Fic: Broken Substitutes - Part 3 (3/4)

[zarah5]

Full headers & Part 1 are [ here].

Holmes/Watson (past Mary/Watson); NC-17; 7’600 words for this part, about 33’000 overall

Summary: He couldn’t allow himself to grow dependant on something that could only break him again.
Disclaimer: I totally disclaim.


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Broken Substitutes
Part 3
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They finished breakfast before they inspected the lock of Holmes’ rooms with a magnifying glass. Holmes’ thesis that Moriarty was aware of his return gained credibility when they found recent scratch marks, left by a skeleton key that must have fit almost perfectly. The thought that they might be under constant surveillance, someone keeping close track of Holmes’ progress with the device, didn’t sit well with Watson.

They put their suspicions to the test with a fine hair, glued to the door on one side and to the frame on the other, near the bottom where only the most alert of trespassers would think to look.

Watson left the house first, striding down the road after he’d glanced left and right. Holmes joined him shortly after, his disguise the least elaborate he’d worn yet, most of his clothes belonging to Watson. A grey shadow of stubble was spreading out over his chin and cheeks, and although he’d slept considerably more than Watson had, his eyes were tired as well.

They spent an hour in a training room that, on a Saturday shortly after noon, was deserted. For all that Watson had thought the exercise might rid both of them of the tension that came from parting with their habits, it turned out that the opposite was true - circling each other, epées in their hands, Watson was too aware of Holmes’ body, of Holmes’ eyes resting on him to foresee each move he might make, of Holmes reading each shift of muscle that was only partly obscured by the heavy protective clothing they both wore. While Watson was at a physical advantage, Holmes blocked each of his parries, launching more than one attack that had Watson fighting to hold his ground.

He loved the challenge.

Their weapons locked in a metallic clang, twisted and separated again, and it was sheer instinct that had Watson raise his blade just in time to ward off Holmes’ attack that would, if successful, have had Watson’s arm aching for hours. He succeeded in winding his blade around Holmes’ and bringing both their hands down, putting all his strength into the move. If Holmes didn’t want to risk considerable pain to his back, he had to turn and bend forward. He did, bringing their bodies into sudden alignment, Holmes’ back pressed to Watson’s front in a most delicious way.

They both froze. The tips of their blades grazed the floor.

“You win,” Holmes said quietly. His voice sounded hoarse.

“Yes.” Watson didn’t move a muscle. Slightly, barely noticeable if Watson’s entire focus hadn’t been on Holmes anyway, Holmes leaned back into him.

“Name your prize, then.”

Watson exhaled, his breath fanning out over the nape of Holmes’ neck. He would only have to lean in, touch his lips to that spot below Holmes’ ear that he’d learned was a sensitive one, and he knew Holmes would give in even though they were in a public place and could be discovered by anyone, at any moment. A small tremor ran through Holmes’ body, his head tipping forward.

“Lunch,” Watson whispered. Only for one painfully short instant, he allowed his lips to brush Holmes’ skin. Then he tore himself away, dropping his blade while Holmes stood still, facing away from Watson.

“Lunch,” Holmes repeated. There was no inflection to his voice.

Watson took another step back. “At the Mirabeau. You are to eat the entire main course.”

Slowly, Holmes turned around. He tossed the blade aside and tilted his head, a sad smile playing about his lips. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Watson said. Even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.

--

While they walked back to Baker Street, Holmes complained at length about his sore stomach and Watson having missed his true calling as a mother of twelve children, yet it was easy to see that Holmes looked better than he had since his return to London; his skin had a healthy shine, his eyes bright in the rare light of the sun. There were enough people around to excuse Watson walking slightly closer than necessary, self-inflicted torture in the occasional touch of their shoulders and the brush of their hands.

He spotted the card game only from the corner of his eye. Three men had spread a dirtied rug on the floor, their legs crossed and their faces revealing nothing, cards held carefully close to their chests. Watson paused to catch a glimpse, just to see whether they-

It was Holmes’ hand on his elbow that jerked him out of his intrigue, Holmes’ voice soft. “Watson.”

Quickly, Watson turned away, his breath short. “I was just,” he began, but Holmes’ fond smile cut him off.

“I know,” Holmes said, “and no harm was done. Now let us go home.”

Watson nodded. He was keenly aware of Holmes never letting go of his elbow, a gentle reminder of a promise Watson had no intention of breaking. Even as they drew closer to Baker Street and the crowd diminished, Holmes didn’t let go.

They split up not too far from home, Holmes slipping away into a dark alley that, according to his explanation, came with a rain pipe that allowed him to climb up onto the roof. From there, it was apparently easy to transfer to the next house, make use of two neighbouring balconies to get ahead, and then descend the stairs into the cellar where the connecting door was waiting to be picked. Holmes seemed happy to take this detour and Watson wouldn’t be surprised if Holmes continued to take it even after they’d rid themselves of Moriarty.

