Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17
Title: Only A Little
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Russianverse] Based on THIS prompt from the sherlockkink meme; Russian tv series verse [...] rough reunion sex on the floor of the stone cottage in Hound of the Baskervilles, because the smile Watson gives Holmes when he sees him again is heartbreakingly adorable. YOUTUBE CLIP See 04:20 onwards for reference.
Warnings: Established relationship, PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 2,536
Rating: NC-17
A/N: First three lines of dialogue are verbatim from the episode's subtitles. I kept them to introduce the fic's setting, but from there it morphs into my own creation. 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.
It’s cold within the hideout. All Watson can hear is the faint dripping of water from somewhere in the corner as he watches his breath cloud in front of his face. He’s tired, and the smoke from the extinguished fire in front of him irritates his eyes in a similar way to how Holmes’ lit pipe often does. He misses his friend, for London is now beyond his grasp. He’s left with the misty Devon moor to keep him company, and it hasn’t exactly been very agreeable.
He pauses for a moment. There’s a faint crunching sound above the reverberating whistle of wind across the hut’s opening. Then comes the low tones of someone talking from the bottom of the hill beyond. Watson can’t make out the words, but, expecting the worst, he slips his pistol from his coat and cocks it. The person outside draws closer, blocking part of the dimming sunlight from the entranceway.
“Watson, I had no idea that you could find my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it. Not until I was within twenty paces of the cave.”
Watson knows that voice, would know it anywhere. He can’t help but let a smile break out on his face, one so wide it makes his cheeks ache.
“My footprints, I presume,” he says uncocking his gun and putting it back in his coat’s inner pocket.
“If you ever desire to deceive me, you must change your tobacconist first.”
He steps from the retreat into the biting evening air and finds Holmes standing on a rock, no less than three feet away.
“Holmes,” he breathes, his voice carried away by the wind and lost to the moor.
Holmes holds a small stub of a cigarette up and Watson knows it’s the one he tossed aside earlier. Warmth inside Watson fills him up until he feels as though he couldn’t possibly hold any more feelings, but then Holmes steps forward and envelops him in an embrace and Watson is proven wrong - which is not unexpected with Holmes involved. A flurry of emotions speeds through his body and a million questions threaten to spill out of his mouth, though they all jam somewhere behind his grin and he accidentally swallows them back down as Holmes rubs at his shoulders with his hands.
Watson draws away, taking in every freckle and line on his friend’s face in the falling light - it has hardly been long since they were last in each other’s presence, but to Watson it feels like a lifetime. Holmes smiles gently, as though he knows what Watson is thinking.
“It is good to see you again, Watson,” Holmes says before waving an arm towards the small stone doorway, hinting silently that they should hide before anyone is able to spot them.
Watson leads the way back inside and stands, resting against the back wall, while Holmes rustles about drawing out food and water for himself.
“You have been staying here? Were you not worried about the hound entering?” Watson says as he removes his gloves and sets them on a nearby rock.
Holmes, with a mouthful of roasted chicken, shrugs and smiles as he swallows.
“That was but a risk,” he says after a careful sip of water.
“If I had known -” Watson starts, but Holmes soon interrupts.
“Yes, if you had known, the whole investigation would have been made void. You could never have known, Watson, but do not take it personally, for I trust you beyond measure. Why else would I have sent you here to take my place?”
“The reports I have been sending to you are obviously of no purpose.”
“That is not true,” Holmes says quietly, carefully removing a small stack of envelopes from within a crevice in the stone wall. “Another man’s perspective cannot go amiss in a case like this. I have taken your point of view into consideration very carefully, my dear Watson.”
“What if you’d been hurt, Holmes? Did anyone know you were here?”
Holmes nods his head.
“Cartwright accompanied me here.”
They fall silent; the only sound filling the small room is Holmes chewing methodically on his food. Watson stares through the dilapidated cottage’s entranceway, over the gently sloping hills, the ones the sun has finally disappeared behind, dragging darkness over the land in its wake. A chill spirals down Watson’s spine at the thought of what could be lurking in the night and he quickly closes the old wooden door.
“Scared?” Holmes asks.
“Not at all,” Watson replies, as he slides the bolt into place as an afterthought. He turns towards Holmes and smiles lopsidedly. “It is not to keep anything out, but to keep everything in.”
“I see,” says Holmes as he finishes his chicken and drains the last of his water.
