FIC: Experimentation (R - Holmes/Watson)
Title: Experimentation
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Humor/Smut
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,354
Warning: Contains bondage, but all in fun and love.
Summary: Holmes discovers that being tied up is educational and fun.
~*~
"But how exactly did you do it?"
Holmes shrugs and it's not that he doesn't want to explain, it's just difficult to speak with an improvised gag in one's mouth. Not to mention that it's all rather complicated how he ended up on Watson's bed, his wrists bound to the brass above his head in a series of knots that a sailor would have trouble undoing.
As for Watson, who's just returned home from house calls that included a heart attack and a birth, he's more perplexed than annoyed, more exhausted than concerned.
"It seems impossible," he says, squinting and examining the knots. He's still in his overcoat and gloves, having walked upstairs in a bit of a tired haze.
At least he's awake now. Holmes tries to smile sweetly around the gag. He tugs hopefully on the bonds.
Watson frowns. "Not until I've had my supper. Maybe a few drinks as well." He pulls off his leather kits, shrugs off his coat and tosses them onto the bed, right over Holmes' legs.
Holmes makes an indignant sound at being turned into an impromptu coat rack.
Filling the wash basin and wiping off his hands and face, Watson is unimpressed. "No one told you to do this in my bed, old boy. Confining your experiments to your own room is one thing, but this? No, you'll just have to deal with it for the time being."
Holmes would like to remind Watson that experiments require certain precautions and if he'd ended up in this predicament in his own room, they'd probably find his skeleton bound to the settee six months from then. Watson most likely wouldn't even discern the difference in odors before that time.
Of course, Mrs. Hudson would find him and leave him there to die, laughing nefariously.
Holmes whimpers a little at the thought. Maybe this wasn't the best idea he's ever had.
"See you after supper," Watson says and he leaves, just like that.
The room turns very quiet and a bit dark, now that the sun is setting. Holmes tugs one last time on the bonds that refuse to budge and sighs. Watson's coat is warm and heavy on his thighs and it's not exactly unpleasant to slide down under it a bit more. Unfortunately, his traitorous brain starts making up imaginative scenarios about why and how he's ended tied up in Watson's bed.
Suddenly the bonds go from annoying to intriguing, from intriguing to downright delightful. He's beginning to hope that Watson doesn't come back for an hour or two and then he starts hoping that Watson comes back immediately, if only to berate him for a while before undoing his wrists, maybe tossing in a few disdainful whacks of his cane in there for good measure.
A few whacks against his ...
Oh, God. It's a good thing he doesn't believe in burning, roaring hellfire of hellish damnation because Holmes is rather sure they'd be stoking up the furnaces at this very minute. He screws his eyes shut and tries hard not to arch up against Watson's coat because that's simply wrong and then gives up completely, struggling hard and gasping against the wet silk in his mouth as he writhes, his imagination going in a hundred different filthy directions all at once.
Of course he keeps this up for far too long and it's no surprise that when he opens his eyes he sees Watson standing by the side of the bed, looking down at him with amusement - and maybe a touch of something else.
"Having a bit of a game, are we?" His tone is indulgent. "Shall I leave you for a while longer?"
Holmes' face is burning, but he shakes his head.
Watson sits down. He pushes the coat aside and examines Holmes' face minutely, lingering over a mouth that must certainly be a sight, wet with spittle and split through with one of Watson's better cravats. Watson should be deeply annoyed and maybe he is, if annoyance is expressed by running a thumb over and around the lips of your captive audience, then leaning in to lick at the bound mouth, tongue sweeping broadly over skin and silk, a very messy approach for someone as fastidious as Watson.
They both moan when he pulls away. "You're insufferable," Watson says hoarsely, his blue eyes glittering. "Next time you're getting the crop."
Holmes makes what he's hopes is an approving noise which turns even more approving when Watson undoes his belt and frees his hard prick, stroking it roughly. "I'm wondering if you planned this," he says, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Holmes'. "Then I remember how good you are at giving yourself excuses for things. Nothing is easier than being helpless like this, is there?"
Holmes bucks into his hand, swearing against the gag.
The warm touch speeds up and Watson presses his forehead against Holmes', breathing raggedly. "Especially when you can just brush it off as an experiment," he says through grit teeth. "But if you think you'll be getting away with that ..."
There are a lot of things Holmes wants to say. Maybe it's a good thing he can't say any of them. He comes hard, all over Watson's fingers, feeling sparks everywhere and Holmes goes limp in the ropes, completely spent. He barely even registers those solid fingers undoing the knots around his wrists, then sliding the gag out of his mouth.