If they did.

When they did.

By the time Watson had exchanged a few pleasantries with Mrs Hudson and ascended the stairs, Holmes was already stretched out on the floor, examining the hair they’d left across the door.  It was torn.

--

Holmes soon retreated to his study, yet it took less than an hour before he emerged again, waking Watson out of a light doze when he draped sideways over an armchair and began to absently pluck at his violin. It told Watson all he needed to know.

“Still no progress on rebuilding the device?”

“Only in my head.” Holmes frowned down at his hands, fingers wandering over the strings. “The question is…” He gave Watson a sidelong glance, smiled and started plucking a melody that was slightly more agreeable. “What will happen once it is rebuilt. I think it is time I call on my Irregulars to make some inquiries about the Professor’s estate.”

Watson sat up and looked out of the window, at a sky that grew dark. The familiar unease was humming in his bones, but it was soothed by the twinkling notes that rose from Holmes’ instrument. “Tell Wiggins not to invade the house with his entire group of little followers. Mrs Hudson is quite unnerved already.”

“I’ll do my best to remember.” Holmes’ grin was quick. While his hands were steady on the strings, Watson noticed that Holmes wasn’t entirely relaxed either, a tense curve to his lips that Watson interpreted as a sign of the same unease that made Watson change positions far too frequently. No matter how Watson was sitting, he felt trapped and on edge.

“Yes,” he said. “You do that.”

Something about his tone must have caught Holmes attention because Holmes’ eyes focused on him, sharp and knowing. Before Watson could find a way to dissuade Holmes’ concentration, Holmes had already set the violin aside, leaving behind only the crackle of the fire, hissing as a log rolled over. Their gazes locked. Then, with a swift move, Holmes got to his feet and rounded the table, suddenly too close, leaning over Watson with one hand on each armrest. His voice was low. “Anything I can help you with, my dear Watson?”

Watson didn’t have the words to reply.

He tilted his head back to find a cautious smile tugging at Holmes’ mouth, not fully pronounced just yet. It grew when Watson reached up to tangle one hand in Holmes’ hair, urging him down.

Holmes’ came easily, folding over Watson with his knees bracketing Watson’s thighs, caged in by the armchair that was never meant to carry two people. They kissed sloppily, open-mouthed, Holmes’ damp lips skidding over Watson’s cheek as Holmes’ hands crept between them. Moments later, Watson felt fingertips press to his groin, then the lacings of his trousers gave. Watson watched firelight play on Holmes’ features, outline the faint traces of hesitance in Holmes’ eyes.

“Holmes?” he inquired softly. This was the most sober Holmes had been; in fact, in a way it was the most sober they’d both been, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if Holmes took this chance to take a step back and regain his senses. It would be understandable, would be wise, even - and yet, Watson didn’t manage to ban the fear from his tone. “If you would rather not-”

“Be quiet,” Holmes cut him off, following the command up with a rough kiss, his tongue pushing into Watson’s mouth. Watson strained towards him, both hands twisted in the fabric of Holmes’ clothes to keep himself grounded, albeit unsuccessfully. His head felt dizzy. He jerked when another log rolled over in an explosion of sparks.

“Sorry,” he muttered even though it had only served to press his hips up against Holmes’, even though Holmes was looking down at him through half-lidded eyes, dark and focused, lips parted.

“No need to apologise.” Holmes bent his head to brush his smile over Watson’s mouth. Then he slid to the ground, fully unlacing Watson’s trousers as he went. His thumb came to rest against the underside of Watson’s cock, and Watson jerked again, staring down at Holmes with wide eyes.

“What are you-”

Yet again, Holmes cut him off, only this time it was through actions rather than words. Watson sucked in a greedy breath when Holmes pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, circling the base in a firm grip, a precision in Holmes’ motions that was usually reserved for the violin and scientific experiments. It was all too much, overwhelmingly so. Watson closed his eyes, but the images in his mind supplied him with every detail of Holmes on his knees, lashes hiding his eyes as he studied the shape of Watson’s cock in his hands, then leaning forward, warm breath and a suspended moment before Holmes dragged his mouth along the underside, towards the tip, tongue fluttering out to swipe over the slit.

Watson consciously relaxed the grip he had on Holmes’ shoulder, stroked his hand down Holmes’ arm to find the muscles tense and quivering. The tension echoed somewhere in his bones, a buzz of half-formed ideas that were instantly swallowed by Holmes’ mouth.

