Sherlock Holmes; Fic; Things That Bear Repeating; NC-17

[gyzym]

Hahahaha. So remember how I said that I was finishing that fic I posted a snippet of?

Yes, well. Somehow, along the way, I got distracted by porn. I know, isn't it SHOCKING? Because, ahahaha, I never do that. Ever. Nope.

...Oops?

Oh hai White Collar and Harry Potter peoples; I APOLOGIZE FOR THIS DEVIATION, I AM NOT ABANDONING YOU FOR STEAMPUNKY LOVE I PROMISE. I'm just, uh. You know. Polyfannish? That's a thing, right?

Title: Things That Bear Repeating
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Anal sex, fingering. You know, the usual.
Author's Note: A fill for a prompt over at shkinkmeme; OP wanted nearly drowned Holmes, Watson saving/resuscitating him, and Watson with a bit of a thing for Holmes all wet. Also, WOO, THESE GUYS ARE FUN TO WRITE.
Summary: When Holmes risks his life (again) and nearly dies (again), Watson decides enough is just about enough.



Really, it's not all that surprising when Holmes falls in the river.

First of all, he hasn't slept in three days. That never does much for his balance or his ability to calculate distance--for all his deductive skills, Watson knows the first thing to go when Holmes is overtired is his eyesight. He's seen the man walk into walls before (not that he'd ever admit it outside of 221 Baker Street--dignity being what it is, Holmes' proclivity for odd revenge being what it is). As such, Watson is always on the lookout for ridiculous mishaps after a few sleepless nights. He is a doctor, after all.

Secondly, Watson has a bit of a...thing...for Holmes soaking wet. He'd been able to keep that little fact under wraps for ages, and then one time Holmes had come home after a night in the rain, and there'd been nothing for it. It wouldn't have taken anything approaching Holmes' considerable intellect to analyze Watson's immediate response, the obvious, straining jump of his dick, the growling what-for on the floor of the sitting room that had left them both gasping. And so Holmes has tried, since then, to manipulate that little problem; Watson is always half-hard near any body of water, waiting for Holmes to take brutal advantage of this particular depravity.

And thirdly, the brute had hit him rather hard.

Still, despite the resounding thwack the criminal's fist had made when it connected with the back of Holmes' skull, Watson had fully expected him to bob up out of the Thames with that ridiculous, smug grin he always wore. Look what I've done now, it would say, and then it would widen as Watson undressed him with his eyes, waiting to get home and peel the soaked fabric from him layer by sopping layer...

But he's been under too long, and Watson doesn't have time to think about that right now.

"Damn," he says aloud, and dives.

The Thames is disgusting. The Thames is really disgusting, and Watson tries not to think of all the degenerates he has seen actually piss in it as he pulls himself forward through the water. Through the clouded gray-blue he can see Holmes, eyes closed, hair puffed out around his head. He can see blood too, not enough to make him panic but enough to increase his urgency. He pushes forward and grasps Holmes by the arm, yanks him until he can grip him round the waist. Then, with his leg screaming bloody murder, he hauls them up to the surface.

When Holmes doesn't take a breath...well. That is when Watson starts to worry in earnest.

"Damn, damn, damn--Lestrade!" he shouts. The inspector comes forward and tugs them both out of the river, looking less than pleased at getting water on his uniform.

"Is he--" Lestrade asks, but Watson doesn't hear the rest of the question. He lays Holmes flat on the dock and checks him--head wound, faint pulse, not breathing. If it were an option, if time weren't so very sodding short, he'd let loose an entire catalogue of untoward expressions.

Alas, time is of the essence, so he leans forward and presses his lips to Holmes' instead.

It is nothing like kissing. Lestrade, above him, is making a noise that indicates that kissing is, in fact, what it looks like; he's got as much sense as an overstuffed armchair, so Watson ignores him. Mouth to mouth resuscitation is actually surprisingly difficult, especially when you yourself are winded from a hard swim and rather used to locking lips with the party in question in a different context. Watson pushes hard, willing his air into Holmes' unresponsive lungs. He does not let himself think about what will happen if he is unsuccessful, because panic causes shortness of breath and shortness of breath, in this situation, would be--

He pulls back to check Holmes for signs of response and hears a thrilling, gasping, choked noise. He has just enough time to smile before Holmes coughs up a lungful of river water all over him.

"Easy there, old boy," Watson says, cheerfully enough. He sits Holmes up and pats his back as he expels more water. Holmes clings to Watson's arms and scrabbles his legs, clearly trying to gain some purchase over this experience. Watson keeps patting him, checking the state of his head wound in the process.