When he finally has the energy to prop himself up on his elbows, Holmes sees Watson examining his borrowed cravat with pursed lips. "You couldn't have used the green one, could you?" he sighs, twining the rope into a neat circle and placing it in his nightstand drawer.
Abashed, Holmes explains. "It was an experiment, you see. I had this idea ..."
For some reason Watson finds this funny. Very funny. "This idea, Holmes, is a very old, widespread idea. Nothing new about it, I'd say."
"It's about facilitating an escape in dangerous circumstances, Watson," Holmes replies indignantly. "In our line of work ..."
"You'll end up tied to a comfortable bed with a silk cravat in your mouth," Watson interjects dryly. "Lucky you. Recommend me to those fellows when you're done."
"You're impossible," Holmes snaps, sulky because Watson is right. More or less. And because he doesn't think Watson has enjoyed this experience one-tenth as much as he has and that's simply not right. He tries a different tact. "Would you like it if I ... if you ... I mean ..."
Ah, there is the smile he's come to know and love. "Not tonight, but yes, that would be very welcome. I'm rather astonished to discover we share yet another depravity besides our unhealthy obsession with the criminal element."
Leaning over to the second stand on the opposite side of the bed, he slides open the top drawer.
Inside of it are a series of soft ropes, restraints and a certain battered-looking green cravat. "Why, there's my green one!" Watson says, smiling sweetly. "Sorry, old boy. Shouldn't have expected you to know where it was."
Holmes gapes at him, as unable to speak as if he were still gagged.
"A very old experiment," Watson says, kissing Holmes' forehead. "Now come down to the table. I've saved you some dinner."
"Thank you," Holmes says when he finally recovers himself. He slides out of the bed with some difficulty, wincing as the blood rushes back into his hands. "Ouch."
"You're welcome," Watson replies, snagging his coat and gloves to bring them downstairs as well. "By the way, above the head is rarely a good idea when you're alone. Nothing wrong with in front or, if you're particularly ambitious, behind you."
Holmes squints at him. "You never tire of being the greatest mystery of my existence, do you?"
Watson merely smiles.
~*~
end
Bondage fic, done. Check! Someone needs to tie Watson up for me next. ;)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: Humor/Smut
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,354
Warning: Contains bondage, but all in fun and love.
Summary: Holmes discovers that being tied up is educational and fun.
~*~
"But how exactly did you do it?"
Holmes shrugs and it's not that he doesn't want to explain, it's just difficult to speak with an improvised gag in one's mouth. Not to mention that it's all rather complicated how he ended up on Watson's bed, his wrists bound to the brass above his head in a series of knots that a sailor would have trouble undoing.
As for Watson, who's just returned home from house calls that included a heart attack and a birth, he's more perplexed than annoyed, more exhausted than concerned.
"It seems impossible," he says, squinting and examining the knots. He's still in his overcoat and gloves, having walked upstairs in a bit of a tired haze.
At least he's awake now. Holmes tries to smile sweetly around the gag. He tugs hopefully on the bonds.
Watson frowns. "Not until I've had my supper. Maybe a few drinks as well." He pulls off his leather kits, shrugs off his coat and tosses them onto the bed, right over Holmes' legs.
Holmes makes an indignant sound at being turned into an impromptu coat rack.
Filling the wash basin and wiping off his hands and face, Watson is unimpressed. "No one told you to do this in my bed, old boy. Confining your experiments to your own room is one thing, but this? No, you'll just have to deal with it for the time being."
Holmes would like to remind Watson that experiments require certain precautions and if he'd ended up in this predicament in his own room, they'd probably find his skeleton bound to the settee six months from then. Watson most likely wouldn't even discern the difference in odors before that time.
Of course, Mrs. Hudson would find him and leave him there to die, laughing nefariously.
Holmes whimpers a little at the thought. Maybe this wasn't the best idea he's ever had.
"See you after supper," Watson says and he leaves, just like that.
The room turns very quiet and a bit dark, now that the sun is setting. Holmes tugs one last time on the bonds that refuse to budge and sighs. Watson's coat is warm and heavy on his thighs and it's not exactly unpleasant to slide down under it a bit more. Unfortunately, his traitorous brain starts making up imaginative scenarios about why and how he's ended tied up in Watson's bed.