--

Shortly after dinner, Holmes left Watson alone to find Wiggins. Determination carried Watson through the first half an hour, but with Holmes gone, the rooms seemed to expand around him, as if it was only Holmes’ presence that had shrunk them down to a reasonable size and now, they grew again, the walls escaping in different directions, shelves scurrying away, the ceiling lifting towards the sky and the floor stretching on forever. It was too much room for one person, just like there had been too much silence in the flat Watson had shared with Mary.

Holmes would return, though. He would.

With a whispered curse, Watson got out of the armchair and walked a circle around the sitting room, questions that he didn’t want to consider following on his heels. For all that the room felt too large around him, it was too small to contain his energy. He stopped in front of the fire, stoking it with a poker and watching as the sparks rose high before they faded. It distracted him for only a few moments.

When he stepped up to the window, observing the road below, he found that most of the snow had melted away, only a few white piles remained in corners that were rarely touched by the sun. A fine sheen of wetness made the cobblestones gleam in the dim lamplight. In the flat on the opposite side of the road, Watson thought he could make out the bulky shape of a man, a black shadow within a dark room. His imagination might have been playing tricks on him, though.

It required all his strength to sit back down and grab the book he’d almost finished. He wasn’t certain he understood even one word printed on the pages, but by forcing his eyes not to stray, it at least gave him a focal point.

He was still clutching the book when Holmes returned. The clock had just struck ten, and Holmes’ face was covered in blisters that he wiped off while he told Watson he’d sent Wiggins and his boys off to find out whatever they could about Moriarty’s home, and that a first report was likely to reach them tomorrow, before noon. Once Holmes was done removing his disguise, carefully navigating around the window, he sat down as well.

They shared a glass of brandy between them, the only sounds those of the fire and the occasional turning of a page. It was quiet, but peacefully so, the silence not as stifling as it had been earlier, the furniture no longer appearing to retreat as soon as Watson turned his head.

It was long after midnight when Watson could work up the will to retire to his own bed. He set the book aside and got up, stretching his back even as his gaze lingered on the door to Holmes’ bedroom. There was no explicit reason for him to dread a night by himself; he’d gone through many before and none had gained a victory over him as yet. The last two nights by Holmes’ side had rendered him weak, had taken him back to a time when his hand had reached out and encountered a warm body.

He couldn’t allow himself to grow dependant on something that would only break him again.

“Good night,” he told Holmes, already turning away towards his own rooms. His voice sounded too loud, and Holmes’ reply came with a delay.

“Sleep well, Watson.”

I’ll be glad if I sleep at all. Watson nodded and forced himself to leave. His study and bedroom were cool, no fire having been lit as he didn’t receive patients on Saturdays. He shivered in his nightshirt while he prepared himself for bed, slipping underneath the covers as he waited for sleep to settle in.

It wouldn’t come.

What came instead were the memories. He tried to push them away even as he clung to them, afraid that one day, he might forget the warmth of Mary’s scarcely hidden smile when she found him in yet another tight spot, berating him for missing tea with her parents while she leaned into him. That he’d never really deserved her didn’t make it easier.

Watson rolled over, touching his forehead to the cold wall. He balled his hands into fists, no ring lying against his chest, and stared at the images behind his lids that were too tangled to see clearly. Mary’s laughing eyes, her delicate hands, the quirk to Holmes’ mouth when he’d pulled off Watson’s cock, and again Mary’s hands, her fingers wrapped around him as she leaned in to whisper in his ear-

When the door was thrown open, Watson sat up with a start. He grappled for the revolver under his pillow even as he threw his weight around and blinked into the sliver of light that fell in from his study. Holmes’ familiar silhouette made him release his breath. His grip on the revolver eased, and he sat back against the headboard with a sigh, suddenly aware of tiredness weighing down his bones. “What is it?”

“A double trap,” Holmes declared. He drew closer, stepping out of the light as he approached the bed. “That is what we need, the first to draw attention, because it’s what Moriarty-”

“Holmes,” Watson interrupted, exhaustion fraying the name around its edges.

Holmes stopped, and Watson noticed that he was already dressed in his night clothes, feet and forearms bare. He was shivering, and Watson found that it was almost too easy to say, quietly enough that Holmes could choose not to hear it if he preferred, “Tell me tomorrow. We both need some sleep.” He lifted one corner of the blanket.

“Yes,” Holmes said slowly. “You are quite right.”

He turned away, and Watson told himself it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all and habitude was a dangerous thing, anyway. It was Holmes who always said so.

And yet Watson couldn’t suppress the relieved warmth in his chest when Holmes only left to extinguish the light in the study. Then he returned, crawling in underneath the blanket and settling beside Watson. His feet were icy when they bumped against Watson’s calves. Watson shifted his back closer to the wall to make more room for him, and Holmes followed, pressing close, his skin too cool. “Thank you,” he whispered into the darkness.

