FIC: HOLMES/WATSON (7 of 12)
Title: Uncharted
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut.
Beta: anoncomment7
Summary: The thought of loving a man more than startles Watson. Holmes leads the way.
Previous: Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6
Chapter Seven:
--Later the same day--
“Has it always been customary for the Chief of Police to mimic brain patterns identical to the murder victim’s?”
Inspector Lestrade was not amused by Holmes’ inquiry. The detective sat down in his most adored chair and swung his legs up on the small table in front of it, his pointed stare shooting needles into the man standing before him.
“It was an honest mistake,” Lestrade tried to explain for the third time since he’d arrived.
Holmes rested his elbows on the chair’s arm rests. “My extremely enviable deductive powers are hired to find solutions to even the most cryptic and laborious enigmas. However, as glorious as the inner workings of my mind have proven to be, even they are rendered ineffective in solving a puzzle when a piece of said puzzle is never presented.”
The distant sound of the front door opening kept Lestrade from replying.
When the door closed, Watson’s voice followed soon after. “Holmes?”
A part of the detective instinctively relaxed as he called out, “In my room, conversing with a circus primate!”
“Lestrade’s visiting again, is he?”
The Inspector glared at Holmes, who simply beamed back at him with a proud smile. Watson entered the room with his usual stride, his coat and hat having already been taken off and hung next to the front door.
“Good evening, Lestrade,” Watson greeted. “I take it you’ve brought some unfavorable news?”
Holmes sat forward on the edge of his seat, speaking with a keen interest that only served to mock. “Yes, Inspector, if you would be so kind as to share the details once more. I’m suffocating with anticipation to hear them again, myself.”
Lestrade’s scowl lingered on Holmes for a few extra moments before he turned to Watson and explained. “When the body of Mr. Barrington was first attended to by my officers, one of the men noticed a slip of folded parchment on the floor and picked it up to be handed off to the proper authority later. Except that he did not remember to do so until this afternoon.”
When Lestrade didn’t immediately continue, Holmes prodded him on. “And what, prey tell, was written on this miraculous parchment?”
“It was a note from Mr. Barrington, containing information that he had given his collection of ships to his daughter in Sussex.”
“And…?”
Lestrade cleared his throat. “And that he wished to take his own life by cyanide consumption.”
Watson had to look down to hide his smile.
Holmes slapped his knee and stood up. “In light of the scientifically proven fact that the victim was indeed slain by cyanide, I should venture that it wouldn’t take a lobotomized mule, or in this case an inspector, to conclude that the perpetrator of Mr. Barrington’s passing was,” he paused, then said in a hissed whisper, “Mister…Barrington.”
By now Watson’s shoulders were lightly shaking with silent laughter.
Lestrade picked up his hat. “I came to inform you of this development, and I have done so. Good evening, Holmes. Good evening, Watson.”
“I will, of course, still receive my previously arranged fee,” Holmes assured the inspector. “You have vehemently wasted my time, and I will waste your money with equal vigor.” Lestrade reluctantly nodded and began his escape, but the detective followed him to his doorway. “I believe Gladstone has always wanted to be a police officer, would he be allowed to enlist?” Now Holmes had to yell after him. “Or are you fearful of a dog overtaking your esteemed position too quickly?”
The front door slammed shut with a particularly harsh ardor. Holmes drummed his fingertips on the door frame in agitation. Coincidentally, as he turned to Watson the movement slowed, and then stopped entirely. Although he often experienced this type of inner harmony when he would first rest eyes on the man’s bewitching countenance in a private setting, the sensation never failed to exhilarate him.
Holmes then realized that he had come upon a unique quandary. He wanted to greet his companion properly, extend a hand or offer some sort of verbal salutation, but that sort of gesture seemed to lack the appropriate familiarity with which they had become gradually accustomed. Of course, to instigate a welcome that did justice to their new levels of affinity could bring about an undesired communication of assumption or coercion, and this knowledge rendered Holmes momentarily immobilized.
To his sudden awe, the doctor took it upon himself to solve the matter. Stepping forward, Watson carefully took the detective’s hand and placed a brief, warm kiss across his knuckles. Holmes’ breath escaped him as he was taken by a curious, humble state of wonder. Watson looked up, but did not release his tender grip.
“Good evening, Watson,” Holmes whispered.
Each observed the other, wordlessly evaluating with a soft, even stare.
“It struck me,” Watson said quietly, “as a suitable action.”
The corner of Holmes’ mouth twitched with a grin. “Your instinct is exemplary.”
A moment of suspended silence passed between them. When it seemed they had both found the answer to their unasked question, there was no more cause for hesitation.
