FIC: HOLMES/WATSON (8 of 12)
Title: Uncharted
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut. Slow-building.
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 7
Chapter Eight:
--Four days later--
Darkness. All around you is darkness. A sound beckons, though it comes from no direction. A light flickers, though it is not visible. A hand grabs, though belongs to no one. You are dragged by the core. No heat. No life. Only surviving. Alive.
You blaze ahead in search of truth. You blaze ahead to grasp the truth. You blaze ahead and free the truth.
Truth divides.
Color. All around you is color. A sound beckons it comes from the left. A light flickers it blinds your eyes. A hand grabs it is the divine. You are touched to the core. So warm. So aware. Only condemned. Fallen.
Watson was brought into consciousness by a gentle touch. His eyes fluttered open to behold Holmes sitting next to him with an unmistakably amused expression. He was startled for a moment, then remembered the events prior to his awakening and let out a brief sigh.
"Should I perceive this as a belated acceptance to my previous request?" Holmes asked with the faintest of grins.
Watson rubbed his eyes. "If it was, this would be a slightly odd way to go about it."
"Point acknowledged," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "You arrive to find me absent and proceed to make use of my pallet. Tell me, Watson, are you aware of a story involving three bears and a tiny blonde girl? You haven't eaten all my porridge, have you?"
Watson sat up to get his bearings. "I only laid down to try and find out why you haven't bought a proper bed yet."
"From the sound of your cacophonous snoring I should venture you found it."
"I do not snore," Watson defended, "You snore."
Holmes stood up from the floor and offered his hand. "I'm afraid I am completely ignorant as to what you are referring."
Watson looked up at him. "I had to buy two extra pillows to cover my ears with at night just for the chance of sleeping through all the noise."
"I was afflicted with a sinus infection and you have a distinct flare for melodrama. Now are you going to accept my help or have you volunteered to act as my new foot stool?"
Glaring with feigned austerity, Watson took the outstretched hand and let Holmes pull him to his feet. He felt his injured leg give a little and he leaned on Holmes for support.
With the extra contact came a flood of memories.
Watson's pulse quickened, the blood rushing to his head. As he clasped the detective's hand, meeting the inviting brown eyes with his own, it seemed almost farcical that he could have forgotten what had brought him here. Every single one of the familiar battling emotions rose up in his chest and, for a brief instant, they robbed his ability to speak.
Holmes watched all of this, relief welling up in his eyes. "There you are," he breathed, "for a moment I'd thought you left me."
Watson swallowed hard, torn between stepping away for comfort and moving in closer for the same reason. Holmes decided for him, pulling back to allow space between them as he looked away.
At the last second, Watson tightened his hold, causing Holmes' focus to snap back to the doctor. There it was again, buzzing through his veins. That drive, that need which consumed him with as much trepidation as it did excitement had returned with terrific vigor.
Watson let go at last, but he didn't move. He watched his timid hand as it carefully slid up and over Holmes' chest, coming to a rest between the neck and shoulder. Watson drew himself to Holmes, and they met in a gradual, penetrative kiss.
Holmes helplessly dissolved into the fragile rhythm, splaying his hands across Watson's lower back and pulling their waists together. Bringing his free hand to the side of Holmes' face, Watson trembled from the almost painfully slow motions of their mouths. He softly rocked his body forward and their torsos pressed against each other, swaying slightly from the shift in balance. Holmes' lips drifted then, straying from their main purpose and trailing over Watson's jaw line.
A calm shockwave swept over Watson's skin as Holmes began decadent, deliberate work on the flesh of his neck. One hand drifting into Holmes' hair, Watson gripped and released, his breaths long and shaky.
Holmes straightened up just enough so that he could speak into Watson's ear. "Would you mind," he murmured, "if I proposed a suggestion?"
Watson's voice was dry, uneven. "No."
Holmes reached up and took the hand from behind his head. "Please follow me."
Watson allowed himself to be led, in too much of a trance to realize where he was headed. When he blinked out of the daze and his thoughts returned, he found himself in the loo. He looked around, having no clue as to what was happening until Holmes closed the door and went to the bathtub, twisting the handle to start the water flow. Liquid splashed into the old, cracked claw foot tub, and the muscles along Watson's spine tensed at the sound. He now knew what was being asked of him.
Holmes slid his hands into his pockets, turning to face Watson. "If this is too bold, it can be easily ended."
