adhered itself to the pillow through a mixture of mucus and saliva) he did so himself, manhandling me to the living room in nothing but my house coat, albeit in a gentle and compassionate manner. For a gorilla.
Five minutes ago the damnable man plunged my feet into a pan of hot water, which steamed pleasantly enough up to my face, warming my aching body wrapped in a thick blanket - one of his, if my plague-addled brain did not deceive me.
At this precise moment, he was pouring herbal oils into the water, their scents wafting up to my regrettably dysfunctional nostrils.
"Attembing to poisom be?" I asked, though the sharp bite of the sarcasm was lost somewhere in the unbecoming liquids dripping from my nose. He attempted to stifle his laugh, a kind gesture I suppose, but it was altogether lost due to the fact that he was, in fact, amused with my misery. I bristled at this affront to my honor, and was rewarded with a warm teacup.
"Just drink it, Holmes. Don't ask questions; trust me, I'm a doctor." he replied with a dark grin. I lifted an eyebrow and hesitated.
"You mabe id den?" I asked, silently cursing this ailment's destruction of my usually meticulous speech patterns.
"Yes, I made it, not the landlady." he replied with a chuckle. "So rest assured that there is no poison in it. Just a few herbs to alleviate the production of mucus and to soothe your throat, and to suppress what I guess will soon be a very deep, rattling cough."
I regretted to prove his prediction correct, but found myself incapable of ignoring the sudden tightening in my chest. I coughed, meekly, the tea shaking on its saucer in my hands. With a quiet gesture he reached up, steadying the cup, wrapping his hands around my own.
"Relax, Sherlock." he muttered, his voice soft. He looked up at me through long lashes and I sighed deeply, an action that results in a full-blown coughing fit. He supported my shoulders as I finally wheezed back into control over my lungs, comforting me with gentle words, his mouth soft against my cheek, the whiskers of his mustache scratching against my stubble. As soon as I could support my own weight again he was gone, and the next touches he gave me were his hands, gently lifting one of my feet out of the hot water. I hissed hoarsely as the chilling air hits my skin but even this Watson cared for, throwing a small towel over my foot and drying it as if it were a newborn babe. So swaddled, he began gently rubbing, and with a shudder caused not only by the warm, firm sensations but also my own deductions, I spoke with another deep sigh.
"Complebely unfair John," I croaked, knowing now the meaning behind the dark grin he'd given before. "My faculties are impaired, and I can'd eben crawl." The smirk hidden beneath his mustache widened as his hands worked quietly, drawing out hoarse whispers from my dry, cracked lips. "Oh John…"
My eyebrows knotted together as he worked between the ball of my foot and the arch, directly beneath my toes. The towel was subsequently left to hang over my foot, and the direct sensation of his skin against mine forced my mouth into an "o", his fingers working relentlessly. It seemed agonizing how slowly he explored my foot, as if he were acquainting himself with every metatarsal bone and each ligament on his way down to my heel. He looked up to find me splayed precariously against the back of the chair, one arm thrown over my head, my face buried deeply in the crook of my elbow as if to fend off the electric sensations flooding from my lower extremities.
"Oh Holmes," he murmured with a beaming grin, "I do say, I must see you more often in such disarray. It's quite enchanting." I groaned pitifully, drawing my hands down my face. I did not attempt to say anything more at this point; the combination of my overstuffed head and growing need below would have rendered any such attempt useless and far too amusing for my torturer. I would not give him the pleasure.
"Hnn! J-John!" Or I wouldn't have, if he had not subsequently devoured several of my toes with his hot, slick mouth. I saw stars erupting behind my eyes and I buried my face in my hand shuddering and jerking at each flick of his tongue that was working its way between my petite digits. Within a few moments I found myself reaching for the heat pressing desperately against the inside of my robe. Watson reached a hand up to block mine, and I keened with need, gripping his hand tightly. "Oh John please, I neeb…"
He chuckled again, his hot breath whispering across the bottom of my foot. "I want to see if you can come undone with just my mouth against your foot. Consider this revenge." he purred, and my hips bucked involuntarily from the sound. He nudged the pan of hot water, sliding it and my free foot to the side, positioning himself between my legs with a most self-satisfied grin. The pause in attention allowed me a few spare seconds to regain some of my faculties, and I attempted a sarcastic, witty reply.
"John, you are truly - guh!" I failed as the attention of his tongue returned to my foot, teeth now joining to make my toes curl and my back arch painfully agains the upholstery. My hand gripped his fiercely, shaking at each twist of his tongue, each nip he took of my tender, sensitive skin. I writhed in the chair, trying desperately to gain any friction against the inside of the house coat as Watson drew his teeth down the outside of my foot. When he pressed his tongue firmly against the arch a harsh groan exploded from my tight chest, my breath wheezing unsteadily. "John! Oh John, John please, John, John, John-" My voice, hoarse and thick, did not even sound like my own as his name fell from my lips. My knuckles were turning white in his grasp, and I thought I was truly going mad beneath the ministrations of his mouth.
Finally my incoherent pleading must have hit a soft spot in his heart, for he at last lowered our entwined hands to between my thighs, giving me the pressure I so desperately needed. I gasped and came quickly, not even three strokes against the inside of the house coat before it was at last done. I shivered, my body still felt like it was electrified despite my release. Watson slowly set down my foot, resting his head on my thigh, coaxing me to relax, to come down from the high place I had gone. I curled over him, the last shudders leaving my body for now. We sat like that for many minutes, until I felt the need to sniffle, deeply snorting against his warm back.
Watson sat up, a bit of a disgusted look upon his face. "Holmes, you did not just wipe your diseased nose all over my shirt, did you?" I looked at him, a bit sheepishly, and perhaps a tad bit smugly.
"I drooled on ib, too."