Fic for winter_hermit: Spin Glass
Title: Spin Glass
Recipient: winter_hermit
Author: tazlet
Britpicking By: tryfanstone
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (Ritchie!verse)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Flagrant abuse of a good violin.
Summary: There’s no escape from the music in the whole damn street!
Spin Glass
As if by magic, light merged with a filament of glass, as slender as a strand of spider’s silk…
“How did you know?”
“I was looking for it.”
~*~
“Another brandy?”
“Jus’ a tot. Still see it inches from my eye. Ser’sly…how did you know it was there?”
“I looked at it from Blackwood’s perspective. Between the two of us, he was cornered…no escape…yet he was still in possession of the almost invisible needle with which he administered the poison to the girls. If he could spike one of us, it would distract the other, and he would have time to escape. But which? I was nearer, but not quite within reach. You would have certainly shot him if he had lunged at me, but not otherwise; you are a civilised man. He insulted you, called you my loyal dog-outraged your humanity, even as he lifted his hands together, as if in humble prayer. Your blood was up, and he counted upon your very natural instincts to bring you within striking distance.”
“Meant to break his bloody neck.”
“Understandable.”
“Not the answer to my question. How did you know that he had the needle?”
“I didn’t, but knew he was still dangerous-the inherent contradiction between the provocative words, and the submissive gesture. Blackwood is not particularly subtle.”
“Di’n’t work.
“No. An amateur magician’s trick and, as I said, I was looking for it. He is a brute with a second-rate mind, unlike…”
“Don’t…ever…impossible to distract…no natural instincts. Pass me the decanter over here.”
“No, doctor, I think you’ve taken sufficient on board for one evening… Hoopla! Steady on. I think you had better let me… Quick march, now.”
~*~
Watson stirred fitfully in his sleep. Hearing the click of dice, he reached out, scooped them up, and threw down. His hand collided with the smooth cool marble surface of the nightstand, and he woke in a confused cascade of impressions. The clicking of dice…no castanets…no, violin music, if you wanted to be generous. It was a tarantella, in fact, the flurry of sound coming from the sitting room. Notes raced along, whirling and flashing round each other, until they spun out of control, and one single note escaped the frenzy. For a terrifying length of time, it shrieked and all of his nerves thrummed with it. But there was nothing for it, in the end, but to shatter, along with his nerves, and scatter the dissonant fragments up and down the strings. He sat up, yelling, “Holmes! For the love of God!”
The noise cringed, and resolved itself into an unobtrusive descant.
Watson fell back against the pillows in far more pain than the old familiar dull throbbing of his leg. Bruised knuckles and aching muscles recalled the dank crypt under Saint Paul’s; the stink of moss and muck…
Holmes’ eyes, glittering black in the torchlight, fixed, in that moment, on the glass thread that was hanging in the air…
He was momentarily grateful when the violin’s purr soft nicked his attention away from the horror.
He listened for a while. The instrument’s tone was perfectly pure, and the tune was an old one, hauntingly familiar. He felt he should have been able to put words to it. In the eye abides the heart…
Then the tempo picked up, and the phrase slipped beyond the reach of mind and tongue. He smiled at the fleeting feeling it left behind; the ghost of childhood contentment, like the gaslight on the wall turned down low, so that he wouldn’t wake up the dark, and be frightened by that ogrerish heap of clothing piled on the back of his chair. In fact, all of the clothing that he had been wearing during that expedition in the crypt was going to be a job for the maid to brush and press tomorrow.
How had he come to be so completely befuddled that he had undressed so carelessly, and not remember climbing between the sheets…? Ah, yes…
He and Holmes had been sitting in front of the fire, dissecting the evening’s events. At least one stupid girl, betrayed by powerful men and a fantasy of secret knowledge, would live, and, scandal scotched, possibly thrive. Himself… Watson had only wanted one more brandy. Holmes had insisted that it was time for bed.
He remembered standing up-rubber legs proving problematic with the room tilting and spinning. Somehow, Watson discovered his arm had got itself draped around Holmes’ neck; he had leaned on him heavily all the way to the bedroom. The strength and proximity of the man; the surprising concordance of pipe tobacco, jasmine oil, boiled wool, and brandy; it had all been…very stimulating.
~*~
“You know you’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”
“I’m helping you undress me.”
“You are? I only ask because that is my ascot that you’re mangling.”
“I’m distracting you?”
“Not at… Keep your eyes open, and please refrain- Stop that! This would proceed more smoothly if you will lie still, and let me have your other foot.”
