Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17
Title: You Know My Methods, Watson
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Movieverse] Holmes experiments to see how much damage a letter opener can do; smut ensues.
Warnings: PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 6,068
Rating: NC-17
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Sherlock Holmes or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
Holmes figures it out before Watson even enters the room; already knows what Watson will be wearing and how he’ll move about the room, responding to Holmes’ words and actions. Watson doesn’t even stand a chance.
“Watson? Watson, have you by chance seen my letter opener?” Holmes calls, rummaging through papers and folders on his cluttered desk.
Watson enters the room a minute or so after looking decidedly irritated.
“How should I know where you put your things? Last time I checked, I was neither your mother, nor your housekeeper.” After a sigh, he seems to give in. “Where did you last use it?”
Holmes’ face turns contemplative and he scratches idly at the back of his neck, just below his hairline. He glances about, running through his past few days in his mind; nothing stands out.
“Did I perchance loan it to you?”
Watson glances briefly at him with furrowed brows.
“No, Holmes, do not blame your inability to keep check of your belongings on me.”
“I just thought-“
“No, Holmes! You’ve probably just mislaid it and it will resurface again in a few days-” He stops talking suddenly and reaches for something on Holmes’ desk. He holds up a small silver letter opener and looks at Holmes with exasperation present in his eyes. “As usual, it was right in front of your face. As a detective, I would have thought you would be able to detect these things, Holmes.” He extends his arm, proffering the object to Holmes. Holmes moves to take it from Watson, but Watson suddenly frowns and begins to look suspicious; his arm retracts slowly. “What use is this to you, Holmes? The post has not yet been delivered.”
Without explanation, Holmes reaches out and snatches the letter opener from Watson’s loose grasp.
“I need to open something,” he says, and before Watson can think about moving, Holmes darts forwards and hooks the silver blade between two of the last closures on Watson’s shirt. With a swift upward tug that’s so precise, the blade doesn’t even scratch over Watson’s skin, he cuts neatly through at least five buttons and the little ivory fasteners bounce with gentle clicks as they scatter over the wooden floor. Watson lets out a small, surprised noise as he steps back, away from Holmes’ reach, colliding with the desk behind him and making it groan loudly in protest as it scrapes against the floorboards.
Watson sidesteps to the right, towards the direction of the doorway, as Holmes predicts, which lets him get the upper hand again, as he’s already there, letter opener poised. Another flick of his wrist and this time the buttons of Watson’s fly are severed from the wool material and the only thing keeping Watson’s trousers up are his braces. Watson grabs his waistband futilely, spinning to try to put the desk between himself and Holmes. Unfortunately for him, it presents the one thing left to cut: the button fastening the straps of his braces, which Holmes easily cuts through, and as Watson lets go of his trousers to grapple for the elastic now sliding up his back and over his shoulders, they slide down his slender legs, pooling in a heap around his feet. He spins back towards Holmes, looking even more irate than when he first entered the room.
“What is the meaning of this, Holmes?” he yells, as his shirt flutters around his chest loosely.
Holmes pretends to inspect the letter opener still in his right hand.
“I was trying to conceive how much damage I could generate with such an item.”
He flicks his eyes back up to Watson, who looks rather embarrassed standing in only a tattered shirt and loose-fitting undergarments. Stepping forward, he hooks the silver blade under the leg opening of Watson’s pants and starts to tug it up, as though testing which will give first: the thin material or his dear friend, Watson.
“What have your conclusions found?” Watson asks, as though trying to ignore Holmes’ challenge.
“I have discovered- I have-” he pauses before glancing back down towards Watson’s pale thighs. “Is that my underwear, Watson?” With laughter in his eyes, he looks back up, a small smile that he can’t quite keep hidden breaking out on his lips. “Though, I suppose it could be worse, they could be Mary’s.”
Watson’s left eye twitches in anger.
“Enough!” he yells, snatching the letter opener straight out of Holmes’ grasp, flinging it across the room and pointedly ignoring it, even when it digs into the wall opposite and sticks, standing out horizontal, parallel to the floor and ceiling.
“You have been practicing,” Holmes says, and that’s all he has time to get out before Watson lands a smarting blow on his cheek and steps forward to throw another punch. However, the trousers around his feet prevent him from moving too far and after a couple more inches of weight displacement, Watson begins to topple, his whole body slipping forwards and smacking heavily into Holmes’ own. With a surprised grunt, Holmes moves a foot back a step to balance them, but finds himself treading on something small and slick, which, from the feel of it, could possibly be a button from Watson’s shirt and he starts falling, too, Watson unhelpfully grappling at his waistcoat, which only serves to make them tumble down faster. Holmes hits the ground first and tries to roll away from Watson’s fast approaching body, but Watson’s fingers tighten around the material under them and Holmes is forced to endure the full weight of his friend on top of his chest, which aches under the pressure.
They both exhale loudly at the same time and Holmes finds himself with a mouthful of Watson’s used oxygen. A tang of tea with too much sugar in it and a minty undertone lays itself over his tongue in a rather pleasant way. Watson wriggles, obviously trying to disentangle himself from Holmes, however the movement lodges one of Holmes’ feet between Watson’s ankles and Watson’s trousers end up twisted around Holmes, too.
“You’ve made things worse,” Holmes observes, being highly helpful in his opinion, though Watson appears to disagree, as he lets out his signature grunt of displeasure and scowls at Holmes.
“This is entirely your fault!” Holmes doesn’t contest him, because Watson’s right; it is.
“Look, if I-” Holmes starts, pushing back slightly and bending the knee of the leg that’s jammed between Watson’s own two. As he thought it would, it just presses Watson further against him, though he acts oblivious to the fact.
“Holmes,” Watson cautions, his voice just the slightest bit unsteady.
Good, right where I want him, Holmes thinks and bends his knee some more.
“Stop it, that’s not helping!”
“It’s not?” Holmes keeps his face serious, even though he knows Watson will see straight through the façade. Instead of moving backwards, as he had been doing, Holmes presses forwards and Watson grunts as though he’s been struck in the abdomen with something hard and unrelenting. With surprising speed and power, Watson gains leverage, placing his knees on the floor either side of Holmes’ waist and pushing his palms into Holmes’ shoulders to keep him pinned down.
“Stop. Moving,” he grits out between clenched teeth and Holmes feels he could liken him to a savage dog with such an act. He lets his face fall into what he believes to be a rather adept attempt at perfect innocence, but keeps still underneath Watson; however, being still and being silent are too completely different behaviours in Holmes’ mind.
“Whatever seems to be the matter, Watson?”
“You are a scoundrel, Holmes, you know exactly what you’re doing!”
Holmes cocks his head slightly and looks up at Watson.
“Then why haven’t you left yet?”
“I would if I could!” Watson rejoinders with a sharp shove against Holmes’ chest.
Holmes pauses, one beat then two, before slipping his foot easily away from Watson’s tangled trousers and lies perfectly still.
“Go on then,” he says, under the charade of a blasé air as he turns his head away so he can focus on the fire that’s blazing in the fireplace not two metres away from them. Watson sighs, probably to pretend to appear relieved, however, Holmes knows better. With rather brusque movements, Watson begins to lift himself away from Holmes’ body, not even addressing the moment when he accidentally - though knowing how cross Watson is, it’s probably actually intentional - jabs his palm into Holmes’ ribs, but after a fair bit of struggling, he seems to finally realise that he’s stuck.
“What have you done, Holmes?”
Why does Watson always jump to the conclusion that it’s Holmes’ fault?