"Get it all up, there, that's it," he murmurs, taking his free hand and lifting up the hair around the wound. A bit swollen, still bleeding slightly, but nothing he can't patch up with a few minutes' work. He leans forward; Holmes has stopped coughing, is just gasping now. Watson smiles at him, resists the urge to do anything more.

"Well done," he says, "caught the criminal and survived a near-drowning. How do you do it?"

"Can't--" Holmes gasps, "tell you. Lestrade might--expire--at the display of--competence." He coughs again as Watson laughs and Lestrade glares down at them.

"Seems right as rain to me," the inspector growls.

"Your opinion," Holmes manages, "is--hardly--a comforting one."

"I think you'll live," Watson murmurs. Then he lowers his voice until he is sure only Holmes will be able to hear it. "Of course, I'll have to check you over rather more thoroughly when we get home."

Holmes is still taking gasping, heaving breaths, but his eyes brighten. "Well," he wheezes, "if the doctor insists."

--

Watson had taken his shoes and some of his clothing off while he was waiting for Holmes to bob up; it was a precaution he often took, when Holmes went underwater. Usually it got him laughed at, but today it had been apt. He'd been able to strip out of his soaked undershirt and pull on his dry overthings, and he'd been able to drape his coat across Holmes' shaking shoulders.

Still, the ride back to Baker Street is an unpleasant one.

"You're freezing, man," Watson says, for the tenth time. "We're alone, the driver can't see us, the windows are covered, would you just--"

"I do not need to be coddled like a prepubescent girl," Holmes snaps. Then he shivers and looks sharply away. Watson bites back an irritated sigh.

"You nearly drowned," he grinds out, his white-knuckled grip on his patience beginning to slip. "Need I tell you that I am also cold?"

"You may feel free," Holmes says dryly. "However, it will be quick work to prove that you are lying, so you needn't bother."

"What do you--"

And then Holmes smiles devilishly, reaches out, and grabs Watson's erection through his sopping trousers. Watson gasps and writhes a little, despite himself.

"Tell me," Holmes growls, "how are you managing to overcome a man's natural reaction to the chill? A medical marvel, certainly. I am most impressed, Watson."

"You are a stubborn ass," Watson hisses. Holmes smirks and grips him a little harder, and Watson tries to ignore the way the detective's shirt is clinging, nearly transparent, to his skin. He does a rather poor job of it, and Holmes' smirk widens even as his hand trembles, and all and all it is a relief when they make it home.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes sings out when they shut the door behind them. The landlady, used to their oddities, does not even bat an eyelash at their disheveled state.

"Busy day?" she asks, and Watson sighs heavily.

"Isn't it always?"

"Would you like me to bring a tray up?" she says, and part of Watson--the sane, rational part, the part that relies on his brain and not on his cock--wants to thank her, say yes.

The rest of Watson looks at Holmes, his raised eyebrows, the rivulets of water still running down from his hair, and knows that saying yes would be most unwise.

"I think we'll manage," he tells her, as Holmes mounts the stairs, "but thank you. Perhaps once we've both had a hot bath...?"

She nods curtly and vanishes down the hall. Watson takes the stairs two at a time after Holmes, slams the door to their sitting room behind him.

"Now," he says, as Holmes slides off Watson's coat, throws wood into the fireplace haphazardly and lights a match, "I think it's past time we got you out of those wet clothes."

"An excellent suggestion, my dear Watson," Holmes murmurs. He tosses the match and the fire blazes to life so quickly that Watson begins to suspect Holmes of dousing the wood with something (again)--they'll have to discuss it later. For now he merely steps close, hooks two fingers under Holmes' shirt and tugs.

It comes loose, slipping over Holmes' head easily. Watson makes the mistake of looking at it before he throws it aside and notices the blood there; he sighs heavily.

"Holmes," he says, "you're still bleeding, I have to--"

"Sod it," Holmes mutters, and surges forward.

This, Watson thinks fuzzily, is nothing like mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Holmes is in his arms, as close as he'd refused to be on the ride in, pulsing and arching against him; his tongue is slick and probing against Watson's teeth. Watson buries a hand in Holmes' dark, wet hair and drags him closer still, until the pressure between them is almost unbearable. He snakes his other arm down and undoes Holmes' trousers; they are sopping and do not slip down easily, as they usually do.

There is, however, a solution for that.

Watson breaks the kiss, ignoring Holmes' faint noise of protest. He slides to his knees and rips the foul things to the ground, pulling off Holmes' underwear in the process. Holmes shudders as Watson finds a drop of water running down his thigh; he follows the path of it with his tongue, tracing his way up to Holmes' balls.