Watson's eyes traveled from Holmes to the bathtub, then back again. In the far reaches of his mind he could faintly hear urgent threats and warnings, and deep in some part of him he knew he should listen. But when he looked at Holmes, when he felt that impulse, he couldn't be deterred.
Watson took off his jacket.
As he worked on undoing his vest, he could see by the look of undiluted awe on Holmes' face that a positive answer hadn't necessarily been expected. Watson slid his vest off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, the soft sound bringing the detective back to life.
Holmes soon followed suit, and they disrobed quietly. Watson's hands shook as he lifted his shirt over his head and it joined his vest and jacket on the floor. By the time all that remained on the men were their underpants, Watson thought his heart might beat right out of his chest.
A few simple seconds later, they stood bare in front of each other.
In the past few weeks they had seen, touched, and rubbed, but nothing could compare to the surge of energy that overtook them in that moment. Neither dared to move.
Momentarily paralyzed for whatever reason, Watson let his eyes roam over the man in front of him. Holmes seemed to be touched by self-consciousness, averting his gaze every now and then in an attempt to escape the tension. Seeing this, and knowing that even Holmes was at odds allowed him to breathe a little easier, if only for an instant.
The tub had filled, and Holmes turned, cutting off the water flow. When they made eye contact again, Holmes had reclaimed his fortitude. Offering his hand for the second time that evening, he waited for a response.
Watson stepped forward, reached out, and Holmes pulled him into a firm embrace. The feel of naked skin pressed to naked skin forced a gasp out of Watson as Holmes held him tight, tighter. For a fleeting moment panic flared in Watson's gut and his arms moved to push himself away, but a reassuring hand from Holmes on the back of his head quelled any anxiety that threatened to tear him out of the moment.
After what must have been a solid minute, they stepped back from each other. Holmes took hold of the bathtub and stepped into the water, settling his back up against one end. Holding his breath, Watson did the same, leaning his back up against the other end and drawing his knees up so they could have proper room.
The warm water swirled from the movement, and soon stilled. They stared at each other, seeming to expect something to happen even though they were both absolutely inert. In the dense quiet, all Watson could hear were his warring thoughts echoing off the walls, dragging him back and forth from one conclusion to another. Try as he might, he could not persuade his mind to rest.
Watson spoke mainly as a means to break the silence. "Would you mind saying something?"
Holmes lifted his arms out of the water and rested them on the edges of the tub. "Did you have a specific phrase to request, or will any combination of verbs and nouns be suitable?"
Watson decided quickly. "Any combination."
Holmes looked around the room as he blew air between his lips. "My shrewd tendencies are preventing me from considering a subject that wouldn't result in you fleeing from this bath. Would it be too laborious to decide on a topic?"
"What would cause me to flee from this bath?" Watson wondered aloud.
"At this moment? Any number of things, I should imagine. Improper word choice, being reminded of exactly where you are and what actions you have decided to partake, my leg accidentally brushing yours "
"You're right; I do want to leave now."
Holmes tilted his head. "I thought you appreciated my charmingly impetuous banter?"
"I thought you were capable of handling this situation with its due sincerity?"
"What on earth gave you that impression?"
"I've no idea."
There was no outward sign of enjoyment; such an indication was hardly necessary.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Left with only his thoughts, a particularly specific image crept into Watson's mind. Looking away, he tried to push the concept out, ignore it until he could busy his thinking with something anything else.
Before he could succeed, Holmes spoke up, "I will not refuse."
Watson came back down to reality. "I'm sorry?"
"Whatever scheme you're attempting to rationalize yourself out of executing," Holmes clarified, "I will not refuse."
"How could you know of any scheme?" Watson asked honestly.
Holmes had to smile. "I have had the privilege of being in your company more times than can be counted. You may trust that I can distinguish the instances where your mind is engaged in a challenging decision and when it is at true relaxation." His eyes shined. "If you wish something of me, you need only make me aware."
Watson arrived at a conclusion far more swiftly than he would have anticipated. "I was debating changing my position."
"This is somewhat of an extraordinary time to be contemplating your political stance."
"In the tub."
"Oh, well that makes a great deal more sense."
Watson glared; Holmes beamed.
With an air of the utmost defiance, Watson sat up from his place, turned around, and slapped his back against Holmes' chest, his abrupt movement sending water sloshing onto the floor. Watson maintained a stern outlook with his head leaning back on Holmes' left shoulder, eyes to the ceiling. His expression only changed when he felt something slick slide across his chest without warning. Starting at the sensation, he looked down to find soap being guided over his skin by an all-too-familiar right hand.