“I haven’t done anything,” Holmes replies, still staring at the flickering orange flames nearby. “Though, I might be able to point out that your - well, if we’re being pedantic - my underwear could possibly be caught up in my belt.” He turns back to look at Watson and smiles falsely, as though the joke has finally run out and even he’s growing tired of the game - though, truly, he’s far from it.
“Yes, well, what do we do?”
“We? I was under the distinct impression that you were the one that wanted to leave, so you can free yourself, no?”
“And you’d be happy to just lie there with me on top of you all day, would you, Holmes? No, I rather think you wouldn’t, so why don’t you assist me with this?”
Holmes stares at Watson, then stares some more. A penny, possibly the wrong penny, drops for Watson and it must sound like one of Big Ben’s raucous chimes inside Watson’s head because his eyes go very wide and he jolts back minutely. Without saying anything to address Holmes’ well-timed silence, Watson begins to lift his waist up to try to free himself with brute strength. After a moment, he falls back into Holmes’ lap, then tries again, repeating the process at least four times in a row. If Mrs. Hudson were to walk in this minute, she would think Watson was doing something dreadfully rude indeed, which rather tickles Holmes’ fancy. The sight of her face, white with shock and confusion, would supply at least a week’s worth of hilarity for him.
Watson steadies himself over Holmes with one hand, while the other disappears beyond Holmes’ sight, however, the brief brush of knuckles over the crotch of his trousers reveals where they are with a sudden jolt of awareness.
“I’d be careful, if I were you,” Holmes says in such an indignant voice that he, himself, almost believes it.
“I’d be quiet, if I were you,” Watson counters and Holmes can feel the movement as Watson tries to tug his undergarments free. He can feel the exasperation building up in Watson’s movements, a build up that only comes with one sort of frustration, the one Holmes has been waiting to show up from the beginning. There’s something pressing into Holmes’ thigh that isn’t Watson’s fingers.
“Is that a pistol in your pocket, Watson?” Holmes says, mainly because he knows Watson has no pockets and knows that Watson knows that he knows Watson has no pockets, which is delightfully roundabout in Holmes’ mind.
“I wish it were,” Watson hisses out, transparently embarrassed, “because then I could use it to shut you up, finally.”
“You could still use whatever’s poking me to shut me up,” Holmes insinuates so brashly that Watson stops trying to tug himself free and just stares at him.
“You are not serious, Holmes,” he states, as though he’s telling Holmes how he should feel.
“And if I were?”
Watson seems to stumble for the right words, or, in fact, any words.
“T-then I would have to believe you to be possessed by some sort of demonic power.”
“Which I know you would never believe, based solely on the fact that I know you.” Holmes tilts his head back and Watson regards him silently.
“You are bluffing, Holmes; you are as poor at this as you are at cards.”
“Is that so?” Holmes says, tilting his head back even more, a position that is more of a challenge directed towards Watson than anything else. Holmes knows it’s working because there’s a look of doubt on Watson’s face, one that wasn’t there before. Knowing he’s now under Watson’s skin, Holmes breaks their stare and shrugs nonchalantly.
“Of course, I can’t make you change your mind, so...” Holmes trails off and lifts his head up slightly as he watches himself move his hands down to Watson’s waist. Watson lets out a yelp of surprise as the fingers on one of Holmes’ hands close around the material at the front of his underwear. Watson grabs his wrist tightly, so tightly that it forces Holmes’ fingers to open slightly and brush against something hard and warm that is decidedly not Watson’s leg. Watson drags in a sharp breath then drops Holmes’ wrist like the skin there burns him.
Without missing a beat, Holmes grasps Watson’s clothing again, before letting his other hand move to his own belt. He carefully undoes it, pulling leather through the cold metal buckle, tugs gently at Watson’s undergarments, and eventually frees them from each other. He lets go of Watson completely, but doesn’t move to push Watson away, so he can right himself into a standing position; he waits for Watson to make his move, which Holmes predicts will occur in three, two, one...
Watson’s move is in fact not to move at all, to stay seated on top of Holmes, as though he’s the comfiest armchair he’s ever had the pleasure of sitting on. Holmes stares at him, waiting for the moment Watson grows too uncomfortable and turns his face away, or blinks, or just punches Holmes in the face again to get him to stop, but nothing happens; Watson just keeps on looking right back at him.
“Holmes,” Watson says tentatively.
“Watson,” Holmes replies.
As though trying not to draw attention to himself, Watson shifts subtly in Holmes’ lap, and it would have worked if he’d only done it once, however, after a brief pause, Watson does it again, then for a thrice time. Watson probably would have done it a fourth time, but Holmes grabs him by the waist and holds him still.
“Watson, if you’re going to do something about this, at least have the decency to do it properly.”
As if to demonstrate his meaning, Holmes cants his hips up sharply into Watson’s own. The movement throws Watson off balance, as he gasps loudly then topples forward. His hands land with loud slaps either side of Holmes’ head - Holmes doesn’t even blink at the close call - and his elbows give out so that he’s mere centimetres away from Holmes’ face.
“I cannot help when my body reacts naturally to a situation.”
“Of course not.”
Watson pauses and Holmes can clearly see the cogs turning inside of his head; he’s thinking, debating, measuring pros and cons, in a true Watson fashion.
“This is dangerous, Holmes,” Watson says, breath once again mingling with Holmes’ own.
“Then it is not unlike any other day of our lives,” Holmes counters gently.
“Yes, but you are forgetting that we usually work with the law, not against it. This is highly illegal.”
“Says the gambler.” Watson glares in response.
“Says the underground boxer.”
“But I’m not the one that’s against this, Watson, so your words are irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant, maybe, but still true.”
Holmes hums in agreement.
“Boxing gives me the tactical advantage of strength, hence why you are in this position to begin with. First, I outsmart you, second, I overpower you, and third I,” he stops talking suddenly and Watson, if it’s even physically possible, leans closer in obvious anticipation; Watson’s moustache tickles against Holmes’ upper lip lightly.
“And third you what?”
“And third, I remove all of your reservations, your inhibitions. Your self-control.”
“Where would you put it all? What would you do with all the things you remove from me?”
“My dear, Watson; look about you. Your clothes can hardly be called clothes at all, which should be evidence enough to answer all of your questions. The things I remove are not really removed at all, just broken down, and all can be fixed after. My friend, I would never take away something that rightfully belongs to you without your permission first; the loophole is that I don’t have to ask for acquiescence if what I take, I promise to return right away. Think of it like my borrowing your clothes sometimes -”
“Always,” Watson interjects.
“Small print, Watson. Nevertheless, I always return your clothes, and often you hardly even notice they’re gone to begin with.”
“You have thought about this often, have you not, Holmes?”
“Very much so, so if you could end my suffering, I would gladly appreciate it.”
Watson stares at him for a good half-minute, then, with the slow movements of a man not too sure whether he’s making the right decision, he closes the final millimetres between their mouths by kissing Holmes, and Holmes has never been so pleased for one of his plans to work out.
Watson’s mouth is warm and wonderfully pliable under his own; Holmes parts Watson’s lips with a gentle tongue and Watson seems to melt straight into his mouth with a soft sigh. Watson’s moustache is rough against his skin, rubs against Holmes’ own three-day-old stubble and burns, but not enough to deter him or make him even think about stopping. Now that he has Watson, he won’t stop, even if the whole of London suddenly ran amok with crime and mysteries that needed his help to solve; he would just close his eyes and keep on kissing.