Suddenly the bonds go from annoying to intriguing, from intriguing to downright delightful. He's beginning to hope that Watson doesn't come back for an hour or two and then he starts hoping that Watson comes back immediately, if only to berate him for a while before undoing his wrists, maybe tossing in a few disdainful whacks of his cane in there for good measure.
A few whacks against his ...
Oh, God. It's a good thing he doesn't believe in burning, roaring hellfire of hellish damnation because Holmes is rather sure they'd be stoking up the furnaces at this very minute. He screws his eyes shut and tries hard not to arch up against Watson's coat because that's simply wrong and then gives up completely, struggling hard and gasping against the wet silk in his mouth as he writhes, his imagination going in a hundred different filthy directions all at once.
Of course he keeps this up for far too long and it's no surprise that when he opens his eyes he sees Watson standing by the side of the bed, looking down at him with amusement - and maybe a touch of something else.
"Having a bit of a game, are we?" His tone is indulgent. "Shall I leave you for a while longer?"
Holmes' face is burning, but he shakes his head.
Watson sits down. He pushes the coat aside and examines Holmes' face minutely, lingering over a mouth that must certainly be a sight, wet with spittle and split through with one of Watson's better cravats. Watson should be deeply annoyed and maybe he is, if annoyance is expressed by running a thumb over and around the lips of your captive audience, then leaning in to lick at the bound mouth, tongue sweeping broadly over skin and silk, a very messy approach for someone as fastidious as Watson.
They both moan when he pulls away. "You're insufferable," Watson says hoarsely, his blue eyes glittering. "Next time you're getting the crop."
Holmes makes what he's hopes is an approving noise which turns even more approving when Watson undoes his belt and frees his hard prick, stroking it roughly. "I'm wondering if you planned this," he says, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Holmes'. "Then I remember how good you are at giving yourself excuses for things. Nothing is easier than being helpless like this, is there?"
Holmes bucks into his hand, swearing against the gag.
The warm touch speeds up and Watson presses his forehead against Holmes', breathing raggedly. "Especially when you can just brush it off as an experiment," he says through grit teeth. "But if you think you'll be getting away with that ..."
There are a lot of things Holmes wants to say. Maybe it's a good thing he can't say any of them. He comes hard, all over Watson's fingers, feeling sparks everywhere and Holmes goes limp in the ropes, completely spent. He barely even registers those solid fingers undoing the knots around his wrists, then sliding the gag out of his mouth.
When he finally has the energy to prop himself up on his elbows, Holmes sees Watson examining his borrowed cravat with pursed lips. "You couldn't have used the green one, could you?" he sighs, twining the rope into a neat circle and placing it in his nightstand drawer.
Abashed, Holmes explains. "It was an experiment, you see. I had this idea ..."
For some reason Watson finds this funny. Very funny. "This idea, Holmes, is a very old, widespread idea. Nothing new about it, I'd say."
"It's about facilitating an escape in dangerous circumstances, Watson," Holmes replies indignantly. "In our line of work ..."
"You'll end up tied to a comfortable bed with a silk cravat in your mouth," Watson interjects dryly. "Lucky you. Recommend me to those fellows when you're done."
"You're impossible," Holmes snaps, sulky because Watson is right. More or less. And because he doesn't think Watson has enjoyed this experience one-tenth as much as he has and that's simply not right. He tries a different tact. "Would you like it if I ... if you ... I mean ..."
Ah, there is the smile he's come to know and love. "Not tonight, but yes, that would be very welcome. I'm rather astonished to discover we share yet another depravity besides our unhealthy obsession with the criminal element."
Leaning over to the second stand on the opposite side of the bed, he slides open the top drawer.
Inside of it are a series of soft ropes, restraints and a certain battered-looking green cravat. "Why, there's my green one!" Watson says, smiling sweetly. "Sorry, old boy. Shouldn't have expected you to know where it was."
Holmes gapes at him, as unable to speak as if he were still gagged.
"A very old experiment," Watson says, kissing Holmes' forehead. "Now come down to the table. I've saved you some dinner."
"Thank you," Holmes says when he finally recovers himself. He slides out of the bed with some difficulty, wincing as the blood rushes back into his hands. "Ouch."
"You're welcome," Watson replies, snagging his coat and gloves to bring them downstairs as well. "By the way, above the head is rarely a good idea when you're alone. Nothing wrong with in front or, if you're particularly ambitious, behind you."
Holmes squints at him. "You never tire of being the greatest mystery of my existence, do you?"
Watson merely smiles.
~*~
end
Bondage fic, done. Check! Someone needs to tie Watson up for me next. ;)