“Lie down…keep still… eyes open…make the room stop turning round and round and round…never you ever get diverted. You… That came out wrong.”
“No, I understand.”
“Do you?”
“If he’d harmed you, I would have broken his neck myself. Now, go to sleep.”
~*~
Had he dreamed the touch of a fingertip on his lip?
Sleep, yes….best to go back to sleep but, Dear God, Paganini’s Deutto Amoroso was bleeding softly through the walls. Like spending the night in a cheap hotel, there was going to be no hope of falling asleep for the sighs and moans next door.
Watson closed his eyes to both memory and music but, fluid and mutable, the melody transformed itself into a popular calling catch, and it was one that Watson did know the words to. It was sung to the knell of a church-yard bell, and a doleful dirge ding-dong-o… Tears came along with the words. They failed to spill over, subsiding into a deep reservoir of resentment, instead; there was never a chance of Holmes remembering other people in the house might be trying to sleep.
He hurt. He ached. If he climbed out of bed and went out into the sitting room stark naked, as he was under the covers, Holmes was as likely to observe the obvious parts-the hideously scared leg, the tumescent prick, the shadowed ravenous eyes-infer the whole conflicted man, and still turn away, and go on fiddling on for hours yet. The music hardly mattered, be it Sullivan, Monteverdi, or Bach, traditional song or music hall ditty, it was among the few ways he had of shutting the cacophony out of his mind and he consumed it indiscriminately, like a drug, and just as selfishly.
...Hey-di, hey-di, misery me, lack-a-day-de, he sipped no sup and he craved no crumb…
And be damned to anyone else’s misery! Watson raved inwardly. His feelings weren’t cacophony and he craved more than crumbs. He would have settled for the balance of his night’s sleep, but the violin was determined to have its way, and at least two of his bits were playing along with it. His hand under the sheet continued making the hard way toss, as the music grew louder…
…the moan of the merry man moping mum, whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum…
…and before Watson knew what he was about, he was halfway across the carpet, fully intent on smashing that devil’s instrument.
The music was coming from the curtained window bay. But the sitting room, with the fire dead in the grate, was a shadowy and dangerous veldt. There were lion’s claw table legs, and real tiger’s teeth, lying in wait for vulnerable toes. He made his way through, though, and flung the curtain back, to be struck in the face by the smell of a man who’d been running hard in the streets. “That’s enough!” Watson said. But Holmes went on bowing. His arm flew back and forth, stitching notes together. “Give me that!” Watson reached for the bow.
The strings screeched in protest, the music stopped abruptly, but Holmes merely turned, and held onto the bow as it was drawn away from him.
It was with no particular muscular resistance, though. Holmes was making no attempt to wrench it back. Watson stopped dead in the sudden realisation that something was amiss, and then Holmes pulled on the bow only as much as if he were going to start playing again.
Watson gave a tug. Holmes gave an equal pull back. The bow sawed back and forth between them until Holmes’ arm was at its fullest extension. There he posed, still and uncharacteristically silent.
Watson, with his eyes attuned to the streetlight, saw that Holmes had removed his waistcoat and his shirt collar stood open, the material dark with sweat, not just at the armpits but across the chest and shoulders. He could make out individual dark clusters of curls twining wildly around Holmes’ head, but what struck him cold to the core, was the vague and incurious regard of Holmes’ eyes. The pupils were huge and black. The man had played himself into a rhapsodic daze.
A hypnotised patient should not be shaken or shocked out of a trance. Very gently, he said, “Will you me have the bow.” Holmes let it go. “Why don’t you let me have the violin, as well?”
With the Stradivarius safely in its case, and the case kicked somewhere out of sight, he took Holmes’ head in both of his hands, and applied himself to waking the dreamer. He kept his touch light and Holmes began to respond, his rigid body melting against Watson, and then, suddenly, he pulled back sharply. “Watson!?” he said.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m kissing you.”
“Oh…” Watson felt a touch on his flanks, Curiousity stroking up and down. “You’re not wearing clothing.”
“Your powers of observation never cease to astonish me,” Watson said, full of guilt and bitter disappointment, for having been seduced by the violin’s song, and for knowing that man had no natural instincts. “You undressed me, remember?”
“Did I?” Holmes said. Then he leaned close, brought their mouths together.
