[FIC]Shatter These Walls 4/?
So, this is faster than anticipated. I took almost four weeks writing this one, though, so I probably won't be able to post again on the weekend and am aiming for the weekend after.
I hope you're not disappointed in this chapter, it's quite the ride even if I say so. As always, the Master Horse Tamer and Incomparable Beta jg5799 has kept me on track and in the saddle, and this entire adventure wouldn't be possible without her allowing me to vent my insecurities while correcting my insufficiencies. Thank you ever so much!
Title: Shatter These Walls
Author:
starlightshade
Beta:
jg5799
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary mentioned (which is why I didn't tag it), everything else is up in the air atm.
Spoilers: for both movies.
Rating: NC-17/M. We're into adult territory at last, people!
Warnings: Plot. Talking. Flowery prose. Blood/Violence and M/M smut! More warnings will be given with subsequent chapters.
Prompt:: Watson likes rough sex but doesn't want to hurt Mary. Holmes offers to help out, pretending to like it.
X-posted? Yes.
Disclaimer: No money made. No ownership claimed. Fair use applies.
Surprised this is the fourth installment? Find the others here: Chapter 01, Chapter 02, Chapter 03
Chapter 4
Seeing Holmes standing there like that, unsteady, his bare forearms bruised in the pattern of the rough hemp ropes that had been used to bind him to something, seeing the unwavering certainty that Watson was there for him, the doctor had felt a great fury well up in his chest. Holmes' refusal to see to his own well-being, his casual disregard of his physical safety were a long-standing bone of contention among the two of them. His own refusal to give up his practice, his marriage to Mary and moving across London had only exacerbated the matter.
When the messenger boy bearing a telegram had hammered down his door in the middle of the night on a Saturday, he'd vacillated between panic of one of his patients being in a critical condition and Holmes having gotten himself into a tight spot somewhere yet again.
He hadn't expected Mycroft Holmes, of all people, to write him, asking him to go find his brother somewhere in a wharf on the banks of the Thames. For Holmes not to summon him himself, there had to be something dire happening. He'd even managed to do so in Heilbronn, so there was an unforeseen component to the puzzle as well, Watson surmised with a heavy heart. Sometimes he hated Holmes' methods rubbing off on him.
After a frustrating and exhausting search for a hansom, rushing across all of Her Majesty's greatest city in the pre-dawn rush of merchants and farmers delivering goods, running through half the worst boroughs he had ever visited even when in Holmes' company until finally happening upon the one workshop that met all the conditions set forth in Mycroft's telegram, he'd been in a mood. To then find Holmes virtually unharmed, if a bit roughed up and tired, his ire had ignited into something strange and primal, destroying his reasoning and calm confidence and returning him to the heat-fueled craze of his days in Afghanistan. Holmes was in the grasp of a crazed criminal, and all he did was antagonize him as much as he could, along with his two henchmen.
Watson didn't speak a word of Chinese, but Holmes' superior smirk told him all he needed to know about the contents of that conversation. His friend was going to get himself killed this time, for sure, he could only hope to be in time, a hope that brought his gun up faster than he'd ever managed before.
Holmes, of course, noticed him in that exact moment and, ignoring whatever the criminals were doing, waved a jaunty little greeting at him.
"Always good to see you, Watson!" How Watson hated these words. They always came with Holmes being in mortal danger, and today was no exception. "Come join us, we were having a most enlightening discussion about our Irish friend's Asian adventures. I'm certain you could provide us with more rousing tales than even his recounting of his rise through the Triad ranks!"
He'd listened to Holmes prattle, watched the two Chinese men slink off through the narrow window set high enough on the wall that Holmes would've had to stand upon his shoulders to reach, watched Holmes dig his own grave and was barely, barely in time to save his friend's life yet again even though the detective had gotten himself shot. Shot! In the head, no less.
Remorse over killing a man couldn't compare to seeing Holmes lurch to the side, fall, and get up again. Holmes didn't even take possible guilt on the doctor's side into consideration at all; he'd croaked after was that he was fine, in a tone that poked fun at Watson's worry over him when Watson violated his Hippocratic oath to bail him out once more. Irrational couldn't even come close to what Watson was, overwhelmed with sensation, conscious thought fleeing the scene.
Watson had reached his zero point in that moment. He shouted at his friend, trying to convey the utter rage, exasperation and fear coursing through him. He couldn't remember what he'd shouted, only that, through a haze of red, he'd seen his friend's relief, minute as it was painted on the impassive features.
So he wouldn't murder him, wouldn't commit the one sin he couldn't ever recover from, he crushed him to his breast instead, smothering all his protests by holding to his almost naked form faster. Maybe Holmes wouldn't slip away like a drop of blood in the waters of the Thames if he just held him a moment longer.
"You're impossible to keep, Holmes," Watson muttered into the wild, thick hair, the copper-and-salt of Holmes' blood mixing with the less appealing odors that were prevalent this close to the Thames. The groove in Holmes' scalp worried him, but the fact that the detective was still conscious, still breathing, still living for once overrode the doctor's desire to stitch him up that was distantly clamoring for attention amidst the furious mix of emotions drowning Watson in its intensity.
"You're impossible to keep, impossible to let go. You run off to God-knows-where whenever you feel about it, and you don't even have the sense of telling me about it anymore. You didn't think a second about leaving me behind at Reichenbach, you're still so wrapped up in yourself that you don't think about what it does to me when you leave me behind now.
"I come and I always, always find you like this, broken, wounded, and you expect me to put you together again. Damn, Holmes, you're my best friend, and the only one whom I have told everything to, to whom I would give anything, and you're not giving anything back.