“Anytime,” Watson replied, and he didn’t say, no, thank you. The oppressive cloud of memories was trickling away already, fading in comparison to the very real, solid presence of Holmes’ back against his chest, the slow rhythm of Holmes’ deep, even breathing lending regularity to Watson’s own breaths.

He fell asleep with his palms resting on Holmes’ stomach, hopefully able to provide at least some sense of warmth.

--

The bed wasn’t cut out for two people, so Watson awoke with his legs twisted awkwardly and Holmes taking up more space than he ought to. During the night, Holmes must have turned around because his breath was feathering out over Watson’s cheek, one of his thighs inserted in between Watson’s, skin no longer cool to the touch. Trapped between the wall and Holmes’ body, Watson felt strangely relaxed and alert at the same time. The morning light that trickled in through gaps between the shutters painted the room in a soft, golden glow.

Holmes’ shirt had slid up, enough so that Watson could run his fingertips up the bumps of Holmes’ spine. It earned him a hot exhalation from Holmes, mouth pressing a damp kiss to his cheek that unwound a thread of arousal in Watson’s stomach. He clearly remembered the very same mouth stretched around his cock, could recall the warm weight of Holmes’ erection in his hands, how it had taken no more than a couple of strokes for Holmes to spill over his fingers.

Still Watson ceased his motions, asking in an undertone, “Am I overstepping any boundaries?”

Holmes snorted faintly and then, giving no warning as to his intentions, he rolled on top of Watson, straddling his thighs. Between the scant layers of clothing that separated them, it was impossible to miss that Holmes was hard, and Watson reflexively twisted up against him, glorious friction sparking along his spine. Holmes pinned him down with one arm across the chest, his face serious. For all that his voice was even, there was a rough quality to it. “I don’t know what it was that instilled in you the misconception that I have any boundaries when it comes to you, Watson. Whatever it was, you must have read it wrong.”

“I didn’t-That is…” Watson shook his head and, rather than fumble for another awkward sentence, he drew Holmes down for a kiss. Their mouths slid together easily, unhurried with the morning light softening contours and edges. When Holmes twisted his hips down, Watson strained towards him, held back by the arm across his chest. Watson’s protest was muffled by Holmes’ mouth.

“Relax, my dear Watson.” Holmes’ free hand skidded down Watson’s side, coming to rest near his hipbone. “It’s a Sunday. You have no patients waiting for you, and I have nowhere to be, either.”

“I’ve never known you to be a very patient man.” It was a half-hearted argument, thwarted by Holmes’ hand settling low on Watson’s stomach in a most distracting way. Even if Watson’s agenda had been full, he wouldn’t have been able to tear himself away. It was a realisation he didn’t want to explore any further.

Holmes leaned down to press the shape of his grin to Watson’s throat. “As a matter of fact, I can be very patient.” His fingers dipped lower, nails scratching through the coarse hair at the base of Watson’s cock, and once more, the errant thought from yesterday flashed through Watson’s mind: Holmes appeared curiously well-versed in these matters. It ached somewhere deep within Watson that Holmes might have been enjoying Italian sunshine and the intimate company of tanned strangers while Watson was driving himself mad with worry.

Instead, Watson pushed up, catching Holmes by surprise and allowing Watson to roll them over. “I am not, however. A patient man, that is.”

“I see.” Holmes lay quietly, looking up at Watson with a calculating look that made Watson shift uncomfortably.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was wondering,” the corners of Holmes’ eyes crinkled with his smile, “whether you’d happen to have any oil in your study.”

Watson swallowed dryly. He’d heard of it, of course; his studies of the human body and its multiple characteristics had been nothing if not thorough. If his mind had occasionally translated the strictly theoretical knowledge into half-formed images… Well, no one had to know. After all, there was a vast difference between pondering something and putting it into practice - which also meant that Watson wasn’t entirely certain he’d know what to do. He drew back. “There is oil, yes, but I am not-I should warn you that-”

It was probably mercy that Holmes cut him off. “And here I thought your time in the military had served some kind of purpose.” Holmes’ smile had widened into a smirk, but it was laced with caution, Holmes’ gaze clear on Watson’s face. “If it helps, I am not a virgin in the manner we are speaking of here.”

Watson’s first instinct should not have been to tighten his grip on Holmes’ wrists and ask in a low, barely controlled voice, “Who?”

“No one you know.” Holmes didn’t avert his eyes. Neither of them moved for long seconds, bodies aligned. When Holmes shifted his hips, parting his thighs a little, Watson was reminded quite powerfully that they were both hard, erections sliding together with two coarse layers of clothing to separate them. It made him draw a startled breath.

He managed to roll off Holmes in a show of self-control, removing his nightshirt even as he crossed over to the door. The jar of oil that had instantly come to mind at Holmes’ question was sitting innocently on the shelf, amongst dozens of other medical creams and solutions. Watson grabbed it and returned to his bedroom, firmly closing and locking the door behind himself.