Watson’s submitted to Holmes’ curiosity and his bitterness dissolved as that initial shared caress was followed by other touches, brief exploratory scales, succeeded in turn by extended passages to organise and fine tune discrete sensations, until Watson’s head was swimming. He discovered a surprising melodic counterpoint of sweat and tobacco, and the faint note of pine that had to be rosin on Holmes’ fingertips. His cheeks prickled from Holmes stropping his whiskered chin slowly across them. He tingled from a sneakily twiddled nipple. Fingers plucked the moist hair at the base of his belly, but it was the mutual thrusting and pulling of tongues that suggested a possible theme that should be developed. Stated and restated between them, it seemed to be growing and swelling…
“Watson,” Holmes said, breaking away, panting. “It begs the question why you were kissing me.”
Watson could feel the hardness bulging in his trousers.
“It’s three in the morning!” he cried. “You’d been playing that damned violin all night!”
“But it’s never bothered you before!”
“No? I’ll show you how it’s bothered me!” Watson snapped, hooking his arm around Holmes’ waist and slamming them together. The man had no instincts, except an unnatural drive to parse every experience to flinders, and leave the shattered bits for others to clean up. He latched onto the pulse in Holmes’ neck. He sucked and nibbled, working his way round Holmes’ jaw, while beating against the bulge in Holmes’ trousers, hardness to hardness, sucking and prodding, until he was drawing low groans from Holmes’ throat.
That seemed to turn the trick. The next time their mouths parted they rocked breathlessly. Holmes let the weight of his head rest on Watson’s shoulder. He still complained. “I couldn’t find your nightshirt.” His voice was gruff and dreamy, though, and he wasn’t pulling away; far from it.
“Under my pillow,” Watson said, trying to work a hand in between to get at the buttons of Holmes’ trousers, “Remember that, next… Oh!”
“What do you mean next?” Holmes murmured. “Do you mean next time I undress you? Or possibly the next time we do this?”
While Watson had been trying for the buttons, his prick had been nosing folds of soft wool, undoubtedly leaving wet spots that would need sponging in the morning. The delinquent pego had been nabbed. It was fair a cop and Holmes rolled his thumb over the tip, tickled the vent and proceeded to demonstrate a degree of technical facility Watson couldn’t have dreamed he possessed. It wasn’t until later that he recognised the fallacy of thinking a man who could make a violin ring like a bell, wouldn’t know how to ring the changes, as well. Holmes might not often feel called on to perform in certain areas, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be prepared for the few occasions when he did.
Watson didn’t realise how masterfully he was being conducted until the back of his knees stuck the sofa. He fell sprawling. His legs were lifted and when they dropped, he was flat on his back. His prick seethed in frustration. It only wanted to be browsing in Holmes’ hand.
He could hear Holmes nearby breathing raggedly, as braces, shirt, boots, trousers, garters, socks-the whole kit was rapidly being shed on the floor. He made the mistake of picturing the narrow fringe of hair that bisected Holmes’ belly. His prick thrashed obscenely, so desperate for relief that he made to cuff himself…
…Shouldn’t do that if I were you, boy-o…
Sound advice, even if he couldn’t remember who had said it; his knees were being spread apart and his ass was being lifted…
A warm weight came down on top of him, fitting prick to prick, and began to stroke back and forth. Too slowly, he pushed back, straining up against it, and suddenly he was in the grip of a stronger force than he’d ever experienced in his life. It was riding him, and a harsh voice in his ear was telling him, in the crudest possible way, what he was, and what it was doing to him, and what it was always going to do to him. Released from the need to struggle any longer, the constant ache deep inside him began to expand until thighs and ass, balls and prick were all throbbing urgently and he heard himself saying, Please, please…begging for release. The harsh voice said Now! And his soul poured out of his body in a crescendo of rhythmic pleasure.
Holmes was top of him and snoring softly, when Watson’s conscience wandered back. He tried to ignore it; but his leg was cramping, and the insinuating drip he was feeling was likely to stain the brocade. He gave Holmes a poke. Holmes sputtered, and went on snoring. Watson poked again. “Holmes!”
Holmes’s head snapped up. “Whassuh’?”
“My leg!” Watson groped along the back of the sofa. “I need to straighten it. Quickly man!”
There was some sleepy grumbling; some awkward shifting. Watson straightened his leg and Holmes flopped back on top of him. A moment later, he said, “What am I feeling?”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“I mean what is it you slipped between us?”
“One of Mrs. Hudson’s antimacassars.”
There was a thoughtful beat, and then Watson felt a tender flutter of muscles against his stomach and hot huffs of air beat time on his neck and chin. Slowly, as he stroked Holmes’ head, they changed into arrhythmic snuffles that grew quiet, at last.