“I thought you would.”
Watson steps closer to Holmes as a smile slowly finds its way onto Holmes’ lips.
“You have missed me then?” Holmes says as Watson walks him backwards into the wall behind.
“Only a little,” he lies before gently pressing a kiss against Holmes’ mouth.
Holmes opens underneath him, succumbing to Watson’s insistent tongue as it runs along Holmes’ bottom lip. The kiss is slow and gentle as their rhythms reunite after so long apart. Watson cards his fingers through Holmes’ hair, slipping Holmes’ cap off and letting it tumble to the dusty floor; Holmes does not complain. Holmes removes Watson’s own hat, though instead of pushing it to the floor, he blindly hangs it on a jutting stone by their heads.
Holmes’ tongue is soft and warm against his own as they slide together, twisting the same way they have a hundred times before. The feeling calms Watson, as he now knows he has his partner back at his side. He pulls away for a brief moment to press a kiss to the side of Holmes’ mouth.
“I’m glad you are here,” Watson whispers, ghosting his lips along the curve of Holmes’ jaw, while running his hands down his neck, over his shoulders, and along his arms.
“As am I,” Holmes replies, his breath hot against the side of Watson’s face.
Before Watson’s mouth can reach Holmes’ neck, Holmes’ hand slips up to grip Watson’s chin and drags him back into a kiss, one that is searing and messy and speaks louder than Holmes ever could. It tells Watson all that Holmes has missed and has wished for during their separation, and Watson cannot help but respond, parting his lips and letting Holmes take everything he wants from him.
Holmes fingers slip down to curl around his hips and hold them tightly against each other; Watson can feel Holmes against his leg, pressing hard and noticeable through their many layers. Holmes nips at his lip and rolls his body, grinding them together with a delicious friction.
Watson tries to draw away, but finds he can’t move as Holmes winds the ends of his scarf around his hands and tugs to keep him pinned in place. The material tightens around his throat, restricting his airways, but he says nothing; he trusts Holmes to know what he’s doing.
Holmes’ mouth moves down, to the underside of his chin, where it sucks against the soft skin. Almost imperceptively, Holmes pulls the scarf tighter and Watson lets out a gentle groan.
“Holmes,” he exhales as Holmes pushes his nose into the sensitive flesh of his throat and breathes deeply. Watson likes to think that Holmes has missed his smell and needs it almost as much as he needs oxygen. Holmes lets out a responding moan, his mouth vibrating and tantalising Watson further.
Holmes presses one more open-mouthed kiss against Watson’s neck before gently pushing him back and tugging the scarf off completely. Watson breathes deeply, savouring the rush of fresh air mixed with the heady undertones from Holmes’ body; it is evident that Holmes has not bathed for two or three days, but it is nothing out of the norm.
Watson steps back and carefully begins to remove the suit Holmes bought for him - Holmes had once returned from a minor case with a box with Watson’s name scrawled neatly on its lid. Watson had opened it to find a chequered cap inside and it had thrilled him greatly. After that, there had been a matching coat, tie, trousers, waistcoat, and socks, all appearing sporadically, until one day Watson finally repaid Holmes with his own form of affection, which Holmes had accepted greedily, and there had been no going back since then.
Holmes watches him with hungry, dark eyes, while he sheds his own clothes - not even bothering to save them from the dirt by setting them on nearby rocks, like Watson, just letting each piece drop to the ground like leaden weights.
Watson draws in the sight of Holmes as he bares himself; although it has not truly been that long since they were last intimate, it still seems as though an age has passed since Watson previously saw the wide expanse of Holmes’ pale skin. A sudden desire to have the other man wholly, in every sense, floods through his body and Watson finds he is unable to stop himself from pulling Holmes to him and pushing their mouth forcefully together. Holmes lets out a noise - it might be surprise, though it sounds remarkably like pure want - and falls seemingly boneless against him.
It is all too easy for Watson to overpower Holmes - with his slight frame and momentary passiveness - and gently lower him to the cold dirt floor. This time, the noise is definitely surprise, but Watson does not react, just continues kissing Holmes until he responds by arching his back and pushing their naked groins together. Holmes’ hands grapple against his back, his blunt nails digging into his skin and mixing a dose of pain into his pleasure.