Holmes gets a mouthful of his own name as Watson begins to repeat it, pulling back ever so slightly so his voice is less muffled against Holmes’ lips. Holmes can’t reach Watson’s lips at the new angle, but he can reach his chin and jaw line, so he takes to kissing, licking, and sucking those instead. Watson moans loudly, mouth red and wet and loosely fallen open.
Watson twists slightly to remove his shirt completely and the action forces him harder onto Holmes, who bucks his hips up at the change in pressure on his groin.
“You will be the death of me, Watson,” Holmes breathes onto Watson’s skin, but Watson just huffs a laugh and Holmes can feel the flesh under his mouth move and knows Watson’s smiling.
“No, Holmes, you’ll do that yourself, though hopefully you’ll put it off until after we’re done here.”
Holmes can agree to that. He lifts a hand and rests it on Watson’s shoulder for a few beats, then he slips it down Watson’s bare chest, fingers flicking briefly at his nipples, before dipping down onto his flat stomach and around his right hip. Watson’s so warm and solid under his hand and nipping at Watson’s jaw is all he can do to stop himself from just flipping them over, pinning Watson to the floor, and letting everything go.
“I do intend on finishing what I’ve started, Watson, do not fret.”
Watson presses himself down in reply and this time Holmes really can’t stop himself.
With a move that’s fully intended for wrestling, not sexual encounters, Holmes rolls them over, though he’s careful not to knock Watson’s head or crush his leg under them as they move. Watson goes boneless against him, slipping easily into the position Holmes wants him, without a word of argument. Watson’s utter submission sends an animalistic growl out from between Holmes’ lips and he moves his hands to grab a hold of Watson’s thighs, so he can slip Watson’s legs up to wrap around his waist. Unfortunately for Holmes, Watson still has his trousers tangled around his feet, which makes it impossible for him to part his legs.
Holmes flicks his dark eyes up to glance at Watson, who just tilts his head back and arches his back. His life now depends on how quickly he can divest Watson of his trousers, because if it’s not soon, he’ll expire from sheer lust. He slips quickly down Watson’s body, flicking his tongue out to taste sweating skin beneath him every now and then; the inside of Watson’s thigh is particularly enjoyable on his tongue. Holmes rids Watson of his shoes, socks, and bunched up trousers, before reaching up to grasp at the very edge of Watson’s underwear.
He waits until Watson lifts his head and shoots Holmes him a look of annoyance; apparently, Holmes is going too slowly for Watson’s liking. Holmes smirks then gently pulls the last remaining item of clothing off Watson. He throws the garment onto the small pile of clothing next to them and moves back up Watson’s body. He stops at Watson’s waist to bite lightly where Watson’s leg melds into hip and Watson bucks up underneath his mouth. The movement nudges Watson’s cock against Holmes’ jaw and with just a turn of his head, Holmes finds himself right where he wants to be. He darts his tongue out and it swipes against the side of Watson’s erection, which is pure heat under his mouth.
Watson moans deeply in the back of his throat and Holmes can hear his fingers grappling and scraping against the wooden floor as they search for something to hold onto. When they find nothing, they move to thread through Holmes’ hair, where they grasp so tightly it starts to pinch and itch Holmes’ scalp, but Holmes doesn’t say a word to make Watson stop.
Holmes slides his mouth further up Watson’s length until he reaches the head, where he traces the underside with harder rubs of the pointed tip of his tongue. One of Watson’s legs spasms under the assault, but Holmes keeps going, slipping his lips tightly around Watson’s cock and hollowing his cheeks so their insides press against Watson, too, until he’s completely surrounded by Holmes’ mouth.
“Holmes!” Watson gasps, his voice a pitch or two higher than it usually is. “I daresay,” there’s a pause as Watson clearly tries to compose himself, even though Holmes keeps sucking and licking to counteract his attempts, “this will finish before it even starts,” Watson’s fingers tug at Holmes’ hair, until he has to follow the movement and lift his mouth partially off of Watson, “if you keep that up.”
Holmes pulls completely off; his lips feel swollen and stretched.
“I do think you’re missing the point, Watson.”
“I’m not, trust me; I just - you’re not even slightly undressed yet, and I’m, well...” Watson trails off and Holmes knows he doesn’t have to be a detective to understand what Watson is hinting at.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’m not as dressed as I could be; I don’t have my jacket, for a start.”
Watson rolls his eyes to the ceiling, as though saying God, help me, then in a blur of motion, Watson grabs two handfuls of Holmes’ braces and pulls him up towards his face. Holmes kneels over Watson’s waist and smiles down at him. With nimble fingers, Watson quickly undoes the metal closures on Holmes’ shirt, slips the braces off Holmes’ shoulders, and the shirt follows seconds after. The hands move to Holmes’ trousers and before Holmes can blink, they’re hanging open and being pushed down his thighs, along with his underwear. Both garments soon join the other ones scattered about the floor.
Watson’s hand curls around his cock and he can’t stop looking at it; he can’t believe it’s finally happening. He licks his lips and rolls his hips into Watson’s palm; Watson’s thumb drags gently over the leaking head and Holmes can hardly see, his eyes threaten to fall close with the pleasure, and they twitch in time to his heartbeat and the flesh in Watson’s hand.
Bending at the hips, Holmes leans forwards, hanging just above Watson’s face for a few seconds before he presses their mouths together once again. Watson’s tongue is insistent against his closed lips, but once he parts them, it finds Holmes’ own and lulls into slow, exploratory movements. For a second, Watson pauses and Holmes knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s because Watson can taste himself on Holmes’ tongue. It arouses him so much that it’s indecent, but he wonders if it would do the same for Watson. He moves a hand to wrap around Watson’s own, helping to stroke for a few moments, but then he peels Watson’s hand away and sits back, breaking their kiss, so he can pull the palm up to his mouth and lick his own pre-come off Watson’s skin.
It tastes - well, it’s certainly different from how Watson tastes, but it’s not something that he’d never want to taste again, especially not if it happened to cling to Watson’s tongue during a different occasion. Watson shudders under his body and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his eyes somehow appear darker.
“Holmes, I think you could possibly be the devil himself.”
Holmes smirks against Watson’s hand and when it’s clean of all traces of himself, he drops it and lets it fall naturally to his waist, where the fingers dig into his side, like grappling hooks, like Watson is trying to climb up a cliff face.
For a while, Holmes just watches Watson underneath him; watches the way his chest rises and falls with shaky breaths; the way his eyes never linger on one part of Holmes for too long, too busy darting about to take in the next inch of exposed skin; the way he swallows every time their gazes meet. With a gentle movement, Holmes runs his fingers through Watson’s hair, then when he gets to Watson’s temple, he turns his hand over so he can run the back of it down the side of Watson’s face. Watson’s eyes flutter closed and Holmes leans forward to press his lips to each lid, before he drifts back to Watson’s mouth to drop small, chaste kisses, one after the other.
Holmes needs Watson to understand how much he really means to him; move aside mystery-solving and witty retorts and clothes-stealing and sex, because none of it matters without Watson knowing that he does, and is doing it, all because he cares, because Sherlock Holmes, man of infinitely foolish plans and arrogance and poor personal hygiene, loves him, with every fibre of his being.
Watson gently grabs a hold of Holmes’ chin, keeping him in place, then he kisses Holmes with his eyes wide open, as though he’s saying I can see inside of you and I know how you feel. Why else would I still be here, you fool? A part of Holmes starts to believe that perhaps he’s underestimated Watson, that perhaps Watson didn’t need as much coercing as he’d anticipated. With a teasing nip at Watson’s bottom lip, Holmes lets his eyes close again and smiles against Watson’s mouth as Watson’s hands trace down his ribs, over his waist, to rest on his backside. Holmes can’t decide whether he wants to push forwards against Watson’s body, or backwards into Watson’s warm palms.