"I thought your soiled attitude could stand a collision with cleanliness," Holmes said, his tone docile.
All at once, Watson became unbearably cognizant of the position he had gotten himself into. He felt his shoulders resting against smooth pectorals, his spine running down the length of a soft, sculpted stomach. Somewhere in all of the business, Watson's hands had come to rest on Holmes' legs. He turned his head to the right to find the side of Holmes' face bent down to keep an eye on his handiwork. When Watson expected to bolt upright, he felt himself sink further into Holmes' body, heated water lapping up against the top of his ribcage. Holmes' cleansing was deep, thorough, almost a massage.
Words floated out of Watson. "When did you first take notice of me?"
Holmes kept his voice low. "I'm going to assume you're not speaking of when I first noticed you as a worthy associate, but to justify one I must explain the other." He drew in a solid breath, Watson rising and falling with the motion. "When we first began working together, I saw the potential of us becoming a formidable pair. Despite the many discrepancies that one is bound to uncover when comparing our individual characteristics, we are of like minds, you and I. Your assistance was of tremendous value on cases, and your company has been of the only variety I have ever absolutely appreciated." Holmes' hand came to an eventual resting placed. "But I suppose I didn't truly notice you until one month after we began sharing a residence. I was practicing a concerto on my violin at four o'clock on a Saturday morning when you came into my room looking fiercely put out. I asked what was wrong with a little violin and you said 'A violin I can handle, Holmes, but dying cats are another matter entirely.' You then proceeded to wrestle the bow out of my hand and stormed out." Watson scoffed fondly, and Holmes continued, his tone now laced with nostalgia. "To this day I can't pin point precisely what about that occurrence triggered such a reaction, but ever since then I have nursed the foolish aspiration that something similar to this very night should come to pass."
"That was the better part of a year ago," Watson observed, scowling lightly.
Holmes set the soap aside and began scooping water on Watson's chest to wash away the residue. "So it was."
Watson stopped him, covering Holmes' hand with his own. They stayed like this for a long while, their breathing in tandem, and their bodies still.
Lulled into a near hypnotic state, Watson relived the incident in his mind. He could recall the immense irritation, the pure sense of chagrin he had felt that morning when he was roused by the loud, harmonious wails of Holmes' violin. In actuality, the detective's playing was quite pleasant; likening it to dying cats was hardly fair. The hour at which Holmes decided to hone his craft had been the only issue, and Watson was admittedly short-tempered if circumstances interrupted his sleep. He tried to reason why that memory, out of so many they had made together, would give someone cause to notice a person in a different light, especially when the new perspective was so far outside normal parameters. Come to think of it, Holmes' behavior hadn't even indicated anything of significant importance being discovered; he didn't even put up much of a struggle when Watson seized the violin.
Watson's head lifted slightly at that thought. Perhaps he'd been too quick to dismiss Holmes' reaction from that night. Whenever Holmes' violin was involved, the idea of 'excessive force' was nonexistent if it meant protecting the instrument or keeping it in his possession. But Watson distinctly remembered the fight for the violin being of small consequence. Could that instant truly be explained by the revelation Holmes confessed to bearing during that brief encounter? Watson began searching all of the past experiences with Holmes that he could think of: the rooms catching on fire, bickering over stolen clothing, Gladstone's numerous mistreatments. All of which he had gone over before in search of indications of his telling signs, but he hadn't thought to examine Holmes' behavior until now. Tiny things, little revealing happenings, flickered across Watson's memory, and there were so many of them that the magnitude and implication could not be ignored. Holmes had honestly carried a unique opinion of Watson through the span of nearly twelve months. These recent events could have unfolded at any time, but Holmes had stayed silent, doing his absolute best to spare them of the dangerous conflict they were now a part of. The amount of loyalty and compelled determination required to keep such a secret was nothing short of staggering, and Holmes had endured this all on Watson's behalf. Even to this night, Holmes had made no complaints.