They fell into each other’s bodies simultaneously. Holmes wrapped his arms around Watson’s neck, bracing a hand on the back of his head as he guided their mouths together. Tongues danced and massaged, aching as if it had been years since the last encounter. Watson hugged the detective to his body, and Holmes drowned in the invigorating feel of the crushing embrace. Holmes’ free hand seized and gripped the muscles in Watson’s shoulder, moaning with surprised approval when he felt the same treatment unleashed on his back. Losing their balance, they stumbled backward and Holmes found himself pinning Watson to the wall. The impact having broken the kiss, Holmes went to recapture the doctor’s mouth, but Watson sharply turned away. Tangled in a mess of limbs, Holmes’ brow furrowed as perplexity crept into Watson’s stare. Whatever gave the doctor pause was evidently not something to which words easily lent themselves. Compromising position aside, Holmes waited dutifully, keenly aware of their close proximity and exercising his well developed capacity for self restraint.
Watson breathed, his mind working. “Holmes…I don’t…”
“If it is distance you require…” Holmes trailed off as he started to push himself from the wall.
“No,” Watson insisted, pulling him close, “I need this.”
Holmes searched the other man’s eyes, and what he discovered there caused his heart to swiftly ascend into his trachea. The clear and undiluted desire radiating back at him was enough to threaten the stability of his legs, and it did just that to a magnificent extent.
Maintaining Watson’s gaze, Holmes silently moved a hand between them. When he felt the tough leather of the doctor’s belt, his nimble fingers made quick work of the buckle. Alarm suddenly streaked over Watson’s face as he grabbed Holmes’ wrist. Now the detective was thoroughly confounded.
Then, almost as if telepathy had thought to grace them with its presence, Holmes was struck with certain clarity.
Whatever the action taken, it had to be accomplished with clothing in place.
“How is this…?” Watson began hesitantly, loathe to admit his own naïve ignorance, “…gone about?”
Holmes cocked his head to the side. “You mean to tell me you’ve never pursued such endeavors before?”
“Not with anyone so ill-equipped,” Watson fired back.
“Watson,” the detective said, taken back by the unexpected retort, “was that levity at an inappropriate time?”
“Do you want me to change my mind about this?”
“I shall find myself severely incapacitated if you should.”
“Then tell me what I bloody have to do!”
Holmes shifted, positioning himself between Watson’s legs. “Before I can properly instruct, I have an inquiry of a delicate nature that must be put forth.”
Watson narrowed his eyes. “Are you really asking if I’ll answer a personal question while you have me pinned to a wall?”
“I wouldn’t want to offend.”
Watson let out a short, agitated exhale. “You may ask.”
“Have you made use of a whore house?”
“Yes,” Watson answered directly.
“Wonderful, then this will be made considerably easier to achieve.” Holmes braced his hands against the wall at either side of the doctor’s head. “The rhythm is very much akin to one utilized in a whore house. Take hold of my waist.”
Watson did as instructed, and Holmes provided an example by slowly thrusting against him. The sensation wrought from such friction made them both shudder visibly. Watson only seemed uncomfortable for the briefest of moments.
“Once rhythm is established,” Holmes continued, his breathing a touch more labored than before, “the rest falls into place.”
Taking initiative, Watson leaned his forehead against the detective’s, solidified his grip, and pressed his hips up and forward. Holmes met the movement with a thrust of his own, moaning through gritted teeth.
“Watson,” he gasped, “you are a most singular pupil.”
They continued pressing against each other gradually, deliberately. Fabric rubbed fabric as the buck and writhe of their motions sent waves of arousal pulsing through Holmes’ body. Stiffening against Watson’s hip, he dropped his head to the doctor’s shoulder, panting. Lust battled with disbelief as they moved in time with each other, and soon Holmes felt a similar pressure digging into him as well. His hardness began to throb, sliding along side Watson’s, causing a wicked euphoria and demanding more immediate action.
The contact was maddeningly dull, forcing them to work harder for their pleasure. They only slipped out of synch once or twice before settling into a solid cadence. Watson’s heaving breath spilled over Holmes’ ear and neck, driving the detective to quicken his thrusts without realizing. Eagerly matching the increasing speed, Watson’s grip remained firm and steadfast. Holmes grunted with effort as he the pressure building deep inside of him, pushing closer and closer to the edge with every passing second. Watson moved his hands to Holmes’ back, pulling them closer together to increase the pressure as their thrusting turned desperate, reckless. On the brink, Holmes lifted his head and stole the kiss he had been denied earlier, tongues and teeth colliding in a mess of passion. The new stimulation was too much, and they exclaimed into each other’s mouths as they came. Holmes turned his head, gasping for air as an orgasm clamped down on his entire body, their motions now furious and driving. Watson threw his head back against the wall, jaw clenched in gorgeous agony. In a flurry of movement they rode through their climaxes. Finally spent, they sagged against the wall with great relief.
Their breathing was mutually loud and harsh for a considerable period of time, after which Holmes became aware that the side of his face was pressed against Watson’s and he was staring at a wall from point blank range. Pulling back, Holmes was now able to look the other man clear in the face.
Tentatively, very tentatively, Holmes leaned forward. Watson met him halfway, and their unmoving lips met for a few delicate moments. When their lips parted, he could see in the doctor’s eyes that no security had been found, no lucidity embraced, but deep in those hazel irises something had been satiated, solidified.