Strong fingers dip down to run over Holmes’ entrance, but just as quickly as they come, they disappear and Watson pulls away from Holmes’ mouth.
“Holmes, is that - have you - ?”
“Ah, yes, I might have, erm, prepared for this.”
Watson sighs underneath him and lets his head fall to one side, in a move that says typical and I should have known.
“What made you think I’d actually agree to this? How were you so confident?”
Holmes looks at him and it takes all his power not to just raise his eyebrow and say really? In the most sarcastic voice he can muster.
“I know you, Watson, and you’re predictable, despite what you might think.”
Watson hums in a way that says he disagrees, but isn’t prepared to start arguing with Holmes.
“However, you must agree that this has made the situation a lot easier, no?”
As if to back up his words, Holmes raises himself up on his knees and hovers above Watson’s erection, so it rests in the crease of his arse. Watson’s hands tightly grip Holmes’ waist and hold him in place.
“Holmes,” Watson breathes, looking at Holmes with eyes that are clearly lust-filled.
“I’ll take that as a yes then, Watson.” Holmes winks and smirks, and as if to try to shut Holmes up, Watson thrusts his hips up suddenly and the tip of his cock pushes roughly against Holmes’ slick entrance. Holmes grunts, but doesn’t move away, just follows Watson’s hips as they fall back to the floor, and then keeps going, pressing down until the head Watson’s cock slips smoothly inside him.
Holmes winces slightly and rolls his hips to help lessen the burning, stretching feeling, but then shifts further down until he’s sitting on top of Watson’s hips and Watson is all the way inside him.
Below him, Watson’s mouth has fallen open and Holmes takes it as an invitation to plunder it with his tongue. Watson moans as Holmes begins to lift and fall in his lap, but the noises are muffled as they pass from one mouth, straight into the other. Their rhythm is slightly off, Watson’s hips shift upwards as Holmes pushes himself away, but after skipping a beat, Watson manages to thrust up as Holmes slides down, which drives his cock into Holmes’ prostate and Holmes ends up clamping his teeth down on Watson’s bottom lip in response.
Watson lets out a yelp of pain and Holmes quickly pulls away, breathing in gasps, as their movements never falter.
“I a-a-apologise,” Holmes stutters as he moves his hand so he can swipe his thumb over Watson’s split and bleeding lip. Before Holmes can pull his hand away, Watson wraps his mouth around the digit on his lip and sucks on it to remove the blood. Holmes guesses that it’s Watson’s silent way of saying apology accepted. Holmes pulls his thumb out with a slick pop and moves, leaning back slightly, to rest both palms against Watson’s firm chest. The change in position makes Holmes sink deeper onto Watson and they both let out small, almost identical groans.
Holmes’ knees ache from continuously moving himself up and down on top of Watson and his thighs feel like they’re on fire. He tries to push all other feelings away to focus on the deep, throbbing pleasure building up in his stomach, but his legs start shaking and he’s so out of breath it’s rather embarrassing. For a moment, he stops moving and hangs his head, eyes closed, and he hopes that Watson can read him as well as he can read Watson because for all his infinite speeches and wandering tongue, he doesn’t know how to ask Watson to take over. When he opens his eyes and raises his head again, he finds Watson watching him with a curious expression on his face; Holmes knows he understands.
Gently, he pulls himself off of Watson and moves to fall beside him, with a loud breath that could either be relief or expectation; not even he can tell the difference. Watson sits up and shifts to kneel between Holmes’ anticipatorily spread legs. He pauses and Holmes almost holds his breath as he waits for Watson to stop running his eyes over his body and just take control already.
“Most of the time, I think you’re the bane of my existence, Holmes. I often think God made you, just to spite me, but then you’ll do something so monumentally stupid and I’ll panic and pray that you’ll live to see another day, even if it does mean I’ll have to put up with you a while longer. I fear that this is rather what it would be like to be married to you; all the same nuisances, except with the addition of sex.”
“I would wear any engagement ring you picked out, Watson, regardless of whether it’s the right one or not, and I would even wear a wedding dress if it meant being able to live like this with you.”
“You’re getting soft in your old age, Holmes,” Watson says, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling in a way that reveals he believes every word that Holmes tells him.
“I will get soft if you don’t stop this chitchat and start doing something,” Holmes insinuates.
The pure suggestion and mockery in his voice obviously spurs Watson on, as in retaliation, he grabs Holmes’ thighs, throws one over his shoulder, the other around his waist, and then slides back into Holmes, who’s still slick and open for him. Holmes moans around a smile because Holmes knows that he and Watson are back on the same page again.
Watson thrusts into him slowly at first, but then he curves his back and shifts deeper inside, which leaves Holmes writhing and using his legs to pull himself up to meet Watson’s movements. Each time Watson pushes into him, he brushes against Holmes’ prostate and Holmes can’t even moan; his throat feels so constricted in pleasure, that all he can do is remember how to breathe - in out in out, rinse and repeat - through his nose. When one of Watson’s hot, sweaty palms wraps around his cock, he knows he’s lost completely.
After a ragged breath in, he exhales a hum that sounds remarkably like Watson’s name and comes over Watson’s knuckles and both of their stomachs. He can’t quite catch his breath, but he doesn’t panic, because Watson’s still above him, sliding in and out of his body, and he feels safe. Watson leans forward, making Holmes’ leg ache from the position, but Holmes doesn’t complain, just accepts the kiss Watson presses against his bruised lips and lets the warmth of Watson’s come, deep inside him, spread through his body.
Holmes’ leg slips off Watson’s shoulder with a jolt and a bang as his heel strikes the wooden floor with a painful amount of force, and Watson’s weight thumps heavily against Holmes’ chest, knocking what little breath he had to begin with out. Watson stays put, though, breathing warmly into Holmes’ open mouth and pressing kisses against his tongue and teeth every now and then. Holmes waits until the very last minute, when dark spots begin to fill his vision, to roll them to the side and alleviate the pressure on his torso.
Watson’s cock slides limply out of Holmes as he moves away to turn over onto his back and Holmes can feel wetness between his thighs. His stomach clenches at the thought of being filled with everything Watson is, and he savours the feeling as he copies Watson’s movement and stares at the ceiling above. Idly, Holmes scratches at the rapidly drying come on his belly and hates how it sticks under his fingernails.
“I do believe that was well worth the wait, though, the next time this happens, it should be much sooner; we shouldn’t leave it so long before we do it again, should we, Watson?”
Watson turns his head so he can look at Holmes.
“Next time, try not to ruin all my clothes in the process of undressing me.”
Holmes nods vaguely - neither agreeing nor disagreeing - because he’s far too focused on the fact that Watson has indeed admitted that there should be a next time.
“We should also try to be more traditional and use a bed; my knees are, though of course just in the figurative sense, killing me. I might even have to have a doctor tend to them.”
Watson scoffs in jest.
“That’s your own fault, Holmes; I will not be roped into being responsible for that.”
“What about if I complain about mon derrière being sore?”
“Well, that’s another matter all together, isn’t it Holmes? I suppose I would have to help you with that.”
“How would you help? A pleasant massage, perhaps?”
“Watch your cheek, Holmes, else I’ll prescribe a week of no sex.” Holmes widens his eyes in mock horror. “However, as it is, I would suggest a salve, and I might even go so far as to offer to administer it myself.”
“Well, in that case, Watson, my dear doctor, I’m very sore, indeed.”