Finis
December 2, 2012
Recipient: winter_hermit
Author: tazlet
Britpicking By: tryfanstone
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (Ritchie!verse)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Flagrant abuse of a good violin.
Summary: There’s no escape from the music in the whole damn street!
Spin Glass
As if by magic, light merged with a filament of glass, as slender as a strand of spider’s silk…
“How did you know?”
“I was looking for it.”
~*~
“Another brandy?”
“Jus’ a tot. Still see it inches from my eye. Ser’sly…how did you know it was there?”
“I looked at it from Blackwood’s perspective. Between the two of us, he was cornered…no escape…yet he was still in possession of the almost invisible needle with which he administered the poison to the girls. If he could spike one of us, it would distract the other, and he would have time to escape. But which? I was nearer, but not quite within reach. You would have certainly shot him if he had lunged at me, but not otherwise; you are a civilised man. He insulted you, called you my loyal dog-outraged your humanity, even as he lifted his hands together, as if in humble prayer. Your blood was up, and he counted upon your very natural instincts to bring you within striking distance.”
“Meant to break his bloody neck.”
“Understandable.”
“Not the answer to my question. How did you know that he had the needle?”
“I didn’t, but knew he was still dangerous-the inherent contradiction between the provocative words, and the submissive gesture. Blackwood is not particularly subtle.”
“Di’n’t work.
“No. An amateur magician’s trick and, as I said, I was looking for it. He is a brute with a second-rate mind, unlike…”
“Don’t…ever…impossible to distract…no natural instincts. Pass me the decanter over here.”
“No, doctor, I think you’ve taken sufficient on board for one evening… Hoopla! Steady on. I think you had better let me… Quick march, now.”
~*~
Watson stirred fitfully in his sleep. Hearing the click of dice, he reached out, scooped them up, and threw down. His hand collided with the smooth cool marble surface of the nightstand, and he woke in a confused cascade of impressions. The clicking of dice…no castanets…no, violin music, if you wanted to be generous. It was a tarantella, in fact, the flurry of sound coming from the sitting room. Notes raced along, whirling and flashing round each other, until they spun out of control, and one single note escaped the frenzy. For a terrifying length of time, it shrieked and all of his nerves thrummed with it. But there was nothing for it, in the end, but to shatter, along with his nerves, and scatter the dissonant fragments up and down the strings. He sat up, yelling, “Holmes! For the love of God!”
The noise cringed, and resolved itself into an unobtrusive descant.
Watson fell back against the pillows in far more pain than the old familiar dull throbbing of his leg. Bruised knuckles and aching muscles recalled the dank crypt under Saint Paul’s; the stink of moss and muck…
Holmes’ eyes, glittering black in the torchlight, fixed, in that moment, on the glass thread that was hanging in the air…
He was momentarily grateful when the violin’s purr soft nicked his attention away from the horror.
He listened for a while. The instrument’s tone was perfectly pure, and the tune was an old one, hauntingly familiar. He felt he should have been able to put words to it. In the eye abides the heart…
Then the tempo picked up, and the phrase slipped beyond the reach of mind and tongue. He smiled at the fleeting feeling it left behind; the ghost of childhood contentment, like the gaslight on the wall turned down low, so that he wouldn’t wake up the dark, and be frightened by that ogrerish heap of clothing piled on the back of his chair. In fact, all of the clothing that he had been wearing during that expedition in the crypt was going to be a job for the maid to brush and press tomorrow.
How had he come to be so completely befuddled that he had undressed so carelessly, and not remember climbing between the sheets…? Ah, yes…
He and Holmes had been sitting in front of the fire, dissecting the evening’s events. At least one stupid girl, betrayed by powerful men and a fantasy of secret knowledge, would live, and, scandal scotched, possibly thrive. Himself… Watson had only wanted one more brandy. Holmes had insisted that it was time for bed.
He remembered standing up-rubber legs proving problematic with the room tilting and spinning. Somehow, Watson discovered his arm had got itself draped around Holmes’ neck; he had leaned on him heavily all the way to the bedroom. The strength and proximity of the man; the surprising concordance of pipe tobacco, jasmine oil, boiled wool, and brandy; it had all been…very stimulating.
~*~
“You know you’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”
“I’m helping you undress me.”
“You are? I only ask because that is my ascot that you’re mangling.”
“I’m distracting you?”
“Not at… Keep your eyes open, and please refrain- Stop that! This would proceed more smoothly if you will lie still, and let me have your other foot.”