Watson moved slowly, the motivation to act quieting any other disturbance in his mind. Turning to Holmes, he closed his eyes and pressed their mouths together. Their hands remained in place as they mingled carefully, kindly. To their mutual disbelief, Watson didn't shy away when their tongues accidentally brushed each other. Instead, he encouraged the contact, probing forward, searching for more. Holmes tilted his head, the new angle allowing him to meet Watson's advances with a piercing kiss of his own. The further depth elicited a small moan from Watson as his heart skipped a beat. He pushed a little harder into Holmes' mouth, tension building in his muscles. Holmes met the strength evenly, craning his neck to explore all that Watson could offer. The water moved with them as Watson grasped Holmes' hand, struggling to hold onto his last shred of composure.
Watson leaned back from the kiss, their lips hovering mere centimeters apart. "Holmes."
Holmes' mouth grazed Watson's as he replied, "I am at a loss for action without your instruction."
Gulping down air, Watson summoned his nerve. He slowly began to guide Holmes' hand down over his chest his ribs his stomach.
Now within reach, Holmes took an easy hold of Watson's shaft. Watson shuddered, hardening quickly. With his other hand, Holmes reached for the soap and began to work it in his palm, coating his skin with a thick lubricant before putting it back. He shifted them both, trading his rough touch for the slick. Watson let out a heaving moan as Holmes slid over him with slippery ease, teasing and rubbing to a deliriously intoxicating effect. Reaching up, Watson braced a hand on the back of the man's neck, arching his back into the pleasure. Holmes leaned his arm on the side of the tub for a better advantage, now gripping and pumping with a steady rhythm. Writhing at the wicked touch, water splattered onto Watson's chest, threatening to splash over the sides. Holmes picked up his pace, and the arm Watson had reaching behind him was quickly slapped down, his palm landing on the back of Holmes' free hand. He interlaced their fingers and they both gripped with an insistent fervor. Holmes buried his face into Watson's neck, his hand sliding faster, clenching harder. Watson stifled a raspy cry of ecstasy as he came, the all-consuming sensation unrelenting in its crushing force. Holmes' pace never faltered, coaxing every spasm and gasp he could wrench from Watson's trembling body until the wave of rapture had finally passed.
Watson's chest heaved as the world slowly started returning to him. He only allowed himself a brief moment's rest before hauling himself out of the spoiled water. Holmes stood up after him, quick to offer support when the doctor's legs buckled. Watson climbed out of the tub and collapsed into the nearest chair he could find as Holmes followed, grabbing a towel and tossing it in Watson's direction before finding one of his own. They covered themselves, mostly out of habit, and Watson felt something devious start to sink into his mind. Holmes reached into the tub to pull out the drain plug.
His wits barely collected, Watson sat forward. "Would you mind terribly if I reciprocated?"
Holmes was so startled he nearly fell in the tub. "Watson!" He yanked out the plug and turned to the doctor. "The last thing I imagined to hear from you was witticism."
"I'm not joking," Watson promised, thinking for a second. "Although, I do admit the phrasing was intended to throw you."
Watson watched knowingly as Holmes glanced down in a failed attempt to try and keep his enthusiasm from bubbling to the surface. When their eyes met again, Holmes' stare still glinted with playfulness, but now an undercurrent of gravity was coursing beneath.
"The hour is late," Holmes pointed out, "Needn't you depart?"
Watson's face fell slightly as his frisky demeanor faltered. It had already been of a considerably late hour when he arrived, and now it was certain to be the dead of night. He would have to leave now if he wanted to be home before the streets turned unsavory, which meant that if he stayed any longer he would be sleeping here. The thought of the latter result made his stomach churn, but he was shocked to find that the sensation was not wrought from an all together unpleasant feeling.
Watson took a deep breath, the offer jumping out of him before he could think twice. "I could always elect to stay until the morning."
Holmes' entire body language softened. "When did you decide this?"
"Twenty seconds ago," Watson admitted, "And this isn't an arrangement involving-"
"No, no, definitely not. Unfathomable."
Giving Holmes a wry look, Watson lifted himself out of the chair, tying the towel around his waist. Holmes stood, watching curiously, as Watson crossed the small room and gave him a purposeful kiss, the kind meant to incite more than satisfy.
Holmes was a look of bewilderment. "I wonder what has seen fit to possess you," he thought aloud.
Watson's expression darkened, his brow furrowed. "I don't know."
The honesty in the statement made them both take pause. For a second time that evening, the emotions that had plagued him for the past month were starting to cloud Watson's mind, and he glanced away. He couldn't stand the thought of enduring such duality again, not yet. He needed time and, if he could just hold on to a few minutes of even the illusion of peace, he was certain he could find some clarity.
