The chair creaks noisily under his weight when Watson sinks into it, head lulling back against the engraved frame and feeling the wood hitting his skull. His necktie is undone, held shakily between fingers as his other hand gripping the armrest, nails scraping against the lacquer. The room is far too hot despite it being a winter night. The air around him feels humid, musky, smells too much like sweat and whiskey and incense from the East - a compliment from the hotel, no doubt - but he can hardly think right now.
More out of habit than anything, his hand reaches up to press against his neck, checking the pulse. Too fast. He can't count. He gropes his pockets for something - anything - to calm him down, even a flask of wine, or a cigar, but he finds nothing but his gun. Utterly useless, unless he is to shoot himself.
A tempting idea, actually, compared to the way his body is feeling like it's on fire, a scorching heat unlike a bottle of scotch, a crackling fire on dried wood, or Mary's breath on his skin.
There is nothing else that is within Holmes's gaze right now; nothing that captures his attentions so completely and utterly as the sight of Watson - eyes wide, lips red and wet and parted (and the lewd images that Holmes' mind immeiately conjured- his friend is right: there is truly no limit to his depravity), with his back half-bent as he stumbles and nearly trips over his own feet. This clumsiness is entirely unbecoming of him, because Holmes, even when he is at his most unstable and drunk, or even when drugged up with cocaine, has a certain sort of cat-like grace to him. An ability to hold onto his own coordination
( ... )
There is nothing. Nothing. Attractive about Holmes. Or so Watson tells himself. His hair is a mane of scraggly, coarse threads, his face overgrown with speckled stubbles and there are permanent dark bags under his eyes from sleepless nights when he insists that Watson must share his insomnia. His person perpetually smells of tobacco, faint cocaine, and the musky scent of spilled whiskey mixed with dirty clothing-
--certainly. That does not a desirable man make. Not even the muscles that rip under the thin layer of Holmes' shirt could rectify that, even when Watson can see it move, each pane of flesh and muscle defining itself because Holmes' shirt is so drenched in sweat it's practically obscene-
He's going out of his mind.
Watson could barely utter the start of a protest when Holmes' lips crashed against his, wet and clumsy and Watson might have wanted to pull away and chastise him on the sheer lack of skills (my God, he didn't even know how a man could be so bad at this simple act-), but that is what he would do had it been in a
( ... )
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More out of habit than anything, his hand reaches up to press against his neck, checking the pulse. Too fast. He can't count. He gropes his pockets for something - anything - to calm him down, even a flask of wine, or a cigar, but he finds nothing but his gun. Utterly useless, unless he is to shoot himself.
A tempting idea, actually, compared to the way his body is feeling like it's on fire, a scorching heat unlike a bottle of scotch, a crackling fire on dried wood, or Mary's breath on his skin.
Oh God, Mary.Part of him ( ... )
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--certainly. That does not a desirable man make. Not even the muscles that rip under the thin layer of Holmes' shirt could rectify that, even when Watson can see it move, each pane of flesh and muscle defining itself because Holmes' shirt is so drenched in sweat it's practically obscene-
He's going out of his mind.
Watson could barely utter the start of a protest when Holmes' lips crashed against his, wet and clumsy and Watson might have wanted to pull away and chastise him on the sheer lack of skills (my God, he didn't even know how a man could be so bad at this simple act-), but that is what he would do had it been in a ( ... )
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