When he turned, it was to find Holmes sprawled on top of the covers, his clothes cast carelessly aside. He was propped up on one elbow, still too thin, bones protruding sharply, but the light washed over him and emphasised the fact that he’d spent some time in the sun. For a moment, Watson found his lungs almost painfully tight. The dark, intent look in Holmes’ eyes, expression utterly unabashed as his gaze swept over Watson’s body, didn’t make it easier.

Watson placed the oil on the mattress and crawled on top of Holmes, running his hand along Holmes’ side, down, then back up. If circumstances had been different, Watson supposed the amount of time he spent on exploring Holmes’ forearms would be considered inappropriate. As it was, he delighted in the absence of new marks, lightly scratching his nails over Holmes’ skin to find that it made Holmes shiver and twist closer, holding on to Watson’s shoulder when Watson moved higher to suck a bruise onto Holmes’ throat. A glance to the side showed Watson that Holmes was clutching the jar of oil.

Watson lifted his head. “What are you doing?”

It clearly took a moment for Holmes to focus and understand the direction of Watson’s question. The rare sight of Holmes in a state of confusion, however brief, thrilled Watson more than it should; he wanted to see Holmes like this more often, undone and unfocused, completely open and his logical mind dulled, for once. Even more so, Watson wanted to be the one responsible for it.

He nearly fled at the thought.

“I’m warming it,” Holmes said. If he’d noticed the sudden tension in Watson’s muscles, he didn’t show it. “It is much more comfortable that way.”

“Right, of course.” Watson cleared his throat and glanced away.

“Watson.” Holmes’ voice was quiet but commanding, and Watson raised his gaze to meet Holmes’. “If you’re not comfortable with this, there are many other ways in which-”

“I am,” Watson interrupted, too quickly. “I am just not entirely certain how I should…” He trailed off and shook his head. The solid warmth of Holmes’ body under his wasn’t conducive to what little control he maintained.

Holmes’ lips curled in a grin. “Ah. I must say, given your considerable experience with women, I would have expected you to be rather less self-conscious. You’ve been doing quite well with me, so far.”

It didn’t sound like an insult, but Watson frowned anyway, grinding his hips down to make a point. Only when Holmes’ eyes lost their focus for a brilliant second did Watson reply. “In case it escaped your notice, you are not a woman.”

There was nothing modest about Holmes raking his gaze down his own body before he met Watson’s eyes again. “Indeed, I am not.”

Despite the unfamiliar territory, this aspect felt quite familiar. Watson dipped his head to silence any further remarks from Holmes with his mouth, reaching up to take the oil out of Holmes’ unresisting fingers. He unscrewed the lid blindly, most of his focus on the sweet glide of their tongues, Holmes’ parting his legs for Watson to settle more comfortably in between them. Minding Holmes’ earlier explanation, Watson put a generous amount of oil onto his fingers, waiting for it to warm as it filled the air with its clean, greasy scent.

“All right?” Watson murmured, loosely circling the base of Holmes’ cock before he moved further down. He supposed it was answer enough that Holmes spread his legs wider and tilted his hips up, head tipped back. Watson brushed a quick kiss over Holmes’ chin before he dipped his hand lower, finding the spot where Holmes’ body opened - which was when he lost his courage.

“I am not made of china,” Holmes told him. He sounded both amused and slightly breathless, and it gave Watson the incentive to press the tip of his finger inside. The resistance wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected, Holmes releasing a slow breath as Watson pushed in further, up to the knuckle, and paused. Holmes’ chest was rising and falling rapidly.

“Not made of china,” Holmes reminded him.

Watson crooked his finger, the way he remembered from one particular article which had sought to solve the pleasure some apparently connected to sodomy. He wanted this to be a pleasurable experience for Holmes, pleasurable enough to pale the memory of all those who’d been here before, to make them fade in comparison until all that mattered was Watson, no one else, just like Holmes was the only person on earth who still mattered-

Watson dug the nails of his free hand into his own thigh, the sharp pain helping him focus. “Didn’t you just declare yourself a patient man?” he asked. He twisted his hand at the wrist, watching Holmes’ face. Triumphant satisfaction swept over him when Holmes stilled suddenly, his gaze growing dark and unfocused. So this must be it, then.

When Watson slid his finger out, Holmes’ eyes narrowed. Watson kissed him before any protest could manifest, swallowing Holmes’ wordless gasp when Watson pushed his finger back in along with another, the tight ring of muscle resisting at first, giving slowly. This time, Watson remembered how to twist his fingers, Holmes moving back against Watson’s hand, forcing Watson’s fingers deeper while his eyes were squeezed shut, his lips parted and hair a dark mess against the sheets.

Watson couldn’t look away.