Grabbing Holmes by the neck, Watson forced their mouths together.
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut. Slow-building.
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 7
Chapter Eight:
--Four days later--
Darkness. All around you is darkness. A sound beckons, though it comes from no direction. A light flickers, though it is not visible. A hand grabs, though belongs to no one. You are dragged by the core. No heat. No life. Only surviving. Alive.
You blaze ahead in search of truth. You blaze ahead to grasp the truth. You blaze ahead and free the truth.
Truth divides.
Color. All around you is color. A sound beckons it comes from the left. A light flickers it blinds your eyes. A hand grabs it is the divine. You are touched to the core. So warm. So aware. Only condemned. Fallen.
Watson was brought into consciousness by a gentle touch. His eyes fluttered open to behold Holmes sitting next to him with an unmistakably amused expression. He was startled for a moment, then remembered the events prior to his awakening and let out a brief sigh.
"Should I perceive this as a belated acceptance to my previous request?" Holmes asked with the faintest of grins.
Watson rubbed his eyes. "If it was, this would be a slightly odd way to go about it."
"Point acknowledged," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "You arrive to find me absent and proceed to make use of my pallet. Tell me, Watson, are you aware of a story involving three bears and a tiny blonde girl? You haven't eaten all my porridge, have you?"
Watson sat up to get his bearings. "I only laid down to try and find out why you haven't bought a proper bed yet."
"From the sound of your cacophonous snoring I should venture you found it."
"I do not snore," Watson defended, "You snore."
Holmes stood up from the floor and offered his hand. "I'm afraid I am completely ignorant as to what you are referring."
Watson looked up at him. "I had to buy two extra pillows to cover my ears with at night just for the chance of sleeping through all the noise."
"I was afflicted with a sinus infection and you have a distinct flare for melodrama. Now are you going to accept my help or have you volunteered to act as my new foot stool?"
Glaring with feigned austerity, Watson took the outstretched hand and let Holmes pull him to his feet. He felt his injured leg give a little and he leaned on Holmes for support.
With the extra contact came a flood of memories.
Watson's pulse quickened, the blood rushing to his head. As he clasped the detective's hand, meeting the inviting brown eyes with his own, it seemed almost farcical that he could have forgotten what had brought him here. Every single one of the familiar battling emotions rose up in his chest and, for a brief instant, they robbed his ability to speak.
Holmes watched all of this, relief welling up in his eyes. "There you are," he breathed, "for a moment I'd thought you left me."
Watson swallowed hard, torn between stepping away for comfort and moving in closer for the same reason. Holmes decided for him, pulling back to allow space between them as he looked away.
At the last second, Watson tightened his hold, causing Holmes' focus to snap back to the doctor. There it was again, buzzing through his veins. That drive, that need which consumed him with as much trepidation as it did excitement had returned with terrific vigor.
Watson let go at last, but he didn't move. He watched his timid hand as it carefully slid up and over Holmes' chest, coming to a rest between the neck and shoulder. Watson drew himself to Holmes, and they met in a gradual, penetrative kiss.
Holmes helplessly dissolved into the fragile rhythm, splaying his hands across Watson's lower back and pulling their waists together. Bringing his free hand to the side of Holmes' face, Watson trembled from the almost painfully slow motions of their mouths. He softly rocked his body forward and their torsos pressed against each other, swaying slightly from the shift in balance. Holmes' lips drifted then, straying from their main purpose and trailing over Watson's jaw line.
A calm shockwave swept over Watson's skin as Holmes began decadent, deliberate work on the flesh of his neck. One hand drifting into Holmes' hair, Watson gripped and released, his breaths long and shaky.
Holmes straightened up just enough so that he could speak into Watson's ear. "Would you mind," he murmured, "if I proposed a suggestion?"
Watson's voice was dry, uneven. "No."
Holmes reached up and took the hand from behind his head. "Please follow me."
Watson allowed himself to be led, in too much of a trance to realize where he was headed. When he blinked out of the daze and his thoughts returned, he found himself in the loo. He looked around, having no clue as to what was happening until Holmes closed the door and went to the bathtub, twisting the handle to start the water flow. Liquid splashed into the old, cracked claw foot tub, and the muscles along Watson's spine tensed at the sound. He now knew what was being asked of him.
Holmes slid his hands into his pockets, turning to face Watson. "If this is too bold, it can be easily ended."