Holmes carefully extricated himself from their convoluted position and stepped back to allow breathing room for both of them. Leaning away from the wall, Watson straightened his rumpled jacket, trying to reinstall decorum to his appearance, when he noticed the stain that now marred his trousers. The doctor’s cheeks flushed red. Holmes tried his damndest not to find the instance so incredibly endearing, but failed miserably.
Making a sound in his throat, Holmes said, “The bathroom is, of course, yours to make use of. I’ve found the dedicated use of soap and water a necessity.”
Watson glanced up for a moment, his blush only beginning to fade. “Shouldn’t you tend to your clothes as well?” he asked, clearly shocked that he was saying such words.
“I have an entire wardrobe at my disposal, my laundry is not a priority,” Holmes replied kindly. He was completely unable to hide his amusement at the surreal conversation.
Watson started for the door, pausing as an idea seemed to strike him. Holmes watched as Watson turned the thought over in his head, examining it thoroughly. The detective knew precisely what Watson must be considering, for the same notion had tickled his imagination when he had given his brief instructional lecture a few scant minutes ago. Thankfully, this time Holmes was able to render his vocal chords motionless, allowing Watson to arrive at his own conclusion.
At last, Watson made eye contact. “You don’t have to wait to remedy your clothes,” he stated decisively.
Holmes looked startled as he stepped forward and stood in front of the doctor. “Two gentlemen in the same room without their trousers firmly in place? Your frequent tendency for profane activity is becoming frightfully worrisome.” Watson narrowed his eyes in a warning glare, and Holmes calmly reached out with one hand, adjusting the man’s tie. “Whatever brings you comfort.”
Holmes led the way to the bathroom.
Watson was the one to close the door behind them when they arrive at their destination. Holmes made his way over to the pitcher and basin near the bathtub, relieved to find the former still full of water. He filled the basin with the cool liquid, set the pitcher aside, and snatched the bar of soap from its holder. Turning to Watson, who was standing quietly, he raised his eyebrows to ask who should have the pleasure of disrobing first. When Holmes saw the downright shaky expression on his counterpart, he knew that it was up to him take the lead. Tossing the soap in the basin, he set about undoing his belt buckle.
When the decision that this event occur had first been made, Holmes’ initial instinct was to take his time, ease into it for the sake of Watson’s justifiable hesitance. After only a few short seconds of rumination he changed his mind. Watson would be much better suited and feel infinitely more at ease if this were handled without pomp and circumstance adding undue pressure to the both of them.
Still, this train of thought did not keep Holmes from holding his breath as he pulled his trousers and underpants down and off in one fell swoop.
Determined to remain casual, Holmes continued his business as if nothing remotely monumental was taking place. Separating the two garments, he placed his trousers to the side while he tended to his underpants. To do this he had to turn his back to Watson and, even though Holmes was of the opinion that his hind parts were nothing to feel embarrassed over, a pang of self-consciousness stabbed him in the gut. He was eternally thankful when Watson decided to break the silence.
“Have you ever done this before?” the doctor asked, his voice slightly and curiously hoarse.
Holmes glanced over his shoulder, pretending not to notice Watson’s wandering eye as he rubbed the soap into the stained area of his pants. “Are you referring to the washing or the unveiling?”
Watson snapped his focus back up to Holmes’ face. “The unveiling.”
“There are a great many things I have yet to indulge in,” Holmes replied, turning his attention back to his work, “and, until very recently, this particular action was indeed on that list.”
“How many opportunities have you had for,” Watson had to force the word out, “buggery?”
“Is there an aspect of exposed flesh that brings out the inquirer in you, Watson?” Holmes teased as he switched out the clean underpants for the dirty trousers.
“It’s helping me keep hold of my wits, yes.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want you to let go of those.”
“Answer the question,” Watson insisted.
Holmes smiled at his companion’s authoritative tone. “Over the course of so many years it’s difficult to provide an exact number, but I should imagine the final estimate to land somewhere between seven and ten individuals, only one of whom I had occasion to meet more than once.”
Watson shifted his position. “And this bears no weight on your conscience?”
Holmes’ halted his movements. Watson possessed an innate knack for throwing him off guard at the most peculiar times, and this instance was no different.
Pressing forward, Holmes continued washing. “It has taken me the span of two decades to stop questioning the morality of my inherent traits.”
“Those experiences led you to that conclusion?”
Holmes decided the underpants were clean enough and shook them out, pulling them back over his legs. He was blatantly avoiding the question posed to him, and he foolishly clung to the unlikely fantasy that his tactic would succeed.
A few moments later he was fully dressed and motioning to the basin. Watson was still in the same place across the room, only now he had his arms folded across his chest and an assertive look upon his face. The doctor would obviously not be satisfied with silence as a response and, given the situation, he had every right to require such information. Holmes picked up a towel from the edge of the bathtub and started drying his hands to hide his nerves.
“Those were brief encounters,” Holmes disclosed, “no names were exchanged or details given, and the meetings existed solely for the purpose of physical relief. It was not they who put my mind to rest.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Watson accepted the weight of the admission with a great deal more tranquility than he could have anticipated, but there remained a part of him that was suitably unnerved. Holmes began to feel as if he was an intruder in his own lavatory.