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Movieverse] Holmes experiments to see how much damage a letter opener can do; smut ensues.
Warnings: PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 6,068
Rating: NC-17
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Sherlock Holmes or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
Holmes figures it out before Watson even enters the room; already knows what Watson will be wearing and how he’ll move about the room, responding to Holmes’ words and actions. Watson doesn’t even stand a chance.
“Watson? Watson, have you by chance seen my letter opener?” Holmes calls, rummaging through papers and folders on his cluttered desk.
Watson enters the room a minute or so after looking decidedly irritated.
“How should I know where you put your things? Last time I checked, I was neither your mother, nor your housekeeper.” After a sigh, he seems to give in. “Where did you last use it?”
Holmes’ face turns contemplative and he scratches idly at the back of his neck, just below his hairline. He glances about, running through his past few days in his mind; nothing stands out.
“Did I perchance loan it to you?”
Watson glances briefly at him with furrowed brows.
“No, Holmes, do not blame your inability to keep check of your belongings on me.”
“I just thought-“
“No, Holmes! You’ve probably just mislaid it and it will resurface again in a few days-” He stops talking suddenly and reaches for something on Holmes’ desk. He holds up a small silver letter opener and looks at Holmes with exasperation present in his eyes. “As usual, it was right in front of your face. As a detective, I would have thought you would be able to detect these things, Holmes.” He extends his arm, proffering the object to Holmes. Holmes moves to take it from Watson, but Watson suddenly frowns and begins to look suspicious; his arm retracts slowly. “What use is this to you, Holmes? The post has not yet been delivered.”
Without explanation, Holmes reaches out and snatches the letter opener from Watson’s loose grasp.
“I need to open something,” he says, and before Watson can think about moving, Holmes darts forwards and hooks the silver blade between two of the last closures on Watson’s shirt. With a swift upward tug that’s so precise, the blade doesn’t even scratch over Watson’s skin, he cuts neatly through at least five buttons and the little ivory fasteners bounce with gentle clicks as they scatter over the wooden floor. Watson lets out a small, surprised noise as he steps back, away from Holmes’ reach, colliding with the desk behind him and making it groan loudly in protest as it scrapes against the floorboards.
Watson sidesteps to the right, towards the direction of the doorway, as Holmes predicts, which lets him get the upper hand again, as he’s already there, letter opener poised. Another flick of his wrist and this time the buttons of Watson’s fly are severed from the wool material and the only thing keeping Watson’s trousers up are his braces. Watson grabs his waistband futilely, spinning to try to put the desk between himself and Holmes. Unfortunately for him, it presents the one thing left to cut: the button fastening the straps of his braces, which Holmes easily cuts through, and as Watson lets go of his trousers to grapple for the elastic now sliding up his back and over his shoulders, they slide down his slender legs, pooling in a heap around his feet. He spins back towards Holmes, looking even more irate than when he first entered the room.
“What is the meaning of this, Holmes?” he yells, as his shirt flutters around his chest loosely.
Holmes pretends to inspect the letter opener still in his right hand.
“I was trying to conceive how much damage I could generate with such an item.”
He flicks his eyes back up to Watson, who looks rather embarrassed standing in only a tattered shirt and loose-fitting undergarments. Stepping forward, he hooks the silver blade under the leg opening of Watson’s pants and starts to tug it up, as though testing which will give first: the thin material or his dear friend, Watson.
“What have your conclusions found?” Watson asks, as though trying to ignore Holmes’ challenge.
“I have discovered- I have-” he pauses before glancing back down towards Watson’s pale thighs. “Is that my underwear, Watson?” With laughter in his eyes, he looks back up, a small smile that he can’t quite keep hidden breaking out on his lips. “Though, I suppose it could be worse, they could be Mary’s.”
Watson’s left eye twitches in anger.
“Enough!” he yells, snatching the letter opener straight out of Holmes’ grasp, flinging it across the room and pointedly ignoring it, even when it digs into the wall opposite and sticks, standing out horizontal, parallel to the floor and ceiling.
“You have been practicing,” Holmes says, and that’s all he has time to get out before Watson lands a smarting blow on his cheek and steps forward to throw another punch. However, the trousers around his feet prevent him from moving too far and after a couple more inches of weight displacement, Watson begins to topple, his whole body slipping forwards and smacking heavily into Holmes’ own. With a surprised grunt, Holmes moves a foot back a step to balance them, but finds himself treading on something small and slick, which, from the feel of it, could possibly be a button from Watson’s shirt and he starts falling, too, Watson unhelpfully grappling at his waistcoat, which only serves to make them tumble down faster. Holmes hits the ground first and tries to roll away from Watson’s fast approaching body, but Watson’s fingers tighten around the material under them and Holmes is forced to endure the full weight of his friend on top of his chest, which aches under the pressure.
They both exhale loudly at the same time and Holmes finds himself with a mouthful of Watson’s used oxygen. A tang of tea with too much sugar in it and a minty undertone lays itself over his tongue in a rather pleasant way. Watson wriggles, obviously trying to disentangle himself from Holmes, however the movement lodges one of Holmes’ feet between Watson’s ankles and Watson’s trousers end up twisted around Holmes, too.
“You’ve made things worse,” Holmes observes, being highly helpful in his opinion, though Watson appears to disagree, as he lets out his signature grunt of displeasure and scowls at Holmes.
“This is entirely your fault!” Holmes doesn’t contest him, because Watson’s right; it is.
“Look, if I-” Holmes starts, pushing back slightly and bending the knee of the leg that’s jammed between Watson’s own two. As he thought it would, it just presses Watson further against him, though he acts oblivious to the fact.
“Holmes,” Watson cautions, his voice just the slightest bit unsteady.
Good, right where I want him, Holmes thinks and bends his knee some more.
“Stop it, that’s not helping!”
“It’s not?” Holmes keeps his face serious, even though he knows Watson will see straight through the façade. Instead of moving backwards, as he had been doing, Holmes presses forwards and Watson grunts as though he’s been struck in the abdomen with something hard and unrelenting. With surprising speed and power, Watson gains leverage, placing his knees on the floor either side of Holmes’ waist and pushing his palms into Holmes’ shoulders to keep him pinned down.
“Stop. Moving,” he grits out between clenched teeth and Holmes feels he could liken him to a savage dog with such an act. He lets his face fall into what he believes to be a rather adept attempt at perfect innocence, but keeps still underneath Watson; however, being still and being silent are too completely different behaviours in Holmes’ mind.
“Whatever seems to be the matter, Watson?”
“You are a scoundrel, Holmes, you know exactly what you’re doing!”
Holmes cocks his head slightly and looks up at Watson.
“Then why haven’t you left yet?”
“I would if I could!” Watson rejoinders with a sharp shove against Holmes’ chest.
Holmes pauses, one beat then two, before slipping his foot easily away from Watson’s tangled trousers and lies perfectly still.
“Go on then,” he says, under the charade of a blasé air as he turns his head away so he can focus on the fire that’s blazing in the fireplace not two metres away from them. Watson sighs, probably to pretend to appear relieved, however, Holmes knows better. With rather brusque movements, Watson begins to lift himself away from Holmes’ body, not even addressing the moment when he accidentally - though knowing how cross Watson is, it’s probably actually intentional - jabs his palm into Holmes’ ribs, but after a fair bit of struggling, he seems to finally realise that he’s stuck.
“What have you done, Holmes?”
Why does Watson always jump to the conclusion that it’s Holmes’ fault?