He didn’t avert his eyes quickly enough when Holmes blinked his eyes open, and for what felt like a century and could be no more than a few seconds, they were staring at each other, Watson propped up above Holmes, most of his weight resting on his healthy leg. Then Holmes’ lips curved into a grin. “I always thought you wouldn’t need long to catch on. You have, after all, always been a good student.”

You’ve thought about this?

It was yet another question that Watson choked back down. Instead, he pushed a third finger in with the other two, watching Holmes’ face to assess the amount of discomfort. A brief flash of anxiety in Holmes’ eyes soon made room for need, twisting back against Watson’s fingers with increasing urgency. He did, however, not protest when Watson withdrew his fingers and wiped them off on the sheets.

Holmes rose up on his elbows, watching with open interest as Watson slicked up his cock. “You know this will be easier if I am on my stomach?” he remarked casually.

“No.” Watson glanced up, if only to shake his head. “I’d rather see your face.” It was the truth, and not only because it would make it easier to observe Holmes’ reaction. Watson wasn’t about to admit as much out loud, though; what they had didn’t allow for admissions along those lines. He was already in too deep.

He wasn’t prepared for Holmes pushing him over onto his back. Surprise made him fall easily, still adjusting to the sudden reversal when Holmes straddled him, sliding up until their cocks pressed together, and oh, Watson saw no reason why they should try for what might be a disaster when this was already glorious, the contact sending sparks up his spine, making him close his eyes and tilt his hips up.

Then Holmes’ fingers grasped the base of Watson’s cock. Watson opened his eyes just in time to watch Holmes lower himself, a look of immense concentration on his face as the tip of Watson’s cock… Oh, dear sweet Lord, as the tip of Watson’s cock pressed inside. Clutching the sheets in both hands was all that kept Watson from pushing up, the tightness of Holmes’ body almost too much, too intense until it was suddenly an easier slide, slick and dark and overwhelming, and Watson bit down on his bottom lip to stifle what would have been a groan that betrayed too much.

He wasn’t quite so successful when Holmes started moving. It was careful at first, only a shift of Holmes’ weight, leaning forward to bring their foreheads together. Watson met him halfway, moving one hand from the sheets to Holmes’ waist, his grip instinctively tightening when Holmes’ breath fanned over his mouth before Holmes lifted himself up slowly, Watson falling back into the pillows, his entire focus on that one point where his and Holmes’ bodies were joined.

Holmes’ voice, scraped raw, drew his attention again. “Moving would help.”

“Sorry,” Watson muttered, and even that one word required an effort. He lifted his hips off the mattress, one hand still gripping Holmes’ waist, moving the other one up to tangle in Holmes’ hair and pull him down for a hard kiss. The angle considerably restricted Holmes’ capacity to move, allowing Watson to set the rhythm.

He set a slow pace at first, testing Holmes’ reaction in the gasps that he swallowed, in the small quivers running along Holmes’ spine, the way his hands clenched around Watson’s biceps. Only when he felt secure enough of Holmes’ comfort did he push up. His instant reward was in Holmes’ slumping forward, whispering a curse against Watson’s mouth that sounded very much like Jesus Christ. His face was slack, completely open, and Watson hated anyone who’d been allowed to see Holmes like this, hated them with all the concentration he could spare as he fought not to drive into Holmes. His control shattered, replaced with an unexpected, intangible surge of emotions when Holmes twisted his hips down and whispered, “John,” into the silence that was only broken by the shifting mattress, by rustling covers and their uneven breathing.

Watson came without having even the time to give Holmes a fair warning.

Holmes’ voice rang in Watson’s head, his lids shut so tightly he saw bright dots dance behind them before perfect, all-encompassing darkness enveloped his thoughts and washed away all concerns, if only for a few moments. When he regained a sense of his surroundings, his first, mindless gesture was to wrap a hand around Holmes’ cock, Holmes’ pushing forward into the tight circle of Watson’s fingers even as it became difficult for Watson to bear the over-stimulation around his own cock.

Holmes froze just before he spilled over Watson’s fingers, falling forward while Watson was still stroking the last drops from him. Watson leaned back against the headboard and wrapped an arm around Holmes’ shoulders. His hand was sticky with Holmes’ release, but he didn’t want to wipe it off, didn’t want to clean himself, didn’t want to move or think. Of course that didn’t mean his wish came true.

“Acceptable,” Holmes mumbled against his temple. “For a first try, that is.” His voice was drowsy and relaxed, yet Watson could still hear the John in it, remember his own forceful reaction as clearly as he was aware of the guilt clawing away at his stomach. The same tone. The same tone, the same name, but a different voice.

“Thanks,” he said belatedly.