The detective gestured to the door. “Your privacy has every right to be reclaimed.”
Watson’s eyes flickered towards the exit, then back to Holmes. “Stay,” he said in a not entirely convincing tone.
“You are not held by any obligatory reimbursement-”
“I know.”
Holmes considered taking his leave anyway, but the newfound resolution in Watson’s stare convinced him otherwise. He moved aside, and Watson approached the basin. Holmes maintained his eye level at a respectable height as Watson disrobed, but he couldn’t manage to restrain himself from wringing the towel in his hands as he did so.
Now exposed from the waist down, Watson faced the basin and set about cleaning his trousers and underpants, his movements carrying a subtle, but very present, air of nervous tension. Oddly enough, when Holmes’ eyes did stray downward, the first thing he took note of was the doctor’s scar on his inner right thigh. It was undoubtedly the wound he’d earned in the war that required a cane to support, and its physical attributes did nothing to belie the substantial damages it had caused. Just from the brief instant that Holmes allowed himself to behold the scar, he surmised that it was six inches in length, two and a half in width, and near the bottom it started to wrap around to the back of his leg.
“You never mentioned your battle wound being so significant,” Holmes observed.
Watson’s scrubbing quickened. “I don’t consider myself a prideful man, but I do posses an ego and you mentioning my scar first when I’m bare and under your scrutiny does not help to soothe it.”
“Oh, yes, I do beg your pardon,” Holmes prepared himself to try again. “Good heavens, Watson, why do you bother with the use of a cane?”
Watson’s laughter only escaped from him for a second before he reeled it in, but he couldn’t get rid of his smile quite as easily. Dipping his fingers in the basin, he flicked the water at Holmes before going on about his task.
Holmes took his time, dabbing his face with the towel as he stood up and began to walk idly about the room. Finding himself in a choice position, Holmes wound up the cloth with his hands and snapped it directly on Watson’s left butt cheek without breaking his stride. The doctor jumped at the mild pain and froze. Holmes continued on his journey around the room, his attention purposefully elsewhere. When seconds passed and no retaliation came, Holmes allowed himself a small smirk of victory.
And then a pair of wet trousers landed promptly on his head.
Holmes ceased his walk and removed the garment, his expression nothing short of dignified. “How kind of you, Watson, I am in need of another pair of daily trousers.”
Watson’s triumphant expression fell instantly. “Holmes,” he swore, slowly moving towards him, “That was fair play. Give them back.”
“I always fancied this color,” Holmes mused as he coyly stepped out of the doctor’s reach.
“You’re taunting a wounded war veteran.”
“Wounded? I thought you wanted to discuss your cane.”
Watson dove for his trousers and managed to grab hold of a pant leg before Holmes could pull away. Caught in a rough game of tug-of-war, Watson launched another attack and this time succeeded in tackling Holmes to the ground. They rolled and tumbled back and forth, grappling for dominance and insisting the fight was deadly serious in spite of their occasional bouts of laughter. A keen sucker punch named Watson the victor, and he stood up with the prize in-hand.
Gasping for air, Holmes rolled onto his back and propped himself up with his elbows. “The match was hardly even, you’re of military breeding.”
Watson scoffed. “What of that cunning martial art you use whenever you get the chance?”
“I never apply advanced techniques when my opponent is so notably vulnerable.”
Watson was lost at first, then mildly abashed to find that he was still on a most intimate display.
He instinctively covered himself with his trousers. “They should be clean now,” he said with a cough, turning and snatching his underpants to get dressed.
Holmes remained where he was for a few moments, allowing himself to contemplate the vision before him. He was struck by the eccentric sort of perfection he found in being able to watch Watson dress himself. It was a liberty he had never fathomed would move him so, yet as surely as he was lying on the ground, he was taking great enjoyment in nothing more than observing as the doctor tended to his needs. Even more peculiar, the draw to this moment was not encouraged by any wanting of the physical nature. That’s not to say this sort of reaction was all together uncommon when Holmes looked on the other man, but it was not one he imagined to experience, given the current circumstances.
“Would you care to stay?” Holmes asked suddenly, surprising even himself with the question.
Watson, now dressed, sat down to put on his shoes, arching an eyebrow in the detective’s direction. “Do you mean stay the night?”
Holmes did his best to sound casual. “The hour is late, and the majority of my wardrobe rightfully belongs to you…”
“I can’t,” Watson replied, growing solemn. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Holmes sat up farther so he could lean on his hands. “I’m not suggesting anything of lewd character.”
Watson shook his head. “I can’t risk Mary discovering my whereabouts of the past month.”
The mention of her name resulted in an inescapable end of the discussion. Having finished with his shoes, Watson stood and went to the door.
“Right, of course,” Holmes agreed as he pushed himself up from the floor. “I’ve no fathomable reason why the scenario even came to mind.”
Watson gently opened the door, turned back to Holmes, and they reluctantly traded knowing glances. Telepathy was painfully absent at this moment, but Holmes still managed to glean the impression that Watson was not departing by choice.