"I see you're not as cold as I thought you were," Watson murmurs, and he takes Holmes' half-erect cock into his mouth.

Holmes gasps and shoves himself forward; Watson cannot help the small chuckle that slips from the back of his throat. The vibration of it must feel good, because Holmes fists a hand in Watson's close cropped hair.

"I say, old chap," he groans, "you have gotten good at that, haven't you?"

Watson rather resents the implication that he was not good at it to begin with; he scrapes his teeth ever-so-lightly down Holmes' length as punishment. Holmes twists and moans, throwing his head back, and his knees buckle dangerously. Not actually wishing to castrate the man, Watson pulls away. He lets Holmes slide to the floor and moves up across his body, pausing above Holmes' chest.

"I was always good at that," he says. "You, if I recall, were the one who needed an extended period of study."

"You had a leg up on the anatomy," Holmes protests, but Watson sees water gathered up in the hollow of Holmes' collarbone, and his brain short circuits a little. He eases himself up and sucks at it, the faint, incongruous taste of the dirty Thames less a distraction than it would usually be. Holmes lets out a quick, excited breath and undoes Watson's flies; he clearly means to do more but Watson swats him off, continues his own ministrations.

Holmes is still shivering slightly. Watson has determined that this should stop, so he releases his weight a little, until he is draping Holmes but not crushing him. He continues to suck at the man's neck as he grinds his groin down into Holmes' now fully-erect cock.

"Good god," Holmes hisses, and Watson grins.

"Now that I have your full attention," he murmurs, "there is something I'd quite like to discuss."

Holmes stiffens. "Taking advantage of my current state is foul play, John."

"A technique I learned from you," Watson returns, nipping lightly at his sensitive skin and redoubling the force of the motion in his hips, "Sherlock."

Holmes groans and arches up off of the floor. He shoves his whole body into Watson's, their dicks rubbing together, nearly violent, and Watson is almost distracted enough to abandon his line of inquiry.

Almost, but not quite.

"Roll over," he growls. Holmes obeys immediately and Watson reaches over to the hidden drawer they'd installed behind the fire tools. The jar he's seeking is in there, and he twists the top off with one hand and dips his fingers into it, coating them.

Then he dips one of those fingers into Holmes' arse, smiling gently at his whine of pleasure.

"Now," Watson says, "let us discuss, again, the concept that you are not so invincible as you seem to think."

"On the contrary," Holmes gasps, "I am at least as invincible as I think, perhaps moreso--"

Watson leans down and bites Holmes' shoulder; he stops talking to keen at the touch. "Turning your back on a fight to mock Lestrade," Watson growls, "does not make you invincible, Holmes. It makes you stupid."

"It makes me, ah, concerned with the deplorable state of the Yard--"

"It makes you stupid," Watson repeats, inserting a second finger to drive home his point.

Holmes gasps and writhes, but rallies. "He was late!" he protests, as Watson scissors his fingers apart, stretching him. "Really it is entirely Lestrade's fault, I can't imagine how I could possibly be to blame."

Watson grins outright. "So you think I should be having this particular exchange with Lestrade, do you?"

Holmes jerks his head around, his eyes blazing. "Do not even suggest," he begins, and Watson kisses him.

Their mouths work together; Holmes' protests are cut down to a moan as he bites at Watson's lips, sliding them ever-so-gently between his teeth. For his part, it is all Watson can do to match their rhythm with his fingers, dragging Holmes wider and wider.

"I wouldn't dare," Watson breathes, when Holmes breaks away.

"Good," Holmes returns, a small smile breaking over his face. Then Watson slides a third finger in and Holmes clenches around it, twists his head back toward the floor.

"God," he moans, and then "my god."

"Your life," Watson corrects. "That is what we're discussing here, not any kind of deity."

Holmes doesn't respond, probably because Watson has removed his fingers and is positioning himself for entry.

"John," he cries, the syllables dragging their aching way out of his throat, and Watson slides in. Holmes lets out a raw, guttural sound, something between a sob and a groan, and Watson pauses, teasing, when he realizes he's just grazing the man's prostate.

"I thought you were dead," Watson says, and he is surprised at the level of detachment he is maintaining in the face of his raging emotion and how sodding tight Holmes is. "Do you know how many times I've thought that?"

"John, please--"

"Too many times," Watson continues. He inches the slightest bit forward and Holmes cries out, his back heaving. He is still wet, slick under the hand Watson places on his hips to steady himself. "It is very unpleasant, Holmes, thinking you're dead. I really don't enjoy the experience at all."

"I," Holmes begins. He clenches and tries to inch himself backwards; Watson is on to him and places a hand on his arse, his firm military grip stopping the motion.