“Lie down…keep still… eyes open…make the room stop turning round and round and round…never you ever get diverted. You… That came out wrong.”
“No, I understand.”
“Do you?”
“If he’d harmed you, I would have broken his neck myself. Now, go to sleep.”
~*~
Had he dreamed the touch of a fingertip on his lip?
Sleep, yes….best to go back to sleep but, Dear God, Paganini’s Deutto Amoroso was bleeding softly through the walls. Like spending the night in a cheap hotel, there was going to be no hope of falling asleep for the sighs and moans next door.
Watson closed his eyes to both memory and music but, fluid and mutable, the melody transformed itself into a popular calling catch, and it was one that Watson did know the words to. It was sung to the knell of a church-yard bell, and a doleful dirge ding-dong-o… Tears came along with the words. They failed to spill over, subsiding into a deep reservoir of resentment, instead; there was never a chance of Holmes remembering other people in the house might be trying to sleep.
He hurt. He ached. If he climbed out of bed and went out into the sitting room stark naked, as he was under the covers, Holmes was as likely to observe the obvious parts-the hideously scared leg, the tumescent prick, the shadowed ravenous eyes-infer the whole conflicted man, and still turn away, and go on fiddling on for hours yet. The music hardly mattered, be it Sullivan, Monteverdi, or Bach, traditional song or music hall ditty, it was among the few ways he had of shutting the cacophony out of his mind and he consumed it indiscriminately, like a drug, and just as selfishly.
...Hey-di, hey-di, misery me, lack-a-day-de, he sipped no sup and he craved no crumb…
And be damned to anyone else’s misery! Watson raved inwardly. His feelings weren’t cacophony and he craved more than crumbs. He would have settled for the balance of his night’s sleep, but the violin was determined to have its way, and at least two of his bits were playing along with it. His hand under the sheet continued making the hard way toss, as the music grew louder…
…the moan of the merry man moping mum, whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum…
…and before Watson knew what he was about, he was halfway across the carpet, fully intent on smashing that devil’s instrument.
The music was coming from the curtained window bay. But the sitting room, with the fire dead in the grate, was a shadowy and dangerous veldt. There were lion’s claw table legs, and real tiger’s teeth, lying in wait for vulnerable toes. He made his way through, though, and flung the curtain back, to be struck in the face by the smell of a man who’d been running hard in the streets. “That’s enough!” Watson said. But Holmes went on bowing. His arm flew back and forth, stitching notes together. “Give me that!” Watson reached for the bow.
The strings screeched in protest, the music stopped abruptly, but Holmes merely turned, and held onto the bow as it was drawn away from him.
It was with no particular muscular resistance, though. Holmes was making no attempt to wrench it back. Watson stopped dead in the sudden realisation that something was amiss, and then Holmes pulled on the bow only as much as if he were going to start playing again.
Watson gave a tug. Holmes gave an equal pull back. The bow sawed back and forth between them until Holmes’ arm was at its fullest extension. There he posed, still and uncharacteristically silent.
Watson, with his eyes attuned to the streetlight, saw that Holmes had removed his waistcoat and his shirt collar stood open, the material dark with sweat, not just at the armpits but across the chest and shoulders. He could make out individual dark clusters of curls twining wildly around Holmes’ head, but what struck him cold to the core, was the vague and incurious regard of Holmes’ eyes. The pupils were huge and black. The man had played himself into a rhapsodic daze.
A hypnotised patient should not be shaken or shocked out of a trance. Very gently, he said, “Will you me have the bow.” Holmes let it go. “Why don’t you let me have the violin, as well?”
With the Stradivarius safely in its case, and the case kicked somewhere out of sight, he took Holmes’ head in both of his hands, and applied himself to waking the dreamer. He kept his touch light and Holmes began to respond, his rigid body melting against Watson, and then, suddenly, he pulled back sharply. “Watson!?” he said.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m kissing you.”
“Oh…” Watson felt a touch on his flanks, Curiousity stroking up and down. “You’re not wearing clothing.”
“Your powers of observation never cease to astonish me,” Watson said, full of guilt and bitter disappointment, for having been seduced by the violin’s song, and for knowing that man had no natural instincts. “You undressed me, remember?”
“Did I?” Holmes said. Then he leaned close, brought their mouths together.