Watson's eyes traveled from Holmes to the bathtub, then back again. In the far reaches of his mind he could faintly hear urgent threats and warnings, and deep in some part of him he knew he should listen. But when he looked at Holmes, when he felt that impulse, he couldn't be deterred.
Watson took off his jacket.
As he worked on undoing his vest, he could see by the look of undiluted awe on Holmes' face that a positive answer hadn't necessarily been expected. Watson slid his vest off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, the soft sound bringing the detective back to life.
Holmes soon followed suit, and they disrobed quietly. Watson's hands shook as he lifted his shirt over his head and it joined his vest and jacket on the floor. By the time all that remained on the men were their underpants, Watson thought his heart might beat right out of his chest.
A few simple seconds later, they stood bare in front of each other.
In the past few weeks they had seen, touched, and rubbed, but nothing could compare to the surge of energy that overtook them in that moment. Neither dared to move.
Momentarily paralyzed for whatever reason, Watson let his eyes roam over the man in front of him. Holmes seemed to be touched by self-consciousness, averting his gaze every now and then in an attempt to escape the tension. Seeing this, and knowing that even Holmes was at odds allowed him to breathe a little easier, if only for an instant.
The tub had filled, and Holmes turned, cutting off the water flow. When they made eye contact again, Holmes had reclaimed his fortitude. Offering his hand for the second time that evening, he waited for a response.
Watson stepped forward, reached out, and Holmes pulled him into a firm embrace. The feel of naked skin pressed to naked skin forced a gasp out of Watson as Holmes held him tight, tighter. For a fleeting moment panic flared in Watson's gut and his arms moved to push himself away, but a reassuring hand from Holmes on the back of his head quelled any anxiety that threatened to tear him out of the moment.
After what must have been a solid minute, they stepped back from each other. Holmes took hold of the bathtub and stepped into the water, settling his back up against one end. Holding his breath, Watson did the same, leaning his back up against the other end and drawing his knees up so they could have proper room.
The warm water swirled from the movement, and soon stilled. They stared at each other, seeming to expect something to happen even though they were both absolutely inert. In the dense quiet, all Watson could hear were his warring thoughts echoing off the walls, dragging him back and forth from one conclusion to another. Try as he might, he could not persuade his mind to rest.
Watson spoke mainly as a means to break the silence. "Would you mind saying something?"
Holmes lifted his arms out of the water and rested them on the edges of the tub. "Did you have a specific phrase to request, or will any combination of verbs and nouns be suitable?"
Watson decided quickly. "Any combination."
Holmes looked around the room as he blew air between his lips. "My shrewd tendencies are preventing me from considering a subject that wouldn't result in you fleeing from this bath. Would it be too laborious to decide on a topic?"
"What would cause me to flee from this bath?" Watson wondered aloud.
"At this moment? Any number of things, I should imagine. Improper word choice, being reminded of exactly where you are and what actions you have decided to partake, my leg accidentally brushing yours "
"You're right; I do want to leave now."
Holmes tilted his head. "I thought you appreciated my charmingly impetuous banter?"
"I thought you were capable of handling this situation with its due sincerity?"
"What on earth gave you that impression?"
"I've no idea."
There was no outward sign of enjoyment; such an indication was hardly necessary.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Left with only his thoughts, a particularly specific image crept into Watson's mind. Looking away, he tried to push the concept out, ignore it until he could busy his thinking with something anything else.
Before he could succeed, Holmes spoke up, "I will not refuse."
Watson came back down to reality. "I'm sorry?"
"Whatever scheme you're attempting to rationalize yourself out of executing," Holmes clarified, "I will not refuse."
"How could you know of any scheme?" Watson asked honestly.
Holmes had to smile. "I have had the privilege of being in your company more times than can be counted. You may trust that I can distinguish the instances where your mind is engaged in a challenging decision and when it is at true relaxation." His eyes shined. "If you wish something of me, you need only make me aware."
Watson arrived at a conclusion far more swiftly than he would have anticipated. "I was debating changing my position."
"This is somewhat of an extraordinary time to be contemplating your political stance."
"In the tub."
"Oh, well that makes a great deal more sense."
Watson glared; Holmes beamed.
With an air of the utmost defiance, Watson sat up from his place, turned around, and slapped his back against Holmes' chest, his abrupt movement sending water sloshing onto the floor. Watson maintained a stern outlook with his head leaning back on Holmes' left shoulder, eyes to the ceiling. His expression only changed when he felt something slick slide across his chest without warning. Starting at the sensation, he looked down to find soap being guided over his skin by an all-too-familiar right hand.