"You are sorry," Watson says, "for inconveniencing me."

"Just trying--to solve--the--case," Holmes manages, and Watson licks a long, sordid stripe up his damp flesh.

"The data of which you are so fond suggests otherwise," he murmurs. "Mocking the good inspector was hardly relevant to the successful conclusion of the investigation."

"Lestrade is not a good--"

"Shut it," Watson snaps. He shoves himself forward just once; Holmes' whole body convulses around his cock, and he has to think hard, very hard, about anything but that to keep himself from coming.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asks, tracing the wings of Holmes' shoulderblades with a neat, close-cropped nail.

"Yes, god, yes, Watson, I beg of you--"

"Then you are sorry," Watson says.

"I'm sorry," Holmes repeats at once. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

"You will not go out of your way to terrify me again," Watson murmurs, still calm.

"I won't, I swear it, anything you say, now please--"

"Good," Watson growls, "very good."

He has just enough time to revel in Holmes' choked, anticipatory breath before he lets go of his last vestiges of control. Watson pounds in, slamming hard into Holmes' ever-so-tight backside. The detective gaps and gasps beneath him, reminding Watson of the sweet rush of relief when he'd gasped earlier, drawing breath into those lungs--

"I thought you were dead," Watson grinds out. "I thought you were dead, dead because of that idiot criminal and Lestrade, the indignity--"

And Holmes says "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," a litany. He reaches up a hand up behind him, awkward because of the angle, and touches Watson's chest.

"I won't do it again," he says, and even though Watson knows it is a lie, it is this that undoes him. He comes in short, tense waves, collapsing onto Holmes' back; he takes a moment from his ecstasy to bite down on Holmes' neck, suck in.

Holmes cries his name--his first or last, Watson is too gone to be sure--and convulses in orgasm. Watson finishes first and grips Holmes' shoulders through the peak of it, keeps him from thrashing against the hardwood floor.

He slips out quickly when Holmes is done. Holmes whines his protest but is too well-sated to move, and Watson takes advantage of this to grab his medical bag and sit by Holmes' head.

"I'm bandaging this wound now," he says. "Don't argue."

It is a sign of how exhausted Holmes is that he doesn't, just submits as Watson cleans and wraps the cut. A draft blows through the room as Watson finishes, and Holmes starts shaking again; Watson sighs heavily and gets up again, procures the man a towel.

"Dry yourself off," he demands. While Holmes sits up, wincing as he puts pressure on his surely sore behind, Watson goes to the bedroom. He changes quickly, wiping the remains of his own dunk in the Thames with another towel. Then he grabs a shirt, trousers and a blanket for Holmes, who is sure to want them.

When he comes back into the sitting room, Holmes is dry but for his hair. He is also, ridiculously, wearing his smoking jacket and nothing else. His pipe is in his left hand, and the floor is littered with tobacco; he must, Watson realizes with a sigh, be trembling too hard to fill the thing properly.

"I will do that," he says, "provided it is only tobacco in there."

"I think I've more than earned the right to indulge in something more substantial," Holmes grumbles, "but yes, just tobacco."

Watson bends down. He trades Holmes the pipe for the shirt and trousers, which Holmes pulls on gratefully. Watson fills the pipe and straightens up; he offers Holmes a hand, draws him to his feet. Then he sits on the settee, smiling slightly when Holmes settles between his legs.

"Here," Watson says. Holmes looks balefully at the blanket he's offering.

"I don't need this," he replies at once. "I am perfectly fine--"

"You've caught a chill," Watson tells him. "Which will undoubtedly be something worse in the morning if you don't take care of it now."

"Is that your medical opinion or just the usual nattering worry, Doctor?"

"Both," Watson growls. "Indulge me in the terrible vice of wanting to see you healthy."

"I don't see why I should," Holmes mutters, "you allow me so few of my own depravities," but he pulls the blanket up over his chest.

Watson lights the pipe and hands it over. Holmes takes a few contemplative puffs, and slowly his body relaxes into Watson's own. When he head starts to loll back, Watson laughs quietly.

"You're going to fall asleep with that thing in your hand again," he murmurs, soft enough to avoid disturbing him overmuch, "and then you'll have the whole house down."

"That, my good man, is why you're here," Holmes mumbles in response. "Keep me from setting myself on fire. Most useful."

"I imagine so," Watson says; he smiles into Holmes' hair as Holmes shifts, contentedly, against him.

"Lucky thing, really," Holmes slurs. His head drops back entirely, curving into the line of Watson's neck. "Be a bit dangerous otherwise."

"Mmmm," Watson agrees. He takes the pipe away when he feels Holmes close his eyes.