"I can't go on like this, Holmes, I just can't. I wish you would turn and look and see me, see the people who care about you. How would you feel if it was Mary who alerted you to my being in a situation? I had to hear from Mycroft!"
"I... fine," he heard his friend wheeze out into the fabric of his thick coat. He kept his arms locked around the slumped body, squeezing him, needing to feel the soft in-and-out of his shallow breaths, the warmth of his skin. Holmes was starting to struggle against his hold now, restlessly clawing at Watson's arms with his hands swollen from long confinement. Watson paid him no heed, too much needed to be said, and he continued to berate his friend in an endless tirade trying to make him understand just how badly he'd hurt him.
"Ungh!" Holmes said, urgently, as if Watson could understand what he meant by just looking into his eyes. Eyes that were frantic, frantic with trying to put his deductions into words now that he'd made a connection, set wide and feverish in the much-beloved face. His brain refused to engage his voice, and the frustration shining through made Watson want to throttle him again. He'd just escaped death by the merest of margins, and all he thought about was catching the next criminal- the one who was lying dead next to them didn't even factor into his reasoning anymore. Fury reaching new heights, like a spring floodtide, Watson held Holmes an arm's length from him.
"Not this time, not like this," he told him, and finally gave wordless voice to his sentiments by crushing his friend's mouth to his before he could convince Watson to follow him on a fool's chase around London.
Holmes was frozen in his arms, and Watson himself could hardly comprehend what was taking place. His friend's lips were so much rougher, more pliant, different from Mary's, but at the same time he could finally, finally let himself go. This was Holmes, and as long as he didn't kill him, whatever happened they'd be fine in the end, thus was their relationship, their friendship, their love. They had a barter system after all.
He was rough, he knew, and it was heated and raw and primal. Holmes started to respond to his kiss, not by shoving him away but by making a muffled noise deep in his throat, as strange as it seemed to the small, ignored part of Watson that was still thinking.
Holmes' face was smudged with both blood and mud, his mouth tasted like cold tobacco and something uniquely Holmes. The stubble of his unshaven cheeks scratched along Watson's mustache, and he couldn't get enough of it.
He cradled Holmes head to his, tilting his neck to go deeper, hungrily devouring the unresisting mouth, his tongue tangling with Holmes', enticing it to join the dance. Holmes was trying to make another attempt at speaking, so Watson redoubled his efforts. Finally, the detective's lean, muscled arms came up around his waist and shoulder, and he responded enthusiastically to Watson's kiss.
Their tongues were dueling for dominance now, and Watson bit harshly at Holmes' split lower lip, tasting the fresh rush of blood, warm and salty, better than the best brandy could ever taste. The detective moaned, which sent Watson into an even deeper frenzy.
Egged on by a spasm in his leg, the doctor pulled the detective up and pushed him across the room, carrying his entire weight in his arms as he was still utterly disorientated and probably concussed. He couldn't bring himself to care, though, too intense were the flames licking at the remnants of his conscience, incinerating whatever he might have considered in a clearer state of mind into the ashes of sanity. Watson stumbled on a tangle of ropes , bearing both himself and Holmes down to the ground behind some barrels of tar and out of sight of the remains of the man he'd shot; the pupils of Holmes' brown eyes blown wide in confusion and lust. He let go too early to catch himself roughly on his hands, and Holmes groaned as his head thumped on the hard dirt before he reached up to kiss Watson yet again. Watson raked his hands through Holmes dirt-streaked hair, nails scratching at the scalp wound left by the bullet. Holmes actually winced, but Watson didn't allow that to deter him, neither did he give Holmes' hands scrabbling at his collars any more attention.
Kissing down Holmes' throat stilled him, allowing Watson to capture his hands and pull them up above his head, baring more of that neck to his fevered kisses. Feeling Holmes writhe against him, the sheer amount of excitement still running amok in his veins, his need was amplified by every single touch and contact between them.
Holmes' skin, where it wasn't sparsely covered in fine, scratchy or downy black hair, was surprisingly soft, the sleek muscle covering the thinner-than-usual body springy and resilient, and he could not resist biting down on the unscarred shoulder.
Holmes arched against him, lashing out with his legs as his wrists were still trapped in Watson's hands, but Watson trapped them between his clothed ones, distracting him with more kisses.
"Watson, please!" Holmes groaned against his neck, his skin sweaty and heated despite his near nakedness and the damp cold of the cellar.
"Please what?" Watson asked, control shattered and condensed into tiny droplets of molten heat coming to pool in his groin.
Holmes moaned, throwing his head back, hitting the ground hard and giving another wince as his pupils blew even wider, nearly entirely subsuming the brown of his irises.
"Please, please," he kept repeating, senselessly searching for some skin contact with his mouth, the only way he still could trapped as he was in Watson's power.
Watson smirked from where he was worrying Holmes' skin between his teeth, and switched over to treat the scarred shoulder the same as the good one. Holmes slipped one of his hands free of Watson's grasp and between their bodies, age-old instinct leading him to palm the doctor's hot cock through his trousers. Watson howled and smothered the sound by biting down hard on the scar tissue he'd laved with his tongue and grazed with his teeth a second ago.
Holmes' answering cry of pure pain and lust would have broken even the strongest resolve, and Watson was already gone too far on sleeplessness and worry and exhilaration.
His strong hands let go of Holmes' wrist in favor of grabbing onto the dirty undershirt still covering his torso. Raising himself on his elbows, he gave him no warning before ripping it in two. Holmes returned the favor by taking it upon himself to even their situations out a little and at least getting rid of Watson's coat and scarf. Watson frowned, sitting up for a moment before making record-time in divesting himself of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt as well.