This fact would be of small solace when he was alone a few seconds later.
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut.
Beta: anoncomment7
Summary: The thought of loving a man more than startles Watson. Holmes leads the way.
Previous: Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6
Chapter Seven:
--Later the same day--
“Has it always been customary for the Chief of Police to mimic brain patterns identical to the murder victim’s?”
Inspector Lestrade was not amused by Holmes’ inquiry. The detective sat down in his most adored chair and swung his legs up on the small table in front of it, his pointed stare shooting needles into the man standing before him.
“It was an honest mistake,” Lestrade tried to explain for the third time since he’d arrived.
Holmes rested his elbows on the chair’s arm rests. “My extremely enviable deductive powers are hired to find solutions to even the most cryptic and laborious enigmas. However, as glorious as the inner workings of my mind have proven to be, even they are rendered ineffective in solving a puzzle when a piece of said puzzle is never presented.”
The distant sound of the front door opening kept Lestrade from replying.
When the door closed, Watson’s voice followed soon after. “Holmes?”
A part of the detective instinctively relaxed as he called out, “In my room, conversing with a circus primate!”
“Lestrade’s visiting again, is he?”
The Inspector glared at Holmes, who simply beamed back at him with a proud smile. Watson entered the room with his usual stride, his coat and hat having already been taken off and hung next to the front door.
“Good evening, Lestrade,” Watson greeted. “I take it you’ve brought some unfavorable news?”
Holmes sat forward on the edge of his seat, speaking with a keen interest that only served to mock. “Yes, Inspector, if you would be so kind as to share the details once more. I’m suffocating with anticipation to hear them again, myself.”
Lestrade’s scowl lingered on Holmes for a few extra moments before he turned to Watson and explained. “When the body of Mr. Barrington was first attended to by my officers, one of the men noticed a slip of folded parchment on the floor and picked it up to be handed off to the proper authority later. Except that he did not remember to do so until this afternoon.”
When Lestrade didn’t immediately continue, Holmes prodded him on. “And what, prey tell, was written on this miraculous parchment?”
“It was a note from Mr. Barrington, containing information that he had given his collection of ships to his daughter in Sussex.”
“And…?”
Lestrade cleared his throat. “And that he wished to take his own life by cyanide consumption.”
Watson had to look down to hide his smile.
Holmes slapped his knee and stood up. “In light of the scientifically proven fact that the victim was indeed slain by cyanide, I should venture that it wouldn’t take a lobotomized mule, or in this case an inspector, to conclude that the perpetrator of Mr. Barrington’s passing was,” he paused, then said in a hissed whisper, “Mister…Barrington.”
By now Watson’s shoulders were lightly shaking with silent laughter.
Lestrade picked up his hat. “I came to inform you of this development, and I have done so. Good evening, Holmes. Good evening, Watson.”
“I will, of course, still receive my previously arranged fee,” Holmes assured the inspector. “You have vehemently wasted my time, and I will waste your money with equal vigor.” Lestrade reluctantly nodded and began his escape, but the detective followed him to his doorway. “I believe Gladstone has always wanted to be a police officer, would he be allowed to enlist?” Now Holmes had to yell after him. “Or are you fearful of a dog overtaking your esteemed position too quickly?”
The front door slammed shut with a particularly harsh ardor. Holmes drummed his fingertips on the door frame in agitation. Coincidentally, as he turned to Watson the movement slowed, and then stopped entirely. Although he often experienced this type of inner harmony when he would first rest eyes on the man’s bewitching countenance in a private setting, the sensation never failed to exhilarate him.
Holmes then realized that he had come upon a unique quandary. He wanted to greet his companion properly, extend a hand or offer some sort of verbal salutation, but that sort of gesture seemed to lack the appropriate familiarity with which they had become gradually accustomed. Of course, to instigate a welcome that did justice to their new levels of affinity could bring about an undesired communication of assumption or coercion, and this knowledge rendered Holmes momentarily immobilized.
To his sudden awe, the doctor took it upon himself to solve the matter. Stepping forward, Watson carefully took the detective’s hand and placed a brief, warm kiss across his knuckles. Holmes’ breath escaped him as he was taken by a curious, humble state of wonder. Watson looked up, but did not release his tender grip.
“Good evening, Watson,” Holmes whispered.
Each observed the other, wordlessly evaluating with a soft, even stare.
“It struck me,” Watson said quietly, “as a suitable action.”
The corner of Holmes’ mouth twitched with a grin. “Your instinct is exemplary.”
A moment of suspended silence passed between them. When it seemed they had both found the answer to their unasked question, there was no more cause for hesitation.
They fell into each other’s bodies simultaneously. Holmes wrapped his arms around Watson’s neck, bracing a hand on the back of his head as he guided their mouths together. Tongues danced and massaged, aching as if it had been years since the last encounter. Watson hugged the detective to his body, and Holmes drowned in the invigorating feel of the crushing embrace. Holmes’ free hand seized and gripped the muscles in Watson’s shoulder, moaning with surprised approval when he felt the same treatment unleashed on his back. Losing their balance, they stumbled backward and Holmes found himself pinning Watson to the wall. The impact having broken the kiss, Holmes went to recapture the doctor’s mouth, but Watson sharply turned away. Tangled in a mess of limbs, Holmes’ brow furrowed as perplexity crept into Watson’s stare. Whatever gave the doctor pause was evidently not something to which words easily lent themselves. Compromising position aside, Holmes waited dutifully, keenly aware of their close proximity and exercising his well developed capacity for self restraint.