To return the favour, Watson lets Holmes’ swollen mouth be for a moment, while he moves his lips to Holmes’ shoulder, where he bites just hard enough to draw the smallest of hisses from the man below him. He laves at the tender spot with his tongue and pulls back to regard the reddened flesh with interest. On Holmes’ opposite shoulder is a small mark similar to the one Watson has just left, though it is dull and almost gone - it’s one Watson left last time they were together. Watson remembers how Holmes had thrashed against him as he held him at the zenith of pleasure before biting down on his skin and pushing him over the edge. Holmes seems to remember, too, when Watson drifts a finger over the faded mark, as he writhes under Watson and winds his legs about Watson’s waist.
Watson can’t help but grind down in return and a hot flash of need shoots through him. After a moment of struggle, Watson reaches around to slip his hand into his discarded trousers and withdraws a small tube, before leaning back into Holmes.
“You are lucky,” Watson breathes against Holmes’ mouth between kisses, “for I was working on lubricating the suspension of Sir Henry’s cart earlier and only just remembered I never removed this from my person.”
Holmes doesn’t answer, just uncurls his legs and allows Watson to sit back on his heels, while he slicks up his fingers with the thick gel. Holmes places both feet flat on the floor, opening himself for Watson, who carefully slides a finger into him, without any preamble. Despite this, Holmes is still impatient, bucking and clawing at the dirt while Watson slowly - partially to make sure he truly is ready, and partially to drive him insane with feeling - prepares him.
When Holmes is slick and loosened, Watson spreads the remaining lubricant on his hand over his leaking cock, then lines himself up at Holmes’ entrance. He pauses for a moment, taking in the sight of Holmes spread out beneath him, face stained scarlet from desire; it is a view Watson never tires of. Holmes opens his mouth - probably to complain about Watson’s lack of action - but before he can say anything, Watson drives into him completely, leaving Holmes gasping for words, air, everything.
He doesn’t slow, just pounds into Holmes with pent up energy, drinking in the feeling of Holmes surrounding him once again.
Watson can feel his knees scraping against the unrelenting ground, but he continues nevertheless, knowing that he can fix any minor scratches himself when he returns to the house. Holmes’ back might have to wait a day or two before he can properly tend to it, despite the fact that Holmes hasn’t made one noise of discomfort yet, although Holmes has never been truly vocal during their more intimate moments. Watson finds it interesting that the most loquacious man he knows never has anything to say when he most expects him to.
Holmes’ legs drag him closer and as Holmes arches his back, Watson slips in deeper.
Watson’s body is slick with sweat, regardless of the fact that they are in one of the coldest places they could possibly be, and he can feel Holmes’ cock rubbing between their stomachs. He knows it must be driving Holmes mad with pleasure, but he does nothing to help, just lengthens his thrusts and mouthes lazily at the side of Holmes’ neck.
Holmes’ hands come up to tug at his hair, mussing it beyond repair, and the tight curl of fingers sends a flicker of pain down his neck and across his shoulders. Watson bites Holmes again, though softer this time, and angles his body to try to hit against Holmes’ prostate. He knows he finds it when Holmes’ body tenses under his and the fingers in his hair clamp down even harder than before. It’s this mix of senses that forces Watson over the edge before he means to fall, but there’s nothing he can do, but let gravity take its course. The pleasure blinds him as he comes deep inside of Holmes and he thrusts twice more, before he stops and pulls away to grasp between their bodies and wrap a hand around Holmes’ cock.
Holmes’ hands fall to lie palm up either side of his head, the epitome of the image of surrender, but it’s okay, because they’re on the same side; Watson’s not here to take anything Holmes doesn’t want to give. Watson curls his wrist and rubs his thumb over the head of Holmes’ cock, making Holmes’ hips jump upwards for more.
“Come on, Holmes,” he says quietly, running his free hand along Holmes’ side.
Holmes’ eyes fall shut as he tips his head back and comes forcefully into Watson’s hand, his gentle cries echoing around the damp space.
Watson finally pulls his softening cock out of Holmes and reaches for his jacket, where he keeps a handkerchief at all times. He carefully cleans them up while they both catch their breaths.
Holmes groans tiredly as Watson settles beside him on the ground and presses a quick kiss to Holmes’ cheek.
“I take it you have missed me then,” Watson whispers against Holmes’ skin, playfully tossing Holmes’ earlier words back.