Bare skin on bare skin was a revelation, hazed thoughts clarifying into one goal- to get closer. Their bodies undulated in their subconscious desire to fulfill biology's commands to their nature, no matter how, and Watson, three continents and years in the army worth of experience rising to the occasion, finally divested them both of their last clothes in an unexpectedly acrobatic move that left Holmes gasping in surprise.
They clawed at each other, and Watson used his greater mass to firmly pin Holmes to the ground while the detective was still attempting to find purchase on the doctor's sweat-slickened skin. There was no gentleness, nothing but the need, and the want, and the heat.
Holmes came back to himself a little when Watson, after casting his eye around, smashed the small oil lamp the Irish criminal had carried down into the cellar, deepening the shadows along the wall and making clear the hour of the morning in the vague bluish light cast through the window the Chinese men had escaped through.
"Watson?" he questioned, the first word spoken in many minutes filled with groans and gasps and whimpers.
"Shh, you're fine, old boy," the doctor soothed even though Holmes felt anything but fine with the odd pressure of his friend's fingers questing around his behind, written clear as day in the frown lines between his brows. Holmes didn't speak again, instead giving a trusting nod, and Watson, the velvet softness of the detective's pale arse irresistible under his touch, found and circled his goal, aiming and quickly thrusting inside.
Holmes arched up, off the ground, and squeaked.
Irritated, for that reminded him too much of the woman that had no place here right now, Watson held him down and, after coating his fingers with more oil pushed two fingers into the tight hole. Holmes turned his head aside, biting down on his lip, and something like a small twinge of guilt managed to break through the overwhelming need to fuck.
"It's fine, it's fine," Watson said, staring down at Holmes' bruise-mottled face. The detective nodded again, hands clenched around Watson's shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and Watson knew that to be the assent he'd been waiting for. He lifted the muscled legs, so flexible and strong, so different from Mary's soft thighs but somehow just as beautiful and set them over his shoulders, gentling the confusion from Holmes' face by kissing him harshly. Holmes' hands found new purchase around his waist, resting there limply; it was clear the detective had no idea of what was coming.
Watson lined himself up, baring his teeth in a snarl and, in one well-practiced and fluid movement, thrust into Holmes, filling him deeply and suddenly. He held himself perfectly still, waiting for Holmes' reaction, but the dark-haired man just barely tightened his grip on Watson's waist, breathing deeply and softly through what Watson knew had to be some discomfort.
Holmes was tight, tighter than anyone he'd ever had on three continents and in every establishment frequented in his life. He was also impossibly hot, and moaning ever so enticingly as Watson set a punishing pace after just a few seconds of waiting for Holmes' muscles to soften enough to enable it.
Holmes' movements were jerky, asynchronous to Watson's, and he found himself folding him almost in two to still him, and fuck him deeper, for there was nothing like being sheathed inside a willing body. The slickness was giving way to a clinging rasp as what little oil there had been was worn away in their frenzied coupling, and Watson thrust ever harder, desperately close. All his worries, all his pain, all his anxiety was snapping off him with every roll of his hips, with every small sound Holmes was making. This, this was what he'd been missing, this earthy, primal, raw fulfillment of a man's need and lust.
"Holmes!" he groaned, feeling his orgasm being pulled from deep within by Holmes' clenching passage. Holmes gave a wet sort of breathless gasp in response, doubled over as he was Watson could barely make out the shadow of his dark hair splayed upon the ground, one of his hands working his cock in those short, abortive jerks he'd tried to move his hips in.
He came with an inarticulate groan, flanks heaving, convulsing as Holmes was scratching his back with the short, ragged nails of the hand holding on to him. Spent, he pulled out of Holmes without fanfare, letting his legs fall to the ground with a thump and collapsing on top of the detective with a deep moan, trapping his hand just as he felt wetness spread between their bodies and Holmes shuddering in silence.
They lay there, both breathing heavily, both recovering their faculties and the strength to continue their lives. For the moment, Watson felt utterly content, his whole being centered within himself, struggles and pain forgotten.
Holmes was starting to tremble underneath him and Watson remembered his bruises, and with them what had brought them to this. Thoughts of anger and pain returned, and the first stirrings of guilt.
"Holmes?"
"I'm good, I'm good," the detective answered, his voice rough and thready, well-fucked if Watson said so himself.
"This was... I won't say I'm sorry," the doctor blurted out in blustered defiance. He was exhausted, and with his energy went much of his anger, but enough of it remained that he would not allow his conscience to intrude upon him yet.
"Nor would I like you to, old boy," Holmes said gently, that thready voice distracting from his words.
"I hope you will not hold it against me."
"Never, my dear, never." If this continued, his anger would collapse, leaving him with the cold and paralyzing guilt as his only companion.
"Holmes, you... I do hope you will find it in you to forgive me, even if I cannot ask for it."
"You do not have to be forgiven for that which happened with my full consent," Holmes said. "There is nothing you could ask I would not give you, and if what we did comforts you there is no need to apologize either. You, my dear Watson, are my dearest friend and one companion."
"Then... did you enjoy it, too?" He still couldn't bring himself to look at Holmes, look at his naked body, look at what his actions had done to debauch the one man whose life he valued above his own. A man who had expressed his utter disinterest in carnal pursuits more than once.
"Of course, Mother Hen, do not fret so." He paused. "Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your coat, my dear? I seem to have misplaced my clothing."
"Certainly not," Watson replied with a steadiness he didn't feel. His stomach was roiling now, his thoughts turning to his wife. However could he do something like this to her? How would he face her now that he'd broken the sanctity of his marriage? He closed his eyes. If he avoided seeing what he'd done, maybe he could deny it had happened for just one moment longer.
He heard Holmes struggle to his feet, imagined him swaying for a moment before bare feet pattered unsteadily toward Watson's discarded clothes. The rustle of cloth on bare skin, and then the soft footsteps returned. Holmes knelt next to him, laying a hand on his brow with infinite care.