Watson breathed, his mind working. “Holmes…I don’t…”
“If it is distance you require…” Holmes trailed off as he started to push himself from the wall.
“No,” Watson insisted, pulling him close, “I need this.”
Holmes searched the other man’s eyes, and what he discovered there caused his heart to swiftly ascend into his trachea. The clear and undiluted desire radiating back at him was enough to threaten the stability of his legs, and it did just that to a magnificent extent.
Maintaining Watson’s gaze, Holmes silently moved a hand between them. When he felt the tough leather of the doctor’s belt, his nimble fingers made quick work of the buckle. Alarm suddenly streaked over Watson’s face as he grabbed Holmes’ wrist. Now the detective was thoroughly confounded.
Then, almost as if telepathy had thought to grace them with its presence, Holmes was struck with certain clarity.
Whatever the action taken, it had to be accomplished with clothing in place.
“How is this…?” Watson began hesitantly, loathe to admit his own naïve ignorance, “…gone about?”
Holmes cocked his head to the side. “You mean to tell me you’ve never pursued such endeavors before?”
“Not with anyone so ill-equipped,” Watson fired back.
“Watson,” the detective said, taken back by the unexpected retort, “was that levity at an inappropriate time?”
“Do you want me to change my mind about this?”
“I shall find myself severely incapacitated if you should.”
“Then tell me what I bloody have to do!”
Holmes shifted, positioning himself between Watson’s legs. “Before I can properly instruct, I have an inquiry of a delicate nature that must be put forth.”
Watson narrowed his eyes. “Are you really asking if I’ll answer a personal question while you have me pinned to a wall?”
“I wouldn’t want to offend.”
Watson let out a short, agitated exhale. “You may ask.”
“Have you made use of a whore house?”
“Yes,” Watson answered directly.
“Wonderful, then this will be made considerably easier to achieve.” Holmes braced his hands against the wall at either side of the doctor’s head. “The rhythm is very much akin to one utilized in a whore house. Take hold of my waist.”
Watson did as instructed, and Holmes provided an example by slowly thrusting against him. The sensation wrought from such friction made them both shudder visibly. Watson only seemed uncomfortable for the briefest of moments.
“Once rhythm is established,” Holmes continued, his breathing a touch more labored than before, “the rest falls into place.”
Taking initiative, Watson leaned his forehead against the detective’s, solidified his grip, and pressed his hips up and forward. Holmes met the movement with a thrust of his own, moaning through gritted teeth.
“Watson,” he gasped, “you are a most singular pupil.”
They continued pressing against each other gradually, deliberately. Fabric rubbed fabric as the buck and writhe of their motions sent waves of arousal pulsing through Holmes’ body. Stiffening against Watson’s hip, he dropped his head to the doctor’s shoulder, panting. Lust battled with disbelief as they moved in time with each other, and soon Holmes felt a similar pressure digging into him as well. His hardness began to throb, sliding along side Watson’s, causing a wicked euphoria and demanding more immediate action.
The contact was maddeningly dull, forcing them to work harder for their pleasure. They only slipped out of synch once or twice before settling into a solid cadence. Watson’s heaving breath spilled over Holmes’ ear and neck, driving the detective to quicken his thrusts without realizing. Eagerly matching the increasing speed, Watson’s grip remained firm and steadfast. Holmes grunted with effort as he the pressure building deep inside of him, pushing closer and closer to the edge with every passing second. Watson moved his hands to Holmes’ back, pulling them closer together to increase the pressure as their thrusting turned desperate, reckless. On the brink, Holmes lifted his head and stole the kiss he had been denied earlier, tongues and teeth colliding in a mess of passion. The new stimulation was too much, and they exclaimed into each other’s mouths as they came. Holmes turned his head, gasping for air as an orgasm clamped down on his entire body, their motions now furious and driving. Watson threw his head back against the wall, jaw clenched in gorgeous agony. In a flurry of movement they rode through their climaxes. Finally spent, they sagged against the wall with great relief.
Their breathing was mutually loud and harsh for a considerable period of time, after which Holmes became aware that the side of his face was pressed against Watson’s and he was staring at a wall from point blank range. Pulling back, Holmes was now able to look the other man clear in the face.
Tentatively, very tentatively, Holmes leaned forward. Watson met him halfway, and their unmoving lips met for a few delicate moments. When their lips parted, he could see in the doctor’s eyes that no security had been found, no lucidity embraced, but deep in those hazel irises something had been satiated, solidified.