"I thought your soiled attitude could stand a collision with cleanliness," Holmes said, his tone docile.
All at once, Watson became unbearably cognizant of the position he had gotten himself into. He felt his shoulders resting against smooth pectorals, his spine running down the length of a soft, sculpted stomach. Somewhere in all of the business, Watson's hands had come to rest on Holmes' legs. He turned his head to the right to find the side of Holmes' face bent down to keep an eye on his handiwork. When Watson expected to bolt upright, he felt himself sink further into Holmes' body, heated water lapping up against the top of his ribcage. Holmes' cleansing was deep, thorough, almost a massage.
Words floated out of Watson. "When did you first take notice of me?"
Holmes kept his voice low. "I'm going to assume you're not speaking of when I first noticed you as a worthy associate, but to justify one I must explain the other." He drew in a solid breath, Watson rising and falling with the motion. "When we first began working together, I saw the potential of us becoming a formidable pair. Despite the many discrepancies that one is bound to uncover when comparing our individual characteristics, we are of like minds, you and I. Your assistance was of tremendous value on cases, and your company has been of the only variety I have ever absolutely appreciated." Holmes' hand came to an eventual resting placed. "But I suppose I didn't truly notice you until one month after we began sharing a residence. I was practicing a concerto on my violin at four o'clock on a Saturday morning when you came into my room looking fiercely put out. I asked what was wrong with a little violin and you said 'A violin I can handle, Holmes, but dying cats are another matter entirely.' You then proceeded to wrestle the bow out of my hand and stormed out." Watson scoffed fondly, and Holmes continued, his tone now laced with nostalgia. "To this day I can't pin point precisely what about that occurrence triggered such a reaction, but ever since then I have nursed the foolish aspiration that something similar to this very night should come to pass."
"That was the better part of a year ago," Watson observed, scowling lightly.
Holmes set the soap aside and began scooping water on Watson's chest to wash away the residue. "So it was."
Watson stopped him, covering Holmes' hand with his own. They stayed like this for a long while, their breathing in tandem, and their bodies still.
Lulled into a near hypnotic state, Watson relived the incident in his mind. He could recall the immense irritation, the pure sense of chagrin he had felt that morning when he was roused by the loud, harmonious wails of Holmes' violin. In actuality, the detective's playing was quite pleasant; likening it to dying cats was hardly fair. The hour at which Holmes decided to hone his craft had been the only issue, and Watson was admittedly short-tempered if circumstances interrupted his sleep. He tried to reason why that memory, out of so many they had made together, would give someone cause to notice a person in a different light, especially when the new perspective was so far outside normal parameters. Come to think of it, Holmes' behavior hadn't even indicated anything of significant importance being discovered; he didn't even put up much of a struggle when Watson seized the violin.
Watson's head lifted slightly at that thought. Perhaps he'd been too quick to dismiss Holmes' reaction from that night. Whenever Holmes' violin was involved, the idea of 'excessive force' was nonexistent if it meant protecting the instrument or keeping it in his possession. But Watson distinctly remembered the fight for the violin being of small consequence. Could that instant truly be explained by the revelation Holmes confessed to bearing during that brief encounter? Watson began searching all of the past experiences with Holmes that he could think of: the rooms catching on fire, bickering over stolen clothing, Gladstone's numerous mistreatments. All of which he had gone over before in search of indications of his telling signs, but he hadn't thought to examine Holmes' behavior until now. Tiny things, little revealing happenings, flickered across Watson's memory, and there were so many of them that the magnitude and implication could not be ignored. Holmes had honestly carried a unique opinion of Watson through the span of nearly twelve months. These recent events could have unfolded at any time, but Holmes had stayed silent, doing his absolute best to spare them of the dangerous conflict they were now a part of. The amount of loyalty and compelled determination required to keep such a secret was nothing short of staggering, and Holmes had endured this all on Watson's behalf. Even to this night, Holmes had made no complaints.
Watson moved slowly, the motivation to act quieting any other disturbance in his mind. Turning to Holmes, he closed his eyes and pressed their mouths together. Their hands remained in place as they mingled carefully, kindly. To their mutual disbelief, Watson didn't shy away when their tongues accidentally brushed each other. Instead, he encouraged the contact, probing forward, searching for more. Holmes tilted his head, the new angle allowing him to meet Watson's advances with a piercing kiss of his own. The further depth elicited a small moan from Watson as his heart skipped a beat. He pushed a little harder into Holmes' mouth, tension building in his muscles. Holmes met the strength evenly, craning his neck to explore all that Watson could offer. The water moved with them as Watson grasped Holmes' hand, struggling to hold onto his last shred of composure.