When he opened his eyes, there were gentle brown irises looking down at him, easily visible in the golden glow of the early morning light.
"Mary can never know," he said. There was something flashing through his friend's eyes, but Holmes simply nodded and Watson was sure he'd imagined it.
"Certainly not," he agreed.
"We will not repeat this."
"I wouldn't mind if we did," Holmes offered, looking vulnerable. "What we need, when we need it, isn't that what our barter system is all about?" Watson mustered his friend, bare feet, blood and dirt caking one side of his face, the other badly bruised, eye swollen shut, his flyaway hair plastered to his skull with dried sweat and his hands vanishing into the sleeves of Watson's too-large coat.
He sighed, accepting Holmes' hand up and limping over to the little piles of clothing haphazardly strewn on the ground. Holmes looked away again, flapping his hands dismissively.
"We don't have to, of course, but I just thought this might be a good way of you finding what has been causing problems with your wife while... not being unfaithful."
Watson froze in the midst of trying to pull up his trousers.
"How is this not being unfaithful?" he questioned sharply. "I just broke my vows!"
"But of course not, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, a small smile stealing onto his face as he observed Watson's almost comical attempts at clothing himself while his leg refused to bend. "All we did was... have a bit of sport in the aftermath of a case, nothing untoward happened."
"How can you say this, Holmes? Nothing untoward? Have you forgotten the law, my state of matrimony? What I did to you..."
"Please, my friend, stop fretting. The law has no import on our friendship, it is more of a guideline anyway as long as discretion rules. Don't you believe that I could have stopped you had I wanted to? I offered this, and you can take it at any time. Don't feel like you owe me, or that it takes away from what you owe your wife."
"I owe my wife my faithfulness!" Watson shouted.
"And you give it to her. All we did was... relieve some tension. There was no harm done. There is nobody to take your affections from her, as we are and will be best friends, which she knows. This shall not harm either of your bonds." Holmes' voice was steady and soothing, his reasoning strangely sound if somewhat illogical, and Watson found himself taken in by his friend's arguments as it so often was the case.
There had been more than one instance when Mary had thrown him out, or had complained of his... vigor. Holmes' solution was far from ideal, but then, Mary had been approving of their friendship more the longer she'd known Holmes.
"I would still prefer if this didn't happen again," he insisted.
"And I will reiterate that the offer stands, old boy, if you wish to take it or not. Now, shall we inform Mycroft of the happy ending to this unpleasant matter?" Holmes stepped in closer, steadying Watson with a strong grip on his shoulder letting him pull on and fasten his trousers at last.
Watson gratefully took the out. There was no doubt in his mind that the strange events of this day would follow him in his dreams for a good long while- Holmes' thin, wiry and pale body, the sounds he was making, the rough scratching of his stubble on Watson's clean-shaven face and trimmed mustache- but for now, if Holmes was willing to put it all behind them and forget, so would he. The anger had worn off, but instead of guilt Watson felt shocked into a state of numbness he had not expected but welcomed nevertheless.
"We have a little walk ahead of us," he said, locating his cane at the top of the stairs where he'd dropped it to aim his pistol. "There was not a single cab driver who would brave this neighborhood."
"A shame! The enterprising spirit has been snuffed in London's hansom cab drivers!"
"Or maybe common sense has finally started to gain hold of the common man."
They bickered all the way through the wharfs, ignoring the infrequent looks thrown their way for their general state of deshabille and Holmes' clear lack of trousers and footwear. As weird as Watson felt the simple calm and contention seeping through the numbness was, he also couldn't shake the feeling that it was right. Whatever this had been, it had been more than anything what he'd been craving ever since he'd started courting Mary.
The first telegraph office they saw had Holmes wire Mycroft their whereabouts, and with that, everything was set to rights quickly. He was sworn to secrecy on the case, as it was one that would damage the reputation of the crown if it got out, but he felt that was no great loss. He had no intention of ever speaking of it again anyway.
A sideways glance at his friend showed him leaning against the wall outside the telegraph office nonchalantly, his haughty expression elevating being clad in only Watson's coat to the finest couture.
Holmes glanced over at him and waggled his eyebrows reassuringly. "So, old boy, you think Mary's waiting for you with tea yet?"
Watson frowned at the sun quickly rising above the rooftops. "She'll more likely have thrown it out cursing you," he answered back, surprised at how easy it was to ignore the morning's craze, how easy Holmes- awkward, rude, anti-social Holmes!- was making it, and he wanted it to be that way because he wanted to blame anything other than himself.
"She won't. She will just be glad to have you back safe and sound," Holmes said, rolling his eyes. "And not let you out of her sight for the rest of the weekend. A pity, I was hoping to have you come round the Diogenes tomorrow to finish up with Mycroft."
"I'll be there," Watson promised. Forget. Don't think, just forget, and bask in the afterglow like it used to be with the cases.
"Great! Ah, there's my cab," Holmes shouted, waving the driver over. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson telegraph you the time."
Watson was left standing alone, slightly lost, before picking himself up. "Remember to bring my coat!" He shouted after Holmes' cab. Chances were the detective might have heard him, but he knew there was not a single one he'd ever see his garment again.
He clambered into the second hansom arriving, giving the driver the address and settling back into the seat with a sigh of relief at finally taking a weight off his leg.
Maybe Mary would really be waiting for him with tea.
Chapter end notes:
This is the most nerve-wracking feeling ever. I definitely need to get used to writing smut again... right now I'm utterly spent and hope I'll have a little time tonight to type up more of the next chapter (I'm about halfway through that one, but it's slow going as it's really close to being too personal). Thank you for reading, I adore your comments above everything and would love one about how I've done with this one especially!