Holmes carefully extricated himself from their convoluted position and stepped back to allow breathing room for both of them. Leaning away from the wall, Watson straightened his rumpled jacket, trying to reinstall decorum to his appearance, when he noticed the stain that now marred his trousers. The doctor’s cheeks flushed red. Holmes tried his damndest not to find the instance so incredibly endearing, but failed miserably.
Making a sound in his throat, Holmes said, “The bathroom is, of course, yours to make use of. I’ve found the dedicated use of soap and water a necessity.”
Watson glanced up for a moment, his blush only beginning to fade. “Shouldn’t you tend to your clothes as well?” he asked, clearly shocked that he was saying such words.
“I have an entire wardrobe at my disposal, my laundry is not a priority,” Holmes replied kindly. He was completely unable to hide his amusement at the surreal conversation.
Watson started for the door, pausing as an idea seemed to strike him. Holmes watched as Watson turned the thought over in his head, examining it thoroughly. The detective knew precisely what Watson must be considering, for the same notion had tickled his imagination when he had given his brief instructional lecture a few scant minutes ago. Thankfully, this time Holmes was able to render his vocal chords motionless, allowing Watson to arrive at his own conclusion.
At last, Watson made eye contact. “You don’t have to wait to remedy your clothes,” he stated decisively.
Holmes looked startled as he stepped forward and stood in front of the doctor. “Two gentlemen in the same room without their trousers firmly in place? Your frequent tendency for profane activity is becoming frightfully worrisome.” Watson narrowed his eyes in a warning glare, and Holmes calmly reached out with one hand, adjusting the man’s tie. “Whatever brings you comfort.”
Holmes led the way to the bathroom.
Watson was the one to close the door behind them when they arrive at their destination. Holmes made his way over to the pitcher and basin near the bathtub, relieved to find the former still full of water. He filled the basin with the cool liquid, set the pitcher aside, and snatched the bar of soap from its holder. Turning to Watson, who was standing quietly, he raised his eyebrows to ask who should have the pleasure of disrobing first. When Holmes saw the downright shaky expression on his counterpart, he knew that it was up to him take the lead. Tossing the soap in the basin, he set about undoing his belt buckle.
When the decision that this event occur had first been made, Holmes’ initial instinct was to take his time, ease into it for the sake of Watson’s justifiable hesitance. After only a few short seconds of rumination he changed his mind. Watson would be much better suited and feel infinitely more at ease if this were handled without pomp and circumstance adding undue pressure to the both of them.
Still, this train of thought did not keep Holmes from holding his breath as he pulled his trousers and underpants down and off in one fell swoop.
Determined to remain casual, Holmes continued his business as if nothing remotely monumental was taking place. Separating the two garments, he placed his trousers to the side while he tended to his underpants. To do this he had to turn his back to Watson and, even though Holmes was of the opinion that his hind parts were nothing to feel embarrassed over, a pang of self-consciousness stabbed him in the gut. He was eternally thankful when Watson decided to break the silence.
“Have you ever done this before?” the doctor asked, his voice slightly and curiously hoarse.
Holmes glanced over his shoulder, pretending not to notice Watson’s wandering eye as he rubbed the soap into the stained area of his pants. “Are you referring to the washing or the unveiling?”
Watson snapped his focus back up to Holmes’ face. “The unveiling.”
“There are a great many things I have yet to indulge in,” Holmes replied, turning his attention back to his work, “and, until very recently, this particular action was indeed on that list.”
“How many opportunities have you had for,” Watson had to force the word out, “buggery?”
“Is there an aspect of exposed flesh that brings out the inquirer in you, Watson?” Holmes teased as he switched out the clean underpants for the dirty trousers.
“It’s helping me keep hold of my wits, yes.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want you to let go of those.”
“Answer the question,” Watson insisted.
Holmes smiled at his companion’s authoritative tone. “Over the course of so many years it’s difficult to provide an exact number, but I should imagine the final estimate to land somewhere between seven and ten individuals, only one of whom I had occasion to meet more than once.”
Watson shifted his position. “And this bears no weight on your conscience?”
Holmes’ halted his movements. Watson possessed an innate knack for throwing him off guard at the most peculiar times, and this instance was no different.
Pressing forward, Holmes continued washing. “It has taken me the span of two decades to stop questioning the morality of my inherent traits.”
“Those experiences led you to that conclusion?”
Holmes decided the underpants were clean enough and shook them out, pulling them back over his legs. He was blatantly avoiding the question posed to him, and he foolishly clung to the unlikely fantasy that his tactic would succeed.
A few moments later he was fully dressed and motioning to the basin. Watson was still in the same place across the room, only now he had his arms folded across his chest and an assertive look upon his face. The doctor would obviously not be satisfied with silence as a response and, given the situation, he had every right to require such information. Holmes picked up a towel from the edge of the bathtub and started drying his hands to hide his nerves.
“Those were brief encounters,” Holmes disclosed, “no names were exchanged or details given, and the meetings existed solely for the purpose of physical relief. It was not they who put my mind to rest.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Watson accepted the weight of the admission with a great deal more tranquility than he could have anticipated, but there remained a part of him that was suitably unnerved. Holmes began to feel as if he was an intruder in his own lavatory.