Watson’s submitted to Holmes’ curiosity and his bitterness dissolved as that initial shared caress was followed by other touches, brief exploratory scales, succeeded in turn by extended passages to organise and fine tune discrete sensations, until Watson’s head was swimming. He discovered a surprising melodic counterpoint of sweat and tobacco, and the faint note of pine that had to be rosin on Holmes’ fingertips. His cheeks prickled from Holmes stropping his whiskered chin slowly across them. He tingled from a sneakily twiddled nipple. Fingers plucked the moist hair at the base of his belly, but it was the mutual thrusting and pulling of tongues that suggested a possible theme that should be developed. Stated and restated between them, it seemed to be growing and swelling…
“Watson,” Holmes said, breaking away, panting. “It begs the question why you were kissing me.”
Watson could feel the hardness bulging in his trousers.
“It’s three in the morning!” he cried. “You’d been playing that damned violin all night!”
“But it’s never bothered you before!”
“No? I’ll show you how it’s bothered me!” Watson snapped, hooking his arm around Holmes’ waist and slamming them together. The man had no instincts, except an unnatural drive to parse every experience to flinders, and leave the shattered bits for others to clean up. He latched onto the pulse in Holmes’ neck. He sucked and nibbled, working his way round Holmes’ jaw, while beating against the bulge in Holmes’ trousers, hardness to hardness, sucking and prodding, until he was drawing low groans from Holmes’ throat.
That seemed to turn the trick. The next time their mouths parted they rocked breathlessly. Holmes let the weight of his head rest on Watson’s shoulder. He still complained. “I couldn’t find your nightshirt.” His voice was gruff and dreamy, though, and he wasn’t pulling away; far from it.
“Under my pillow,” Watson said, trying to work a hand in between to get at the buttons of Holmes’ trousers, “Remember that, next… Oh!”
“What do you mean next?” Holmes murmured. “Do you mean next time I undress you? Or possibly the next time we do this?”
While Watson had been trying for the buttons, his prick had been nosing folds of soft wool, undoubtedly leaving wet spots that would need sponging in the morning. The delinquent pego had been nabbed. It was fair a cop and Holmes rolled his thumb over the tip, tickled the vent and proceeded to demonstrate a degree of technical facility Watson couldn’t have dreamed he possessed. It wasn’t until later that he recognised the fallacy of thinking a man who could make a violin ring like a bell, wouldn’t know how to ring the changes, as well. Holmes might not often feel called on to perform in certain areas, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be prepared for the few occasions when he did.
Watson didn’t realise how masterfully he was being conducted until the back of his knees stuck the sofa. He fell sprawling. His legs were lifted and when they dropped, he was flat on his back. His prick seethed in frustration. It only wanted to be browsing in Holmes’ hand.
He could hear Holmes nearby breathing raggedly, as braces, shirt, boots, trousers, garters, socks-the whole kit was rapidly being shed on the floor. He made the mistake of picturing the narrow fringe of hair that bisected Holmes’ belly. His prick thrashed obscenely, so desperate for relief that he made to cuff himself…
…Shouldn’t do that if I were you, boy-o…
Sound advice, even if he couldn’t remember who had said it; his knees were being spread apart and his ass was being lifted…
A warm weight came down on top of him, fitting prick to prick, and began to stroke back and forth. Too slowly, he pushed back, straining up against it, and suddenly he was in the grip of a stronger force than he’d ever experienced in his life. It was riding him, and a harsh voice in his ear was telling him, in the crudest possible way, what he was, and what it was doing to him, and what it was always going to do to him. Released from the need to struggle any longer, the constant ache deep inside him began to expand until thighs and ass, balls and prick were all throbbing urgently and he heard himself saying, Please, please…begging for release. The harsh voice said Now! And his soul poured out of his body in a crescendo of rhythmic pleasure.
Holmes was top of him and snoring softly, when Watson’s conscience wandered back. He tried to ignore it; but his leg was cramping, and the insinuating drip he was feeling was likely to stain the brocade. He gave Holmes a poke. Holmes sputtered, and went on snoring. Watson poked again. “Holmes!”
Holmes’s head snapped up. “Whassuh’?”
“My leg!” Watson groped along the back of the sofa. “I need to straighten it. Quickly man!”
There was some sleepy grumbling; some awkward shifting. Watson straightened his leg and Holmes flopped back on top of him. A moment later, he said, “What am I feeling?”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“I mean what is it you slipped between us?”
“One of Mrs. Hudson’s antimacassars.”
There was a thoughtful beat, and then Watson felt a tender flutter of muscles against his stomach and hot huffs of air beat time on his neck and chin. Slowly, as he stroked Holmes’ head, they changed into arrhythmic snuffles that grew quiet, at last.
Finis
December 2, 2012