Read you soon!
I hope you're not disappointed in this chapter, it's quite the ride even if I say so. As always, the Master Horse Tamer and Incomparable Beta jg5799 has kept me on track and in the saddle, and this entire adventure wouldn't be possible without her allowing me to vent my insecurities while correcting my insufficiencies. Thank you ever so much!
Title: Shatter These Walls
Author:
starlightshade
Beta:
jg5799
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary mentioned (which is why I didn't tag it), everything else is up in the air atm.
Spoilers: for both movies.
Rating: NC-17/M. We're into adult territory at last, people!
Warnings: Plot. Talking. Flowery prose. Blood/Violence and M/M smut! More warnings will be given with subsequent chapters.
Prompt:: Watson likes rough sex but doesn't want to hurt Mary. Holmes offers to help out, pretending to like it.
X-posted? Yes.
Disclaimer: No money made. No ownership claimed. Fair use applies.
Surprised this is the fourth installment? Find the others here: Chapter 01, Chapter 02, Chapter 03
Chapter 4
Seeing Holmes standing there like that, unsteady, his bare forearms bruised in the pattern of the rough hemp ropes that had been used to bind him to something, seeing the unwavering certainty that Watson was there for him, the doctor had felt a great fury well up in his chest. Holmes' refusal to see to his own well-being, his casual disregard of his physical safety were a long-standing bone of contention among the two of them. His own refusal to give up his practice, his marriage to Mary and moving across London had only exacerbated the matter.
When the messenger boy bearing a telegram had hammered down his door in the middle of the night on a Saturday, he'd vacillated between panic of one of his patients being in a critical condition and Holmes having gotten himself into a tight spot somewhere yet again.
He hadn't expected Mycroft Holmes, of all people, to write him, asking him to go find his brother somewhere in a wharf on the banks of the Thames. For Holmes not to summon him himself, there had to be something dire happening. He'd even managed to do so in Heilbronn, so there was an unforeseen component to the puzzle as well, Watson surmised with a heavy heart. Sometimes he hated Holmes' methods rubbing off on him.
After a frustrating and exhausting search for a hansom, rushing across all of Her Majesty's greatest city in the pre-dawn rush of merchants and farmers delivering goods, running through half the worst boroughs he had ever visited even when in Holmes' company until finally happening upon the one workshop that met all the conditions set forth in Mycroft's telegram, he'd been in a mood. To then find Holmes virtually unharmed, if a bit roughed up and tired, his ire had ignited into something strange and primal, destroying his reasoning and calm confidence and returning him to the heat-fueled craze of his days in Afghanistan. Holmes was in the grasp of a crazed criminal, and all he did was antagonize him as much as he could, along with his two henchmen.
Watson didn't speak a word of Chinese, but Holmes' superior smirk told him all he needed to know about the contents of that conversation. His friend was going to get himself killed this time, for sure, he could only hope to be in time, a hope that brought his gun up faster than he'd ever managed before.
Holmes, of course, noticed him in that exact moment and, ignoring whatever the criminals were doing, waved a jaunty little greeting at him.
"Always good to see you, Watson!" How Watson hated these words. They always came with Holmes being in mortal danger, and today was no exception. "Come join us, we were having a most enlightening discussion about our Irish friend's Asian adventures. I'm certain you could provide us with more rousing tales than even his recounting of his rise through the Triad ranks!"
He'd listened to Holmes prattle, watched the two Chinese men slink off through the narrow window set high enough on the wall that Holmes would've had to stand upon his shoulders to reach, watched Holmes dig his own grave and was barely, barely in time to save his friend's life yet again even though the detective had gotten himself shot. Shot! In the head, no less.
Remorse over killing a man couldn't compare to seeing Holmes lurch to the side, fall, and get up again. Holmes didn't even take possible guilt on the doctor's side into consideration at all; he'd croaked after was that he was fine, in a tone that poked fun at Watson's worry over him when Watson violated his Hippocratic oath to bail him out once more. Irrational couldn't even come close to what Watson was, overwhelmed with sensation, conscious thought fleeing the scene.
Watson had reached his zero point in that moment. He shouted at his friend, trying to convey the utter rage, exasperation and fear coursing through him. He couldn't remember what he'd shouted, only that, through a haze of red, he'd seen his friend's relief, minute as it was painted on the impassive features.
So he wouldn't murder him, wouldn't commit the one sin he couldn't ever recover from, he crushed him to his breast instead, smothering all his protests by holding to his almost naked form faster. Maybe Holmes wouldn't slip away like a drop of blood in the waters of the Thames if he just held him a moment longer.
"You're impossible to keep, Holmes," Watson muttered into the wild, thick hair, the copper-and-salt of Holmes' blood mixing with the less appealing odors that were prevalent this close to the Thames. The groove in Holmes' scalp worried him, but the fact that the detective was still conscious, still breathing, still living for once overrode the doctor's desire to stitch him up that was distantly clamoring for attention amidst the furious mix of emotions drowning Watson in its intensity.
"You're impossible to keep, impossible to let go. You run off to God-knows-where whenever you feel about it, and you don't even have the sense of telling me about it anymore. You didn't think a second about leaving me behind at Reichenbach, you're still so wrapped up in yourself that you don't think about what it does to me when you leave me behind now.
"I come and I always, always find you like this, broken, wounded, and you expect me to put you together again. Damn, Holmes, you're my best friend, and the only one whom I have told everything to, to whom I would give anything, and you're not giving anything back.
"I can't go on like this, Holmes, I just can't. I wish you would turn and look and see me, see the people who care about you. How would you feel if it was Mary who alerted you to my being in a situation? I had to hear from Mycroft!"