“Only a little,” Holmes says with his eyes closed, though there’s a smile on his lips.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Russianverse] Based on THIS prompt from the sherlockkink meme; Russian tv series verse [...] rough reunion sex on the floor of the stone cottage in Hound of the Baskervilles, because the smile Watson gives Holmes when he sees him again is heartbreakingly adorable. YOUTUBE CLIP See 04:20 onwards for reference.
Warnings: Established relationship, PWP, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 2,536
Rating: NC-17
A/N: First three lines of dialogue are verbatim from the episode's subtitles. I kept them to introduce the fic's setting, but from there it morphs into my own creation. 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.
It’s cold within the hideout. All Watson can hear is the faint dripping of water from somewhere in the corner as he watches his breath cloud in front of his face. He’s tired, and the smoke from the extinguished fire in front of him irritates his eyes in a similar way to how Holmes’ lit pipe often does. He misses his friend, for London is now beyond his grasp. He’s left with the misty Devon moor to keep him company, and it hasn’t exactly been very agreeable.
He pauses for a moment. There’s a faint crunching sound above the reverberating whistle of wind across the hut’s opening. Then comes the low tones of someone talking from the bottom of the hill beyond. Watson can’t make out the words, but, expecting the worst, he slips his pistol from his coat and cocks it. The person outside draws closer, blocking part of the dimming sunlight from the entranceway.
“Watson, I had no idea that you could find my occasional retreat, still less that you were inside it. Not until I was within twenty paces of the cave.”
Watson knows that voice, would know it anywhere. He can’t help but let a smile break out on his face, one so wide it makes his cheeks ache.
“My footprints, I presume,” he says uncocking his gun and putting it back in his coat’s inner pocket.
“If you ever desire to deceive me, you must change your tobacconist first.”
He steps from the retreat into the biting evening air and finds Holmes standing on a rock, no less than three feet away.
“Holmes,” he breathes, his voice carried away by the wind and lost to the moor.
Holmes holds a small stub of a cigarette up and Watson knows it’s the one he tossed aside earlier. Warmth inside Watson fills him up until he feels as though he couldn’t possibly hold any more feelings, but then Holmes steps forward and envelops him in an embrace and Watson is proven wrong - which is not unexpected with Holmes involved. A flurry of emotions speeds through his body and a million questions threaten to spill out of his mouth, though they all jam somewhere behind his grin and he accidentally swallows them back down as Holmes rubs at his shoulders with his hands.
Watson draws away, taking in every freckle and line on his friend’s face in the falling light - it has hardly been long since they were last in each other’s presence, but to Watson it feels like a lifetime. Holmes smiles gently, as though he knows what Watson is thinking.
“It is good to see you again, Watson,” Holmes says before waving an arm towards the small stone doorway, hinting silently that they should hide before anyone is able to spot them.
Watson leads the way back inside and stands, resting against the back wall, while Holmes rustles about drawing out food and water for himself.
“You have been staying here? Were you not worried about the hound entering?” Watson says as he removes his gloves and sets them on a nearby rock.
Holmes, with a mouthful of roasted chicken, shrugs and smiles as he swallows.
“That was but a risk,” he says after a careful sip of water.
“If I had known -” Watson starts, but Holmes soon interrupts.
“Yes, if you had known, the whole investigation would have been made void. You could never have known, Watson, but do not take it personally, for I trust you beyond measure. Why else would I have sent you here to take my place?”
“The reports I have been sending to you are obviously of no purpose.”
“That is not true,” Holmes says quietly, carefully removing a small stack of envelopes from within a crevice in the stone wall. “Another man’s perspective cannot go amiss in a case like this. I have taken your point of view into consideration very carefully, my dear Watson.”
“What if you’d been hurt, Holmes? Did anyone know you were here?”
Holmes nods his head.
“Cartwright accompanied me here.”
They fall silent; the only sound filling the small room is Holmes chewing methodically on his food. Watson stares through the dilapidated cottage’s entranceway, over the gently sloping hills, the ones the sun has finally disappeared behind, dragging darkness over the land in its wake. A chill spirals down Watson’s spine at the thought of what could be lurking in the night and he quickly closes the old wooden door.
“Scared?” Holmes asks.
“Not at all,” Watson replies, as he slides the bolt into place as an afterthought. He turns towards Holmes and smiles lopsidedly. “It is not to keep anything out, but to keep everything in.”
“I see,” says Holmes as he finishes his chicken and drains the last of his water.