“I haven’t done anything,” Holmes replies, still staring at the flickering orange flames nearby. “Though, I might be able to point out that your - well, if we’re being pedantic - my underwear could possibly be caught up in my belt.” He turns back to look at Watson and smiles falsely, as though the joke has finally run out and even he’s growing tired of the game - though, truly, he’s far from it.
“Yes, well, what do we do?”
“We? I was under the distinct impression that you were the one that wanted to leave, so you can free yourself, no?”
“And you’d be happy to just lie there with me on top of you all day, would you, Holmes? No, I rather think you wouldn’t, so why don’t you assist me with this?”
Holmes stares at Watson, then stares some more. A penny, possibly the wrong penny, drops for Watson and it must sound like one of Big Ben’s raucous chimes inside Watson’s head because his eyes go very wide and he jolts back minutely. Without saying anything to address Holmes’ well-timed silence, Watson begins to lift his waist up to try to free himself with brute strength. After a moment, he falls back into Holmes’ lap, then tries again, repeating the process at least four times in a row. If Mrs. Hudson were to walk in this minute, she would think Watson was doing something dreadfully rude indeed, which rather tickles Holmes’ fancy. The sight of her face, white with shock and confusion, would supply at least a week’s worth of hilarity for him.
Watson steadies himself over Holmes with one hand, while the other disappears beyond Holmes’ sight, however, the brief brush of knuckles over the crotch of his trousers reveals where they are with a sudden jolt of awareness.
“I’d be careful, if I were you,” Holmes says in such an indignant voice that he, himself, almost believes it.
“I’d be quiet, if I were you,” Watson counters and Holmes can feel the movement as Watson tries to tug his undergarments free. He can feel the exasperation building up in Watson’s movements, a build up that only comes with one sort of frustration, the one Holmes has been waiting to show up from the beginning. There’s something pressing into Holmes’ thigh that isn’t Watson’s fingers.
“Is that a pistol in your pocket, Watson?” Holmes says, mainly because he knows Watson has no pockets and knows that Watson knows that he knows Watson has no pockets, which is delightfully roundabout in Holmes’ mind.
“I wish it were,” Watson hisses out, transparently embarrassed, “because then I could use it to shut you up, finally.”
“You could still use whatever’s poking me to shut me up,” Holmes insinuates so brashly that Watson stops trying to tug himself free and just stares at him.
“You are not serious, Holmes,” he states, as though he’s telling Holmes how he should feel.
“And if I were?”
Watson seems to stumble for the right words, or, in fact, any words.
“T-then I would have to believe you to be possessed by some sort of demonic power.”
“Which I know you would never believe, based solely on the fact that I know you.” Holmes tilts his head back and Watson regards him silently.
“You are bluffing, Holmes; you are as poor at this as you are at cards.”
“Is that so?” Holmes says, tilting his head back even more, a position that is more of a challenge directed towards Watson than anything else. Holmes knows it’s working because there’s a look of doubt on Watson’s face, one that wasn’t there before. Knowing he’s now under Watson’s skin, Holmes breaks their stare and shrugs nonchalantly.
“Of course, I can’t make you change your mind, so...” Holmes trails off and lifts his head up slightly as he watches himself move his hands down to Watson’s waist. Watson lets out a yelp of surprise as the fingers on one of Holmes’ hands close around the material at the front of his underwear. Watson grabs his wrist tightly, so tightly that it forces Holmes’ fingers to open slightly and brush against something hard and warm that is decidedly not Watson’s leg. Watson drags in a sharp breath then drops Holmes’ wrist like the skin there burns him.
Without missing a beat, Holmes grasps Watson’s clothing again, before letting his other hand move to his own belt. He carefully undoes it, pulling leather through the cold metal buckle, tugs gently at Watson’s undergarments, and eventually frees them from each other. He lets go of Watson completely, but doesn’t move to push Watson away, so he can right himself into a standing position; he waits for Watson to make his move, which Holmes predicts will occur in three, two, one...
Watson’s move is in fact not to move at all, to stay seated on top of Holmes, as though he’s the comfiest armchair he’s ever had the pleasure of sitting on. Holmes stares at him, waiting for the moment Watson grows too uncomfortable and turns his face away, or blinks, or just punches Holmes in the face again to get him to stop, but nothing happens; Watson just keeps on looking right back at him.
“Holmes,” Watson says tentatively.
“Watson,” Holmes replies.
As though trying not to draw attention to himself, Watson shifts subtly in Holmes’ lap, and it would have worked if he’d only done it once, however, after a brief pause, Watson does it again, then for a thrice time. Watson probably would have done it a fourth time, but Holmes grabs him by the waist and holds him still.
“Watson, if you’re going to do something about this, at least have the decency to do it properly.”
As if to demonstrate his meaning, Holmes cants his hips up sharply into Watson’s own. The movement throws Watson off balance, as he gasps loudly then topples forward. His hands land with loud slaps either side of Holmes’ head - Holmes doesn’t even blink at the close call - and his elbows give out so that he’s mere centimetres away from Holmes’ face.
“I cannot help when my body reacts naturally to a situation.”
“Of course not.”
Watson pauses and Holmes can clearly see the cogs turning inside of his head; he’s thinking, debating, measuring pros and cons, in a true Watson fashion.
“This is dangerous, Holmes,” Watson says, breath once again mingling with Holmes’ own.
“Then it is not unlike any other day of our lives,” Holmes counters gently.
“Yes, but you are forgetting that we usually work with the law, not against it. This is highly illegal.”
“Says the gambler.” Watson glares in response.
“Says the underground boxer.”
“But I’m not the one that’s against this, Watson, so your words are irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant, maybe, but still true.”
Holmes hums in agreement.
“Boxing gives me the tactical advantage of strength, hence why you are in this position to begin with. First, I outsmart you, second, I overpower you, and third I,” he stops talking suddenly and Watson, if it’s even physically possible, leans closer in obvious anticipation; Watson’s moustache tickles against Holmes’ upper lip lightly.
“And third you what?”
“And third, I remove all of your reservations, your inhibitions. Your self-control.”
“Where would you put it all? What would you do with all the things you remove from me?”
“My dear, Watson; look about you. Your clothes can hardly be called clothes at all, which should be evidence enough to answer all of your questions. The things I remove are not really removed at all, just broken down, and all can be fixed after. My friend, I would never take away something that rightfully belongs to you without your permission first; the loophole is that I don’t have to ask for acquiescence if what I take, I promise to return right away. Think of it like my borrowing your clothes sometimes -”
“Always,” Watson interjects.
“Small print, Watson. Nevertheless, I always return your clothes, and often you hardly even notice they’re gone to begin with.”
“You have thought about this often, have you not, Holmes?”
“Very much so, so if you could end my suffering, I would gladly appreciate it.”
Watson stares at him for a good half-minute, then, with the slow movements of a man not too sure whether he’s making the right decision, he closes the final millimetres between their mouths by kissing Holmes, and Holmes has never been so pleased for one of his plans to work out.
Watson’s mouth is warm and wonderfully pliable under his own; Holmes parts Watson’s lips with a gentle tongue and Watson seems to melt straight into his mouth with a soft sigh. Watson’s moustache is rough against his skin, rubs against Holmes’ own three-day-old stubble and burns, but not enough to deter him or make him even think about stopping. Now that he has Watson, he won’t stop, even if the whole of London suddenly ran amok with crime and mysteries that needed his help to solve; he would just close his eyes and keep on kissing.