"I... fine," he heard his friend wheeze out into the fabric of his thick coat. He kept his arms locked around the slumped body, squeezing him, needing to feel the soft in-and-out of his shallow breaths, the warmth of his skin. Holmes was starting to struggle against his hold now, restlessly clawing at Watson's arms with his hands swollen from long confinement. Watson paid him no heed, too much needed to be said, and he continued to berate his friend in an endless tirade trying to make him understand just how badly he'd hurt him.
"Ungh!" Holmes said, urgently, as if Watson could understand what he meant by just looking into his eyes. Eyes that were frantic, frantic with trying to put his deductions into words now that he'd made a connection, set wide and feverish in the much-beloved face. His brain refused to engage his voice, and the frustration shining through made Watson want to throttle him again. He'd just escaped death by the merest of margins, and all he thought about was catching the next criminal- the one who was lying dead next to them didn't even factor into his reasoning anymore. Fury reaching new heights, like a spring floodtide, Watson held Holmes an arm's length from him.
"Not this time, not like this," he told him, and finally gave wordless voice to his sentiments by crushing his friend's mouth to his before he could convince Watson to follow him on a fool's chase around London.
Holmes was frozen in his arms, and Watson himself could hardly comprehend what was taking place. His friend's lips were so much rougher, more pliant, different from Mary's, but at the same time he could finally, finally let himself go. This was Holmes, and as long as he didn't kill him, whatever happened they'd be fine in the end, thus was their relationship, their friendship, their love. They had a barter system after all.
He was rough, he knew, and it was heated and raw and primal. Holmes started to respond to his kiss, not by shoving him away but by making a muffled noise deep in his throat, as strange as it seemed to the small, ignored part of Watson that was still thinking.
Holmes' face was smudged with both blood and mud, his mouth tasted like cold tobacco and something uniquely Holmes. The stubble of his unshaven cheeks scratched along Watson's mustache, and he couldn't get enough of it.
He cradled Holmes head to his, tilting his neck to go deeper, hungrily devouring the unresisting mouth, his tongue tangling with Holmes', enticing it to join the dance. Holmes was trying to make another attempt at speaking, so Watson redoubled his efforts. Finally, the detective's lean, muscled arms came up around his waist and shoulder, and he responded enthusiastically to Watson's kiss.
Their tongues were dueling for dominance now, and Watson bit harshly at Holmes' split lower lip, tasting the fresh rush of blood, warm and salty, better than the best brandy could ever taste. The detective moaned, which sent Watson into an even deeper frenzy.
Egged on by a spasm in his leg, the doctor pulled the detective up and pushed him across the room, carrying his entire weight in his arms as he was still utterly disorientated and probably concussed. He couldn't bring himself to care, though, too intense were the flames licking at the remnants of his conscience, incinerating whatever he might have considered in a clearer state of mind into the ashes of sanity. Watson stumbled on a tangle of ropes , bearing both himself and Holmes down to the ground behind some barrels of tar and out of sight of the remains of the man he'd shot; the pupils of Holmes' brown eyes blown wide in confusion and lust. He let go too early to catch himself roughly on his hands, and Holmes groaned as his head thumped on the hard dirt before he reached up to kiss Watson yet again. Watson raked his hands through Holmes dirt-streaked hair, nails scratching at the scalp wound left by the bullet. Holmes actually winced, but Watson didn't allow that to deter him, neither did he give Holmes' hands scrabbling at his collars any more attention.
Kissing down Holmes' throat stilled him, allowing Watson to capture his hands and pull them up above his head, baring more of that neck to his fevered kisses. Feeling Holmes writhe against him, the sheer amount of excitement still running amok in his veins, his need was amplified by every single touch and contact between them.
Holmes' skin, where it wasn't sparsely covered in fine, scratchy or downy black hair, was surprisingly soft, the sleek muscle covering the thinner-than-usual body springy and resilient, and he could not resist biting down on the unscarred shoulder.
Holmes arched against him, lashing out with his legs as his wrists were still trapped in Watson's hands, but Watson trapped them between his clothed ones, distracting him with more kisses.
"Watson, please!" Holmes groaned against his neck, his skin sweaty and heated despite his near nakedness and the damp cold of the cellar.
"Please what?" Watson asked, control shattered and condensed into tiny droplets of molten heat coming to pool in his groin.
Holmes moaned, throwing his head back, hitting the ground hard and giving another wince as his pupils blew even wider, nearly entirely subsuming the brown of his irises.
"Please, please," he kept repeating, senselessly searching for some skin contact with his mouth, the only way he still could trapped as he was in Watson's power.
Watson smirked from where he was worrying Holmes' skin between his teeth, and switched over to treat the scarred shoulder the same as the good one. Holmes slipped one of his hands free of Watson's grasp and between their bodies, age-old instinct leading him to palm the doctor's hot cock through his trousers. Watson howled and smothered the sound by biting down hard on the scar tissue he'd laved with his tongue and grazed with his teeth a second ago.
Holmes' answering cry of pure pain and lust would have broken even the strongest resolve, and Watson was already gone too far on sleeplessness and worry and exhilaration.
His strong hands let go of Holmes' wrist in favor of grabbing onto the dirty undershirt still covering his torso. Raising himself on his elbows, he gave him no warning before ripping it in two. Holmes returned the favor by taking it upon himself to even their situations out a little and at least getting rid of Watson's coat and scarf. Watson frowned, sitting up for a moment before making record-time in divesting himself of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt as well.
Bare skin on bare skin was a revelation, hazed thoughts clarifying into one goal- to get closer. Their bodies undulated in their subconscious desire to fulfill biology's commands to their nature, no matter how, and Watson, three continents and years in the army worth of experience rising to the occasion, finally divested them both of their last clothes in an unexpectedly acrobatic move that left Holmes gasping in surprise.