Holmes’ sat up, chancing a quick glance down before he lifted himself off Watson with a soft sigh that Watson echoed, discomfort along with a regret he didn’t want to face. He slid down until his head was resting on the pillow, moving over to make room when Holmes settled in beside him. Watson didn’t miss Holmes’ flinch when he lay down.

“Are you all right?” Watson asked. Although he might be overstepping his boundaries - but no, there were no boundaries; Holmes had said there weren’t any - he touched Holmes’ waist, just quickly, before he drew the blanket up over them both.

“I’m perfectly all right.” Holmes’ smile reached his eyes. “The question is, are you?”

“I am fine.” Watson made the mistake of rubbing a thoughtless hand over the back of his neck. When he raised his eyes again, Holmes was looking at him with a knowing expression, and it might be only Watson’s imagination that he’d retreated a little. “I’m betraying her,” Watson said quietly.

“No.” Holmes rebuttal came effortlessly, albeit his tone was slightly stiff. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to suffer until the end of your days. She cared too much for you.”

Watson didn’t have the words to reply. He lifted one shoulder and closed his eyes because that made it less condemning if he reached out and pulled Holmes near, Holmes resisting for only a barely existent moment before he settled close, his breath warm as it feathered out over Watson’s face.

--

Holmes had just disappeared into his own bedroom to retrieve some clothes when Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs with their breakfast. When Holmes came back out, they bickered for a while with Watson listening to their whiplash arguments and allowing the routine to soothe his frazzled nerves. Mrs Hudson left with a snort, her chin held high.

“Well,” Holmes declared to the room at large. “I suppose this solves the case of the mysterious landlady.”

Watson grinned vaguely and helped himself to a slice of toast. “I don’t think she’ll ever ask us to move out. She’d miss you too much.”

“She adores me.” Holmes sprawled in his armchair, a nervous twitch to his motions that Watson didn’t miss. It helped distract him from his own shortcomings, so he was, in a roundabout way, grateful to see that he wasn’t the only one struggling.

“Yes, well,” he said. “I’m certain she’d adore you even more if you were to resemble a human more than a skeleton.”

“You’re fattening me up.” Holmes looked down at his stomach, patting it with a loving expression, and Watson had to admit that Holmes wasn’t quite as startlingly thin anymore - less than a week of regular meals, and it was already showing. It made Watson wonder how Holmes had sustained himself in the time he’d spent away.

“I’m merely trying to bring you back to a healthy-”

Watson’s argument fell flat at the sound of the doorbell. A moment later, quick feet were running up the stairs, trailed by an indignant call from Mrs Hudson. Holmes leaned back with a comfortable smile, putting his half-eaten toast back down on the plate. “That,” he said just as the door opened, “will be Wiggins, then.”

It was Wiggins. He’d grown somewhat since Watson had last seen him, but his dark face and white grin hadn’t changed. At least he’d found a ragged pair of shoes. Coming to a halt before their table, he drew a roll of paper out of his jacket, presenting it to Holmes with a proud expression before he glanced at Watson, face immediately falling.

“What is it you’ve brought us?” Watson cut him off, before Wiggins could articulate his sympathies.

“Oh. It’s…” Wiggins shifted back on the balls of his feet, stuffing his hands in his pockets while Holmes unrolled the paper. “It’s a map of the surroundings. We have an artist with us now, see? Mehls does portraits of tourists in the market place, so we asked him to draw this.”

“This is very useful, indeed. Thank you.” Absently, Holmes reached into his pockets to fumble for some money, counting it out by touch as his gaze never strayed from the map. Upside down, Watson could identify what must be Moriarty’s house, surrounded by a garden, a road passing by on one side. Other houses held a respectful distance to the property.

“Also,” Wiggins added, “the Professor’s been in the house for only a couple of years. People before him had a part of it rebuilt, this part.” He touched a dirty finger to what looked like a picturesque gazebo, and grinned broadly. “Company that did it was Corrington’s, in Jacob’s Street. They could still have a plan of the house.”

Holmes glanced up, his gaze meeting Watson’s in an unspoken agreement that they weren’t about to let a chance like that go by.

Once Wiggins had left, happily clutching his well-earned money, they spread the map on the floor to study it. Holmes was stretched out on his stomach, legs in the air as he sucked on his pipe, his brows drawn together in concentration. Watson found it difficult to achieve the same sort of concentration with Holmes’ body pressed alongside his own, Holmes thrumming with barely suppressed energy. It brought back all the questions Watson had tried to shove to the back of his mind.

Watson should have jumped at the opportunity to avenge Mary’s death, and while he did feel a vague sense of excitement, it didn’t hold much of a personal note. Bringing Moriarty down would fill him with satisfaction at ridding the world of a criminal who’d succeeded in outsmarting even Sherlock Holmes, but it wouldn’t bring Mary back. Nothing would. Unlike Holmes, she wouldn’t return.