Holmes gets a mouthful of his own name as Watson begins to repeat it, pulling back ever so slightly so his voice is less muffled against Holmes’ lips. Holmes can’t reach Watson’s lips at the new angle, but he can reach his chin and jaw line, so he takes to kissing, licking, and sucking those instead. Watson moans loudly, mouth red and wet and loosely fallen open.
Watson twists slightly to remove his shirt completely and the action forces him harder onto Holmes, who bucks his hips up at the change in pressure on his groin.
“You will be the death of me, Watson,” Holmes breathes onto Watson’s skin, but Watson just huffs a laugh and Holmes can feel the flesh under his mouth move and knows Watson’s smiling.
“No, Holmes, you’ll do that yourself, though hopefully you’ll put it off until after we’re done here.”
Holmes can agree to that. He lifts a hand and rests it on Watson’s shoulder for a few beats, then he slips it down Watson’s bare chest, fingers flicking briefly at his nipples, before dipping down onto his flat stomach and around his right hip. Watson’s so warm and solid under his hand and nipping at Watson’s jaw is all he can do to stop himself from just flipping them over, pinning Watson to the floor, and letting everything go.
“I do intend on finishing what I’ve started, Watson, do not fret.”
Watson presses himself down in reply and this time Holmes really can’t stop himself.
With a move that’s fully intended for wrestling, not sexual encounters, Holmes rolls them over, though he’s careful not to knock Watson’s head or crush his leg under them as they move. Watson goes boneless against him, slipping easily into the position Holmes wants him, without a word of argument. Watson’s utter submission sends an animalistic growl out from between Holmes’ lips and he moves his hands to grab a hold of Watson’s thighs, so he can slip Watson’s legs up to wrap around his waist. Unfortunately for Holmes, Watson still has his trousers tangled around his feet, which makes it impossible for him to part his legs.
Holmes flicks his dark eyes up to glance at Watson, who just tilts his head back and arches his back. His life now depends on how quickly he can divest Watson of his trousers, because if it’s not soon, he’ll expire from sheer lust. He slips quickly down Watson’s body, flicking his tongue out to taste sweating skin beneath him every now and then; the inside of Watson’s thigh is particularly enjoyable on his tongue. Holmes rids Watson of his shoes, socks, and bunched up trousers, before reaching up to grasp at the very edge of Watson’s underwear.
He waits until Watson lifts his head and shoots Holmes him a look of annoyance; apparently, Holmes is going too slowly for Watson’s liking. Holmes smirks then gently pulls the last remaining item of clothing off Watson. He throws the garment onto the small pile of clothing next to them and moves back up Watson’s body. He stops at Watson’s waist to bite lightly where Watson’s leg melds into hip and Watson bucks up underneath his mouth. The movement nudges Watson’s cock against Holmes’ jaw and with just a turn of his head, Holmes finds himself right where he wants to be. He darts his tongue out and it swipes against the side of Watson’s erection, which is pure heat under his mouth.
Watson moans deeply in the back of his throat and Holmes can hear his fingers grappling and scraping against the wooden floor as they search for something to hold onto. When they find nothing, they move to thread through Holmes’ hair, where they grasp so tightly it starts to pinch and itch Holmes’ scalp, but Holmes doesn’t say a word to make Watson stop.
Holmes slides his mouth further up Watson’s length until he reaches the head, where he traces the underside with harder rubs of the pointed tip of his tongue. One of Watson’s legs spasms under the assault, but Holmes keeps going, slipping his lips tightly around Watson’s cock and hollowing his cheeks so their insides press against Watson, too, until he’s completely surrounded by Holmes’ mouth.
“Holmes!” Watson gasps, his voice a pitch or two higher than it usually is. “I daresay,” there’s a pause as Watson clearly tries to compose himself, even though Holmes keeps sucking and licking to counteract his attempts, “this will finish before it even starts,” Watson’s fingers tug at Holmes’ hair, until he has to follow the movement and lift his mouth partially off of Watson, “if you keep that up.”
Holmes pulls completely off; his lips feel swollen and stretched.
“I do think you’re missing the point, Watson.”
“I’m not, trust me; I just - you’re not even slightly undressed yet, and I’m, well...” Watson trails off and Holmes knows he doesn’t have to be a detective to understand what Watson is hinting at.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I’m not as dressed as I could be; I don’t have my jacket, for a start.”
Watson rolls his eyes to the ceiling, as though saying God, help me, then in a blur of motion, Watson grabs two handfuls of Holmes’ braces and pulls him up towards his face. Holmes kneels over Watson’s waist and smiles down at him. With nimble fingers, Watson quickly undoes the metal closures on Holmes’ shirt, slips the braces off Holmes’ shoulders, and the shirt follows seconds after. The hands move to Holmes’ trousers and before Holmes can blink, they’re hanging open and being pushed down his thighs, along with his underwear. Both garments soon join the other ones scattered about the floor.
Watson’s hand curls around his cock and he can’t stop looking at it; he can’t believe it’s finally happening. He licks his lips and rolls his hips into Watson’s palm; Watson’s thumb drags gently over the leaking head and Holmes can hardly see, his eyes threaten to fall close with the pleasure, and they twitch in time to his heartbeat and the flesh in Watson’s hand.
Bending at the hips, Holmes leans forwards, hanging just above Watson’s face for a few seconds before he presses their mouths together once again. Watson’s tongue is insistent against his closed lips, but once he parts them, it finds Holmes’ own and lulls into slow, exploratory movements. For a second, Watson pauses and Holmes knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s because Watson can taste himself on Holmes’ tongue. It arouses him so much that it’s indecent, but he wonders if it would do the same for Watson. He moves a hand to wrap around Watson’s own, helping to stroke for a few moments, but then he peels Watson’s hand away and sits back, breaking their kiss, so he can pull the palm up to his mouth and lick his own pre-come off Watson’s skin.
It tastes - well, it’s certainly different from how Watson tastes, but it’s not something that he’d never want to taste again, especially not if it happened to cling to Watson’s tongue during a different occasion. Watson shudders under his body and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his eyes somehow appear darker.
“Holmes, I think you could possibly be the devil himself.”
Holmes smirks against Watson’s hand and when it’s clean of all traces of himself, he drops it and lets it fall naturally to his waist, where the fingers dig into his side, like grappling hooks, like Watson is trying to climb up a cliff face.
For a while, Holmes just watches Watson underneath him; watches the way his chest rises and falls with shaky breaths; the way his eyes never linger on one part of Holmes for too long, too busy darting about to take in the next inch of exposed skin; the way he swallows every time their gazes meet. With a gentle movement, Holmes runs his fingers through Watson’s hair, then when he gets to Watson’s temple, he turns his hand over so he can run the back of it down the side of Watson’s face. Watson’s eyes flutter closed and Holmes leans forward to press his lips to each lid, before he drifts back to Watson’s mouth to drop small, chaste kisses, one after the other.
Holmes needs Watson to understand how much he really means to him; move aside mystery-solving and witty retorts and clothes-stealing and sex, because none of it matters without Watson knowing that he does, and is doing it, all because he cares, because Sherlock Holmes, man of infinitely foolish plans and arrogance and poor personal hygiene, loves him, with every fibre of his being.
Watson gently grabs a hold of Holmes’ chin, keeping him in place, then he kisses Holmes with his eyes wide open, as though he’s saying I can see inside of you and I know how you feel. Why else would I still be here, you fool? A part of Holmes starts to believe that perhaps he’s underestimated Watson, that perhaps Watson didn’t need as much coercing as he’d anticipated. With a teasing nip at Watson’s bottom lip, Holmes lets his eyes close again and smiles against Watson’s mouth as Watson’s hands trace down his ribs, over his waist, to rest on his backside. Holmes can’t decide whether he wants to push forwards against Watson’s body, or backwards into Watson’s warm palms.