Watson leaned back from the kiss, their lips hovering mere centimeters apart. "Holmes."
Holmes' mouth grazed Watson's as he replied, "I am at a loss for action without your instruction."
Gulping down air, Watson summoned his nerve. He slowly began to guide Holmes' hand down over his chest his ribs his stomach.
Now within reach, Holmes took an easy hold of Watson's shaft. Watson shuddered, hardening quickly. With his other hand, Holmes reached for the soap and began to work it in his palm, coating his skin with a thick lubricant before putting it back. He shifted them both, trading his rough touch for the slick. Watson let out a heaving moan as Holmes slid over him with slippery ease, teasing and rubbing to a deliriously intoxicating effect. Reaching up, Watson braced a hand on the back of the man's neck, arching his back into the pleasure. Holmes leaned his arm on the side of the tub for a better advantage, now gripping and pumping with a steady rhythm. Writhing at the wicked touch, water splattered onto Watson's chest, threatening to splash over the sides. Holmes picked up his pace, and the arm Watson had reaching behind him was quickly slapped down, his palm landing on the back of Holmes' free hand. He interlaced their fingers and they both gripped with an insistent fervor. Holmes buried his face into Watson's neck, his hand sliding faster, clenching harder. Watson stifled a raspy cry of ecstasy as he came, the all-consuming sensation unrelenting in its crushing force. Holmes' pace never faltered, coaxing every spasm and gasp he could wrench from Watson's trembling body until the wave of rapture had finally passed.
Watson's chest heaved as the world slowly started returning to him. He only allowed himself a brief moment's rest before hauling himself out of the spoiled water. Holmes stood up after him, quick to offer support when the doctor's legs buckled. Watson climbed out of the tub and collapsed into the nearest chair he could find as Holmes followed, grabbing a towel and tossing it in Watson's direction before finding one of his own. They covered themselves, mostly out of habit, and Watson felt something devious start to sink into his mind. Holmes reached into the tub to pull out the drain plug.
His wits barely collected, Watson sat forward. "Would you mind terribly if I reciprocated?"
Holmes was so startled he nearly fell in the tub. "Watson!" He yanked out the plug and turned to the doctor. "The last thing I imagined to hear from you was witticism."
"I'm not joking," Watson promised, thinking for a second. "Although, I do admit the phrasing was intended to throw you."
Watson watched knowingly as Holmes glanced down in a failed attempt to try and keep his enthusiasm from bubbling to the surface. When their eyes met again, Holmes' stare still glinted with playfulness, but now an undercurrent of gravity was coursing beneath.
"The hour is late," Holmes pointed out, "Needn't you depart?"
Watson's face fell slightly as his frisky demeanor faltered. It had already been of a considerably late hour when he arrived, and now it was certain to be the dead of night. He would have to leave now if he wanted to be home before the streets turned unsavory, which meant that if he stayed any longer he would be sleeping here. The thought of the latter result made his stomach churn, but he was shocked to find that the sensation was not wrought from an all together unpleasant feeling.
Watson took a deep breath, the offer jumping out of him before he could think twice. "I could always elect to stay until the morning."
Holmes' entire body language softened. "When did you decide this?"
"Twenty seconds ago," Watson admitted, "And this isn't an arrangement involving-"
"No, no, definitely not. Unfathomable."
Giving Holmes a wry look, Watson lifted himself out of the chair, tying the towel around his waist. Holmes stood, watching curiously, as Watson crossed the small room and gave him a purposeful kiss, the kind meant to incite more than satisfy.
Holmes was a look of bewilderment. "I wonder what has seen fit to possess you," he thought aloud.
Watson's expression darkened, his brow furrowed. "I don't know."
The honesty in the statement made them both take pause. For a second time that evening, the emotions that had plagued him for the past month were starting to cloud Watson's mind, and he glanced away. He couldn't stand the thought of enduring such duality again, not yet. He needed time and, if he could just hold on to a few minutes of even the illusion of peace, he was certain he could find some clarity.
Grabbing Holmes by the neck, Watson forced their mouths together.