They clawed at each other, and Watson used his greater mass to firmly pin Holmes to the ground while the detective was still attempting to find purchase on the doctor's sweat-slickened skin. There was no gentleness, nothing but the need, and the want, and the heat.
Holmes came back to himself a little when Watson, after casting his eye around, smashed the small oil lamp the Irish criminal had carried down into the cellar, deepening the shadows along the wall and making clear the hour of the morning in the vague bluish light cast through the window the Chinese men had escaped through.
"Watson?" he questioned, the first word spoken in many minutes filled with groans and gasps and whimpers.
"Shh, you're fine, old boy," the doctor soothed even though Holmes felt anything but fine with the odd pressure of his friend's fingers questing around his behind, written clear as day in the frown lines between his brows. Holmes didn't speak again, instead giving a trusting nod, and Watson, the velvet softness of the detective's pale arse irresistible under his touch, found and circled his goal, aiming and quickly thrusting inside.
Holmes arched up, off the ground, and squeaked.
Irritated, for that reminded him too much of the woman that had no place here right now, Watson held him down and, after coating his fingers with more oil pushed two fingers into the tight hole. Holmes turned his head aside, biting down on his lip, and something like a small twinge of guilt managed to break through the overwhelming need to fuck.
"It's fine, it's fine," Watson said, staring down at Holmes' bruise-mottled face. The detective nodded again, hands clenched around Watson's shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and Watson knew that to be the assent he'd been waiting for. He lifted the muscled legs, so flexible and strong, so different from Mary's soft thighs but somehow just as beautiful and set them over his shoulders, gentling the confusion from Holmes' face by kissing him harshly. Holmes' hands found new purchase around his waist, resting there limply; it was clear the detective had no idea of what was coming.
Watson lined himself up, baring his teeth in a snarl and, in one well-practiced and fluid movement, thrust into Holmes, filling him deeply and suddenly. He held himself perfectly still, waiting for Holmes' reaction, but the dark-haired man just barely tightened his grip on Watson's waist, breathing deeply and softly through what Watson knew had to be some discomfort.
Holmes was tight, tighter than anyone he'd ever had on three continents and in every establishment frequented in his life. He was also impossibly hot, and moaning ever so enticingly as Watson set a punishing pace after just a few seconds of waiting for Holmes' muscles to soften enough to enable it.
Holmes' movements were jerky, asynchronous to Watson's, and he found himself folding him almost in two to still him, and fuck him deeper, for there was nothing like being sheathed inside a willing body. The slickness was giving way to a clinging rasp as what little oil there had been was worn away in their frenzied coupling, and Watson thrust ever harder, desperately close. All his worries, all his pain, all his anxiety was snapping off him with every roll of his hips, with every small sound Holmes was making. This, this was what he'd been missing, this earthy, primal, raw fulfillment of a man's need and lust.
"Holmes!" he groaned, feeling his orgasm being pulled from deep within by Holmes' clenching passage. Holmes gave a wet sort of breathless gasp in response, doubled over as he was Watson could barely make out the shadow of his dark hair splayed upon the ground, one of his hands working his cock in those short, abortive jerks he'd tried to move his hips in.
He came with an inarticulate groan, flanks heaving, convulsing as Holmes was scratching his back with the short, ragged nails of the hand holding on to him. Spent, he pulled out of Holmes without fanfare, letting his legs fall to the ground with a thump and collapsing on top of the detective with a deep moan, trapping his hand just as he felt wetness spread between their bodies and Holmes shuddering in silence.
They lay there, both breathing heavily, both recovering their faculties and the strength to continue their lives. For the moment, Watson felt utterly content, his whole being centered within himself, struggles and pain forgotten.
Holmes was starting to tremble underneath him and Watson remembered his bruises, and with them what had brought them to this. Thoughts of anger and pain returned, and the first stirrings of guilt.
"Holmes?"
"I'm good, I'm good," the detective answered, his voice rough and thready, well-fucked if Watson said so himself.
"This was... I won't say I'm sorry," the doctor blurted out in blustered defiance. He was exhausted, and with his energy went much of his anger, but enough of it remained that he would not allow his conscience to intrude upon him yet.
"Nor would I like you to, old boy," Holmes said gently, that thready voice distracting from his words.
"I hope you will not hold it against me."
"Never, my dear, never." If this continued, his anger would collapse, leaving him with the cold and paralyzing guilt as his only companion.
"Holmes, you... I do hope you will find it in you to forgive me, even if I cannot ask for it."
"You do not have to be forgiven for that which happened with my full consent," Holmes said. "There is nothing you could ask I would not give you, and if what we did comforts you there is no need to apologize either. You, my dear Watson, are my dearest friend and one companion."
"Then... did you enjoy it, too?" He still couldn't bring himself to look at Holmes, look at his naked body, look at what his actions had done to debauch the one man whose life he valued above his own. A man who had expressed his utter disinterest in carnal pursuits more than once.
"Of course, Mother Hen, do not fret so." He paused. "Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your coat, my dear? I seem to have misplaced my clothing."
"Certainly not," Watson replied with a steadiness he didn't feel. His stomach was roiling now, his thoughts turning to his wife. However could he do something like this to her? How would he face her now that he'd broken the sanctity of his marriage? He closed his eyes. If he avoided seeing what he'd done, maybe he could deny it had happened for just one moment longer.
He heard Holmes struggle to his feet, imagined him swaying for a moment before bare feet pattered unsteadily toward Watson's discarded clothes. The rustle of cloth on bare skin, and then the soft footsteps returned. Holmes knelt next to him, laying a hand on his brow with infinite care.