Holmes’ voice interrupted the unpleasant string of Watson’s thoughts. “There’s a trapdoor here that might lead to the cellar. We need the plan of the house to know for certain.”

“You think it might be a way for us to get in?” Grateful for the distraction, Watson leaned closer, shoulder resting against Holmes’. There was a rectangular shape near the western wall of the house, and underneath it, in a near-illegible scrawl, trapdoor, locked, heavy metal chain.

“Not for us,” Holmes corrected. “I am going in through the main entrance.”

Watson turned his head, narrowing his eyes at Holmes’ profile and the cheerful curve of his smile. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“With pleasure, my dear fellow.” Still smiling, Holmes rolled onto his back, sprawled on the floor as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His shirt, by accident or by design, had ridden up to show his flat stomach. “See, Moriarty would expect us to stage a coup like that, to try and surprise him. So we won’t do that. We’ll let him come to us, let him think the time in Italy has made my mind weak and inattentive. Let him come.”

“And then?” It wasn’t any conscious decision that made Watson rest his hand on the exposed skin, push the shirt further up. He felt Holmes’ startled intake of breath in the rise of his stomach before Holmes went very still, only his eyes tracking Watson’s progress.

“I’ll let you know when we have the plan of the house,” Holmes said. As if to cut off further discussion, he dragged Watson over his own body, their mouths meeting in a clashing kiss that left Watson’s mind blessedly empty of questions.

--

The day passed in a blur of appointments that would at least serve to pay the rent. When Watson finally emerged from his study, he found Holmes pouring over the book about plants that Watson had been studying these last few days, so involved he didn’t even glance up when Watson entered. His pipe was unlit, and it was likely he’d forgotten about the near-empty glass of wine before him. In passing, Watson picked it up and emptied it in one go.

“I was drinking that,” Holmes protested, but he sounded mildly confused rather than annoyed. Removing his unlit pipe from his mouth, he looked down at it, then at the book before shoving it away and reclining in the armchair, putting his feet up on the table.

“I relieved you of the task, then.” Watson leaned over Holmes’ shoulder to replace the glass and catch a glimpse of what had enraptured Holmes so thoroughly. It was the description of a plant Watson remembered as a forceful anaesthetic when its juices were diluted in water. He pointed at the page. “Do we need an anaesthetic for tonight?”

“No, tonight will be easy.” Holmes used a loose thread from his shirt - it was one of his own, for once - to mark his place in the book before snapping it shut. Anticipation brightened his eyes. “The company occupies the ground floor of a residential house, and while they also own a warehouse on the outskirts, I expect that their office is where they store all documents. Since there’s nothing of value in it, security precautions are minimal.”

“A walk in the park,” Watson supplied. “At least if they don’t throw older records away.”

“Unlikely.” Holmes shook his head and got out of the armchair to light his pipe with one of the matchsticks he liked to store on the mantelpiece. His silhouette, framed by the firelight, was straight and lean, every inch the man Watson remembered from previous cases. Something in Watson loosened at the realisation, his chest widening on a deep breath.

“Just don’t forget to bring your revolver,” he managed. “We might need it, after all.”

“You bring a revolver,” Holmes replied. A faint grin was flickering about his mouth.

--

The office was dark and deserted, light from the street filtering in through small windows and guiding their search. Watson took over the left side of the room, but he’d barely started when Holmes joined him again, leaning close to show Watson the plan he’d found. It was labelled with Moriarty’s address and the house’s shape looked identical to the one on Wiggins’ map.

“Too easy,” Holmes complained, his voice a dark whisper.

Watson nudged him away, shaking his head. “This is just the warm-up. Did you put everything in its proper place again?”

“I’ve been doing this far longer than you have, old chap.”

“Yes, and you’re growing cocky.” Watson took care to close all the drawers he’d opened, glancing around the room to ensure they hadn’t left any trace of their visit, not counting the folded plan that Holmes was tucking into the waistband of his trousers, pulling his shirt back down to cover it, then buttoning up his jacket. Watson stepped forward to help, their fingers meeting on the third button, tangling for a moment.

It was Watson who stepped back, stupidly unbalanced. He listened for any sign of movement before he nodded at Holmes, leading the way towards the door Holmes had picked earlier. It was as they’d left it, the courtyard lying still before them. Watson left first, pressing himself back against the wall, but the only sign of life came from a ragged street cat which they’d apparently disturbed in its explorations of the rubbish. It sped away with a quiet hiss, and they followed it moments later, back towards the road, where they used the cover of a passing cab to slip out of the gate.

They returned to Baker Street, finding that someone had checked on Holmes’ progress with the device yet again. As they’d been expecting it, they hadn’t left the map of Moriarty’s house lying around.

-----
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>> Part 4