“I thought you would.”
Watson steps closer to Holmes as a smile slowly finds its way onto Holmes’ lips.
“You have missed me then?” Holmes says as Watson walks him backwards into the wall behind.
“Only a little,” he lies before gently pressing a kiss against Holmes’ mouth.
Holmes opens underneath him, succumbing to Watson’s insistent tongue as it runs along Holmes’ bottom lip. The kiss is slow and gentle as their rhythms reunite after so long apart. Watson cards his fingers through Holmes’ hair, slipping Holmes’ cap off and letting it tumble to the dusty floor; Holmes does not complain. Holmes removes Watson’s own hat, though instead of pushing it to the floor, he blindly hangs it on a jutting stone by their heads.
Holmes’ tongue is soft and warm against his own as they slide together, twisting the same way they have a hundred times before. The feeling calms Watson, as he now knows he has his partner back at his side. He pulls away for a brief moment to press a kiss to the side of Holmes’ mouth.
“I’m glad you are here,” Watson whispers, ghosting his lips along the curve of Holmes’ jaw, while running his hands down his neck, over his shoulders, and along his arms.
“As am I,” Holmes replies, his breath hot against the side of Watson’s face.
Before Watson’s mouth can reach Holmes’ neck, Holmes’ hand slips up to grip Watson’s chin and drags him back into a kiss, one that is searing and messy and speaks louder than Holmes ever could. It tells Watson all that Holmes has missed and has wished for during their separation, and Watson cannot help but respond, parting his lips and letting Holmes take everything he wants from him.
Holmes fingers slip down to curl around his hips and hold them tightly against each other; Watson can feel Holmes against his leg, pressing hard and noticeable through their many layers. Holmes nips at his lip and rolls his body, grinding them together with a delicious friction.
Watson tries to draw away, but finds he can’t move as Holmes winds the ends of his scarf around his hands and tugs to keep him pinned in place. The material tightens around his throat, restricting his airways, but he says nothing; he trusts Holmes to know what he’s doing.
Holmes’ mouth moves down, to the underside of his chin, where it sucks against the soft skin. Almost imperceptively, Holmes pulls the scarf tighter and Watson lets out a gentle groan.
“Holmes,” he exhales as Holmes pushes his nose into the sensitive flesh of his throat and breathes deeply. Watson likes to think that Holmes has missed his smell and needs it almost as much as he needs oxygen. Holmes lets out a responding moan, his mouth vibrating and tantalising Watson further.
Holmes presses one more open-mouthed kiss against Watson’s neck before gently pushing him back and tugging the scarf off completely. Watson breathes deeply, savouring the rush of fresh air mixed with the heady undertones from Holmes’ body; it is evident that Holmes has not bathed for two or three days, but it is nothing out of the norm.
Watson steps back and carefully begins to remove the suit Holmes bought for him - Holmes had once returned from a minor case with a box with Watson’s name scrawled neatly on its lid. Watson had opened it to find a chequered cap inside and it had thrilled him greatly. After that, there had been a matching coat, tie, trousers, waistcoat, and socks, all appearing sporadically, until one day Watson finally repaid Holmes with his own form of affection, which Holmes had accepted greedily, and there had been no going back since then.
Holmes watches him with hungry, dark eyes, while he sheds his own clothes - not even bothering to save them from the dirt by setting them on nearby rocks, like Watson, just letting each piece drop to the ground like leaden weights.
Watson draws in the sight of Holmes as he bares himself; although it has not truly been that long since they were last intimate, it still seems as though an age has passed since Watson previously saw the wide expanse of Holmes’ pale skin. A sudden desire to have the other man wholly, in every sense, floods through his body and Watson finds he is unable to stop himself from pulling Holmes to him and pushing their mouth forcefully together. Holmes lets out a noise - it might be surprise, though it sounds remarkably like pure want - and falls seemingly boneless against him.
It is all too easy for Watson to overpower Holmes - with his slight frame and momentary passiveness - and gently lower him to the cold dirt floor. This time, the noise is definitely surprise, but Watson does not react, just continues kissing Holmes until he responds by arching his back and pushing their naked groins together. Holmes’ hands grapple against his back, his blunt nails digging into his skin and mixing a dose of pain into his pleasure.