When he opened his eyes, there were gentle brown irises looking down at him, easily visible in the golden glow of the early morning light.
"Mary can never know," he said. There was something flashing through his friend's eyes, but Holmes simply nodded and Watson was sure he'd imagined it.
"Certainly not," he agreed.
"We will not repeat this."
"I wouldn't mind if we did," Holmes offered, looking vulnerable. "What we need, when we need it, isn't that what our barter system is all about?" Watson mustered his friend, bare feet, blood and dirt caking one side of his face, the other badly bruised, eye swollen shut, his flyaway hair plastered to his skull with dried sweat and his hands vanishing into the sleeves of Watson's too-large coat.
He sighed, accepting Holmes' hand up and limping over to the little piles of clothing haphazardly strewn on the ground. Holmes looked away again, flapping his hands dismissively.
"We don't have to, of course, but I just thought this might be a good way of you finding what has been causing problems with your wife while... not being unfaithful."
Watson froze in the midst of trying to pull up his trousers.
"How is this not being unfaithful?" he questioned sharply. "I just broke my vows!"
"But of course not, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, a small smile stealing onto his face as he observed Watson's almost comical attempts at clothing himself while his leg refused to bend. "All we did was... have a bit of sport in the aftermath of a case, nothing untoward happened."
"How can you say this, Holmes? Nothing untoward? Have you forgotten the law, my state of matrimony? What I did to you..."
"Please, my friend, stop fretting. The law has no import on our friendship, it is more of a guideline anyway as long as discretion rules. Don't you believe that I could have stopped you had I wanted to? I offered this, and you can take it at any time. Don't feel like you owe me, or that it takes away from what you owe your wife."
"I owe my wife my faithfulness!" Watson shouted.
"And you give it to her. All we did was... relieve some tension. There was no harm done. There is nobody to take your affections from her, as we are and will be best friends, which she knows. This shall not harm either of your bonds." Holmes' voice was steady and soothing, his reasoning strangely sound if somewhat illogical, and Watson found himself taken in by his friend's arguments as it so often was the case.
There had been more than one instance when Mary had thrown him out, or had complained of his... vigor. Holmes' solution was far from ideal, but then, Mary had been approving of their friendship more the longer she'd known Holmes.
"I would still prefer if this didn't happen again," he insisted.
"And I will reiterate that the offer stands, old boy, if you wish to take it or not. Now, shall we inform Mycroft of the happy ending to this unpleasant matter?" Holmes stepped in closer, steadying Watson with a strong grip on his shoulder letting him pull on and fasten his trousers at last.
Watson gratefully took the out. There was no doubt in his mind that the strange events of this day would follow him in his dreams for a good long while- Holmes' thin, wiry and pale body, the sounds he was making, the rough scratching of his stubble on Watson's clean-shaven face and trimmed mustache- but for now, if Holmes was willing to put it all behind them and forget, so would he. The anger had worn off, but instead of guilt Watson felt shocked into a state of numbness he had not expected but welcomed nevertheless.
"We have a little walk ahead of us," he said, locating his cane at the top of the stairs where he'd dropped it to aim his pistol. "There was not a single cab driver who would brave this neighborhood."
"A shame! The enterprising spirit has been snuffed in London's hansom cab drivers!"
"Or maybe common sense has finally started to gain hold of the common man."
They bickered all the way through the wharfs, ignoring the infrequent looks thrown their way for their general state of deshabille and Holmes' clear lack of trousers and footwear. As weird as Watson felt the simple calm and contention seeping through the numbness was, he also couldn't shake the feeling that it was right. Whatever this had been, it had been more than anything what he'd been craving ever since he'd started courting Mary.
The first telegraph office they saw had Holmes wire Mycroft their whereabouts, and with that, everything was set to rights quickly. He was sworn to secrecy on the case, as it was one that would damage the reputation of the crown if it got out, but he felt that was no great loss. He had no intention of ever speaking of it again anyway.
A sideways glance at his friend showed him leaning against the wall outside the telegraph office nonchalantly, his haughty expression elevating being clad in only Watson's coat to the finest couture.
Holmes glanced over at him and waggled his eyebrows reassuringly. "So, old boy, you think Mary's waiting for you with tea yet?"
Watson frowned at the sun quickly rising above the rooftops. "She'll more likely have thrown it out cursing you," he answered back, surprised at how easy it was to ignore the morning's craze, how easy Holmes- awkward, rude, anti-social Holmes!- was making it, and he wanted it to be that way because he wanted to blame anything other than himself.
"She won't. She will just be glad to have you back safe and sound," Holmes said, rolling his eyes. "And not let you out of her sight for the rest of the weekend. A pity, I was hoping to have you come round the Diogenes tomorrow to finish up with Mycroft."
"I'll be there," Watson promised. Forget. Don't think, just forget, and bask in the afterglow like it used to be with the cases.
"Great! Ah, there's my cab," Holmes shouted, waving the driver over. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson telegraph you the time."
Watson was left standing alone, slightly lost, before picking himself up. "Remember to bring my coat!" He shouted after Holmes' cab. Chances were the detective might have heard him, but he knew there was not a single one he'd ever see his garment again.
He clambered into the second hansom arriving, giving the driver the address and settling back into the seat with a sigh of relief at finally taking a weight off his leg.
Maybe Mary would really be waiting for him with tea.
Chapter end notes:
This is the most nerve-wracking feeling ever. I definitely need to get used to writing smut again... right now I'm utterly spent and hope I'll have a little time tonight to type up more of the next chapter (I'm about halfway through that one, but it's slow going as it's really close to being too personal). Thank you for reading, I adore your comments above everything and would love one about how I've done with this one especially!
Read you soon!