Strong fingers dip down to run over Holmes’ entrance, but just as quickly as they come, they disappear and Watson pulls away from Holmes’ mouth.
“Holmes, is that - have you - ?”
“Ah, yes, I might have, erm, prepared for this.”
Watson sighs underneath him and lets his head fall to one side, in a move that says typical and I should have known.
“What made you think I’d actually agree to this? How were you so confident?”
Holmes looks at him and it takes all his power not to just raise his eyebrow and say really? In the most sarcastic voice he can muster.
“I know you, Watson, and you’re predictable, despite what you might think.”
Watson hums in a way that says he disagrees, but isn’t prepared to start arguing with Holmes.
“However, you must agree that this has made the situation a lot easier, no?”
As if to back up his words, Holmes raises himself up on his knees and hovers above Watson’s erection, so it rests in the crease of his arse. Watson’s hands tightly grip Holmes’ waist and hold him in place.
“Holmes,” Watson breathes, looking at Holmes with eyes that are clearly lust-filled.
“I’ll take that as a yes then, Watson.” Holmes winks and smirks, and as if to try to shut Holmes up, Watson thrusts his hips up suddenly and the tip of his cock pushes roughly against Holmes’ slick entrance. Holmes grunts, but doesn’t move away, just follows Watson’s hips as they fall back to the floor, and then keeps going, pressing down until the head Watson’s cock slips smoothly inside him.
Holmes winces slightly and rolls his hips to help lessen the burning, stretching feeling, but then shifts further down until he’s sitting on top of Watson’s hips and Watson is all the way inside him.
Below him, Watson’s mouth has fallen open and Holmes takes it as an invitation to plunder it with his tongue. Watson moans as Holmes begins to lift and fall in his lap, but the noises are muffled as they pass from one mouth, straight into the other. Their rhythm is slightly off, Watson’s hips shift upwards as Holmes pushes himself away, but after skipping a beat, Watson manages to thrust up as Holmes slides down, which drives his cock into Holmes’ prostate and Holmes ends up clamping his teeth down on Watson’s bottom lip in response.
Watson lets out a yelp of pain and Holmes quickly pulls away, breathing in gasps, as their movements never falter.
“I a-a-apologise,” Holmes stutters as he moves his hand so he can swipe his thumb over Watson’s split and bleeding lip. Before Holmes can pull his hand away, Watson wraps his mouth around the digit on his lip and sucks on it to remove the blood. Holmes guesses that it’s Watson’s silent way of saying apology accepted. Holmes pulls his thumb out with a slick pop and moves, leaning back slightly, to rest both palms against Watson’s firm chest. The change in position makes Holmes sink deeper onto Watson and they both let out small, almost identical groans.
Holmes’ knees ache from continuously moving himself up and down on top of Watson and his thighs feel like they’re on fire. He tries to push all other feelings away to focus on the deep, throbbing pleasure building up in his stomach, but his legs start shaking and he’s so out of breath it’s rather embarrassing. For a moment, he stops moving and hangs his head, eyes closed, and he hopes that Watson can read him as well as he can read Watson because for all his infinite speeches and wandering tongue, he doesn’t know how to ask Watson to take over. When he opens his eyes and raises his head again, he finds Watson watching him with a curious expression on his face; Holmes knows he understands.
Gently, he pulls himself off of Watson and moves to fall beside him, with a loud breath that could either be relief or expectation; not even he can tell the difference. Watson sits up and shifts to kneel between Holmes’ anticipatorily spread legs. He pauses and Holmes almost holds his breath as he waits for Watson to stop running his eyes over his body and just take control already.
“Most of the time, I think you’re the bane of my existence, Holmes. I often think God made you, just to spite me, but then you’ll do something so monumentally stupid and I’ll panic and pray that you’ll live to see another day, even if it does mean I’ll have to put up with you a while longer. I fear that this is rather what it would be like to be married to you; all the same nuisances, except with the addition of sex.”
“I would wear any engagement ring you picked out, Watson, regardless of whether it’s the right one or not, and I would even wear a wedding dress if it meant being able to live like this with you.”
“You’re getting soft in your old age, Holmes,” Watson says, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling in a way that reveals he believes every word that Holmes tells him.
“I will get soft if you don’t stop this chitchat and start doing something,” Holmes insinuates.
The pure suggestion and mockery in his voice obviously spurs Watson on, as in retaliation, he grabs Holmes’ thighs, throws one over his shoulder, the other around his waist, and then slides back into Holmes, who’s still slick and open for him. Holmes moans around a smile because Holmes knows that he and Watson are back on the same page again.
Watson thrusts into him slowly at first, but then he curves his back and shifts deeper inside, which leaves Holmes writhing and using his legs to pull himself up to meet Watson’s movements. Each time Watson pushes into him, he brushes against Holmes’ prostate and Holmes can’t even moan; his throat feels so constricted in pleasure, that all he can do is remember how to breathe - in out in out, rinse and repeat - through his nose. When one of Watson’s hot, sweaty palms wraps around his cock, he knows he’s lost completely.
After a ragged breath in, he exhales a hum that sounds remarkably like Watson’s name and comes over Watson’s knuckles and both of their stomachs. He can’t quite catch his breath, but he doesn’t panic, because Watson’s still above him, sliding in and out of his body, and he feels safe. Watson leans forward, making Holmes’ leg ache from the position, but Holmes doesn’t complain, just accepts the kiss Watson presses against his bruised lips and lets the warmth of Watson’s come, deep inside him, spread through his body.
Holmes’ leg slips off Watson’s shoulder with a jolt and a bang as his heel strikes the wooden floor with a painful amount of force, and Watson’s weight thumps heavily against Holmes’ chest, knocking what little breath he had to begin with out. Watson stays put, though, breathing warmly into Holmes’ open mouth and pressing kisses against his tongue and teeth every now and then. Holmes waits until the very last minute, when dark spots begin to fill his vision, to roll them to the side and alleviate the pressure on his torso.
Watson’s cock slides limply out of Holmes as he moves away to turn over onto his back and Holmes can feel wetness between his thighs. His stomach clenches at the thought of being filled with everything Watson is, and he savours the feeling as he copies Watson’s movement and stares at the ceiling above. Idly, Holmes scratches at the rapidly drying come on his belly and hates how it sticks under his fingernails.
“I do believe that was well worth the wait, though, the next time this happens, it should be much sooner; we shouldn’t leave it so long before we do it again, should we, Watson?”
Watson turns his head so he can look at Holmes.
“Next time, try not to ruin all my clothes in the process of undressing me.”
Holmes nods vaguely - neither agreeing nor disagreeing - because he’s far too focused on the fact that Watson has indeed admitted that there should be a next time.
“We should also try to be more traditional and use a bed; my knees are, though of course just in the figurative sense, killing me. I might even have to have a doctor tend to them.”
Watson scoffs in jest.
“That’s your own fault, Holmes; I will not be roped into being responsible for that.”
“What about if I complain about mon derrière being sore?”
“Well, that’s another matter all together, isn’t it Holmes? I suppose I would have to help you with that.”
“How would you help? A pleasant massage, perhaps?”
“Watch your cheek, Holmes, else I’ll prescribe a week of no sex.” Holmes widens his eyes in mock horror. “However, as it is, I would suggest a salve, and I might even go so far as to offer to administer it myself.”
“Well, in that case, Watson, my dear doctor, I’m very sore, indeed.”