The detective gestured to the door. “Your privacy has every right to be reclaimed.”
Watson’s eyes flickered towards the exit, then back to Holmes. “Stay,” he said in a not entirely convincing tone.
“You are not held by any obligatory reimbursement-”
“I know.”
Holmes considered taking his leave anyway, but the newfound resolution in Watson’s stare convinced him otherwise. He moved aside, and Watson approached the basin. Holmes maintained his eye level at a respectable height as Watson disrobed, but he couldn’t manage to restrain himself from wringing the towel in his hands as he did so.
Now exposed from the waist down, Watson faced the basin and set about cleaning his trousers and underpants, his movements carrying a subtle, but very present, air of nervous tension. Oddly enough, when Holmes’ eyes did stray downward, the first thing he took note of was the doctor’s scar on his inner right thigh. It was undoubtedly the wound he’d earned in the war that required a cane to support, and its physical attributes did nothing to belie the substantial damages it had caused. Just from the brief instant that Holmes allowed himself to behold the scar, he surmised that it was six inches in length, two and a half in width, and near the bottom it started to wrap around to the back of his leg.
“You never mentioned your battle wound being so significant,” Holmes observed.
Watson’s scrubbing quickened. “I don’t consider myself a prideful man, but I do posses an ego and you mentioning my scar first when I’m bare and under your scrutiny does not help to soothe it.”
“Oh, yes, I do beg your pardon,” Holmes prepared himself to try again. “Good heavens, Watson, why do you bother with the use of a cane?”
Watson’s laughter only escaped from him for a second before he reeled it in, but he couldn’t get rid of his smile quite as easily. Dipping his fingers in the basin, he flicked the water at Holmes before going on about his task.
Holmes took his time, dabbing his face with the towel as he stood up and began to walk idly about the room. Finding himself in a choice position, Holmes wound up the cloth with his hands and snapped it directly on Watson’s left butt cheek without breaking his stride. The doctor jumped at the mild pain and froze. Holmes continued on his journey around the room, his attention purposefully elsewhere. When seconds passed and no retaliation came, Holmes allowed himself a small smirk of victory.
And then a pair of wet trousers landed promptly on his head.
Holmes ceased his walk and removed the garment, his expression nothing short of dignified. “How kind of you, Watson, I am in need of another pair of daily trousers.”
Watson’s triumphant expression fell instantly. “Holmes,” he swore, slowly moving towards him, “That was fair play. Give them back.”
“I always fancied this color,” Holmes mused as he coyly stepped out of the doctor’s reach.
“You’re taunting a wounded war veteran.”
“Wounded? I thought you wanted to discuss your cane.”
Watson dove for his trousers and managed to grab hold of a pant leg before Holmes could pull away. Caught in a rough game of tug-of-war, Watson launched another attack and this time succeeded in tackling Holmes to the ground. They rolled and tumbled back and forth, grappling for dominance and insisting the fight was deadly serious in spite of their occasional bouts of laughter. A keen sucker punch named Watson the victor, and he stood up with the prize in-hand.
Gasping for air, Holmes rolled onto his back and propped himself up with his elbows. “The match was hardly even, you’re of military breeding.”
Watson scoffed. “What of that cunning martial art you use whenever you get the chance?”
“I never apply advanced techniques when my opponent is so notably vulnerable.”
Watson was lost at first, then mildly abashed to find that he was still on a most intimate display.
He instinctively covered himself with his trousers. “They should be clean now,” he said with a cough, turning and snatching his underpants to get dressed.
Holmes remained where he was for a few moments, allowing himself to contemplate the vision before him. He was struck by the eccentric sort of perfection he found in being able to watch Watson dress himself. It was a liberty he had never fathomed would move him so, yet as surely as he was lying on the ground, he was taking great enjoyment in nothing more than observing as the doctor tended to his needs. Even more peculiar, the draw to this moment was not encouraged by any wanting of the physical nature. That’s not to say this sort of reaction was all together uncommon when Holmes looked on the other man, but it was not one he imagined to experience, given the current circumstances.
“Would you care to stay?” Holmes asked suddenly, surprising even himself with the question.
Watson, now dressed, sat down to put on his shoes, arching an eyebrow in the detective’s direction. “Do you mean stay the night?”
Holmes did his best to sound casual. “The hour is late, and the majority of my wardrobe rightfully belongs to you…”
“I can’t,” Watson replied, growing solemn. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Holmes sat up farther so he could lean on his hands. “I’m not suggesting anything of lewd character.”
Watson shook his head. “I can’t risk Mary discovering my whereabouts of the past month.”
The mention of her name resulted in an inescapable end of the discussion. Having finished with his shoes, Watson stood and went to the door.
“Right, of course,” Holmes agreed as he pushed himself up from the floor. “I’ve no fathomable reason why the scenario even came to mind.”
Watson gently opened the door, turned back to Holmes, and they reluctantly traded knowing glances. Telepathy was painfully absent at this moment, but Holmes still managed to glean the impression that Watson was not departing by choice.
This fact would be of small solace when he was alone a few seconds later.