To return the favour, Watson lets Holmes’ swollen mouth be for a moment, while he moves his lips to Holmes’ shoulder, where he bites just hard enough to draw the smallest of hisses from the man below him. He laves at the tender spot with his tongue and pulls back to regard the reddened flesh with interest. On Holmes’ opposite shoulder is a small mark similar to the one Watson has just left, though it is dull and almost gone - it’s one Watson left last time they were together. Watson remembers how Holmes had thrashed against him as he held him at the zenith of pleasure before biting down on his skin and pushing him over the edge. Holmes seems to remember, too, when Watson drifts a finger over the faded mark, as he writhes under Watson and winds his legs about Watson’s waist.
Watson can’t help but grind down in return and a hot flash of need shoots through him. After a moment of struggle, Watson reaches around to slip his hand into his discarded trousers and withdraws a small tube, before leaning back into Holmes.
“You are lucky,” Watson breathes against Holmes’ mouth between kisses, “for I was working on lubricating the suspension of Sir Henry’s cart earlier and only just remembered I never removed this from my person.”
Holmes doesn’t answer, just uncurls his legs and allows Watson to sit back on his heels, while he slicks up his fingers with the thick gel. Holmes places both feet flat on the floor, opening himself for Watson, who carefully slides a finger into him, without any preamble. Despite this, Holmes is still impatient, bucking and clawing at the dirt while Watson slowly - partially to make sure he truly is ready, and partially to drive him insane with feeling - prepares him.
When Holmes is slick and loosened, Watson spreads the remaining lubricant on his hand over his leaking cock, then lines himself up at Holmes’ entrance. He pauses for a moment, taking in the sight of Holmes spread out beneath him, face stained scarlet from desire; it is a view Watson never tires of. Holmes opens his mouth - probably to complain about Watson’s lack of action - but before he can say anything, Watson drives into him completely, leaving Holmes gasping for words, air, everything.
He doesn’t slow, just pounds into Holmes with pent up energy, drinking in the feeling of Holmes surrounding him once again.
Watson can feel his knees scraping against the unrelenting ground, but he continues nevertheless, knowing that he can fix any minor scratches himself when he returns to the house. Holmes’ back might have to wait a day or two before he can properly tend to it, despite the fact that Holmes hasn’t made one noise of discomfort yet, although Holmes has never been truly vocal during their more intimate moments. Watson finds it interesting that the most loquacious man he knows never has anything to say when he most expects him to.
Holmes’ legs drag him closer and as Holmes arches his back, Watson slips in deeper.
Watson’s body is slick with sweat, regardless of the fact that they are in one of the coldest places they could possibly be, and he can feel Holmes’ cock rubbing between their stomachs. He knows it must be driving Holmes mad with pleasure, but he does nothing to help, just lengthens his thrusts and mouthes lazily at the side of Holmes’ neck.
Holmes’ hands come up to tug at his hair, mussing it beyond repair, and the tight curl of fingers sends a flicker of pain down his neck and across his shoulders. Watson bites Holmes again, though softer this time, and angles his body to try to hit against Holmes’ prostate. He knows he finds it when Holmes’ body tenses under his and the fingers in his hair clamp down even harder than before. It’s this mix of senses that forces Watson over the edge before he means to fall, but there’s nothing he can do, but let gravity take its course. The pleasure blinds him as he comes deep inside of Holmes and he thrusts twice more, before he stops and pulls away to grasp between their bodies and wrap a hand around Holmes’ cock.
Holmes’ hands fall to lie palm up either side of his head, the epitome of the image of surrender, but it’s okay, because they’re on the same side; Watson’s not here to take anything Holmes doesn’t want to give. Watson curls his wrist and rubs his thumb over the head of Holmes’ cock, making Holmes’ hips jump upwards for more.
“Come on, Holmes,” he says quietly, running his free hand along Holmes’ side.
Holmes’ eyes fall shut as he tips his head back and comes forcefully into Watson’s hand, his gentle cries echoing around the damp space.
Watson finally pulls his softening cock out of Holmes and reaches for his jacket, where he keeps a handkerchief at all times. He carefully cleans them up while they both catch their breaths.
Holmes groans tiredly as Watson settles beside him on the ground and presses a quick kiss to Holmes’ cheek.
“I take it you have missed me then,” Watson whispers against Holmes’ skin, playfully tossing Holmes’ earlier words back.
“Only a little,” Holmes says with his eyes closed, though there’s a smile on his lips.