Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17, PART ONE OF TWO
Title: Change, Or Lack Thereof
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Movieverse] Based on THIS prompt from the sherlockkink meme; Something where they weren't fucking from the start and even though Holmes dreams about it and is stupidly suggestive all the time Watson completely misses it. And it'd be amazingly awesome if Holmes could ride Watson, with Watson just laying back and taking it and having his mind completely blown.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 5,478/11,591
Rating: NC-17
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Sherlock Holmes or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
A man - dark hair, dark eyes, approximately 185 centimetres tall, one leg longer than the other causing a limp when he walks - is crouching behind a stack of wooden crates and has a weapon drawn. Holmes is pressed flat against a brick wall, with Watson as his side, down a side street, running through the possible consequences of him strolling from his hiding place, out into the open.
One scenario: he will take two steps covering four lines of cobbled stones and the crouching man will spot him, raise his pistol and fire. The bullet will miss him, but the loud crack of the weapon will stir a frenzy within the people milling about the market, the ones slowly walking from one stand to the next, haggling and swapping money with merchants. They will run every which way, making it harder for the man to spot him amongst the crowd, but there will be a second shot fired and an innocent lad - perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old - will topple to the ground, holding his side, and watching in horror as blood flows from a wound that won’t be able to be fixed in time to save him. His mother will cry for three days and his father will leave and drink himself to an early grave.
Second scenario: he will trade coats with Watson. Watson will look ridiculous as the sleeves will end at his wrists and the coat will be nowhere near close to closing because his shoulders will be too broad. Watson’s coat will swamp him with material and warmth and he’ll breathe in the familiar smell of his friend when the raised collar rubs against his jaw line. Holmes will take Watson’s hat, despite his complaints of it having only just been fitted for his own head, and then he’ll steal his cane. Without a backwards glance, Holmes will stroll from their hiding place, acting every part the stranger, the person the man with the gun isn’t looking for, and he’ll head up the street, counting the number of times his shoes click against the pavement, towards the crouching man. When he’s close enough, Watson will dart into the road, catching the man’s attention and making him draw his gun, which Holmes will quickly kick out of his hand before delivering a sharp jab to the temple with Watson’s cane, which will render the other man unconscious.
The second scenario is the one they go for, however, not everything goes to plan as Holmes kicks the gun out the man’s hand, but before he can deliver the final blow, the coup de grâce, the man grabs the cane that’s headed for his skull and twists it from Holmes’ grasp. He throws the wooden stick at the wall behind them and it snaps as it bounces off the bricks and lands on the ground. Watson won’t forgive him for that, Holmes thinks as he ducks under the fist the man throws at him. He isn’t quick enough to move out of the way of the other hand that grabs him by the throat and squeezes, making him gasp for a breath that just won’t come, but he tenses his neck, taking some of the pressure off as he brings a foot up at swiftly kicks the man in the chest. The man lets him go as all the air falls out of him, and staggers backwards into a pile of jute sacks filled with sand, which he trips over as he wheezes. While he’s down, Holmes looks to his right to check on Watson, who nods at him, then to the left to find the abandoned pistol, which he notices is laying next to the wall that belongs to some factory that he only just realises is towering over them.
He moves to grab it, but finds himself flying backwards, as the man - who he thought was unconscious, but has apparently righted himself in the brief moments it took Holmes to gather his wits - picks him up by the lapels of Watson’s coat and tosses him into the wooden crates at his back. He can feel them shifting and breaking under his weight and a sharp pain spreads across his shoulders before the remaining crates topple sideways on top of him and he finds himself lost amongst the wood. From what sounds like a very long distance away, there’s a thump and someone lets out a grunt before another thump, though this one sounds more like a body hitting the ground; Holmes rather hopes it isn't Watson. After that, it all drifts away and his pounding skull doesn’t hurt much at all.
*
When he wakes, it’s a different matter altogether, because everything is painful.
He peels his eyes open and glances about; the familiar sight of a desk and a fireplace lets him know that he’s safely back at 221B. He moves to sit up, letting out a small groan as his sore limbs protest, but a firm hand on his chest holds him down. He looks at the hand almost in confusion for a few beats, then follows the arm it’s attached to, up and up and up, until he finds Watson’s face peering down at him.
“Holmes?”
Holmes tries to sit up again, but the hand is still on him, pinning him to his settee he’s reclined upon. He stops trying, flopping back in fatigue, and Watson lets him go.
“Enjoy your nap?” Watson asks, and although it’s light-hearted, Holmes can sense the relief underneath. “Don’t worry, while you were sleeping, I took liberty of knocking out the man who did this to you, and now Lestrade has him safely locked up.”
“Very good,” Holmes says, a faint rasp in his voice; his mouth has dried out and it’s hard to swallow.
Watson holds up a small glass jar full of wood fragments - some almost as big as Holmes’ index finger - and shakes it at him.
“You had a few splinters in your back from the boxes you landed on, but I managed to get them all out and you’re all bandaged up.”
Holmes takes the container and looks at the pieces with interest - that’ll look nice on his mantle, he thinks. He sets it on the floor and glances back at Watson, who’s milling around his side with a dumb waiter loaded with strips of material and small basins of water - one’s murky, a reddish colour, while the other is clear. There’s also a glass of whiskey, a needle, and what looks like one of the strings from Holmes’ violin, however, he knows it has to be something medical, probably a length of catgut.
Watson captures Holmes’ roving gaze and looks at him with an expression he probably gives all his patients.
“You’ll live,” he says, handing the whiskey to Holmes, who knows how this works and quickly tosses it back. While he’s reeling in the burn it leaves as it makes its way to his stomach, Watson moves to kneel at his side. He wets one of the fabric strips and wipes blood off Holmes’ brow, carefully cleaning a gash that makes Holmes’ whole head pound. The air between and around them smells metallic and it makes Holmes’ stomach roll uneasily.
Watson picks out one or two splinters with a pair of tweezers, then gathers up the needle and suture. It pinches as he makes the first stitch, but then his forehead goes strangely numb, like it’s so painful, his body has just given up trying to relay the message to his nervous system. Watson is skilled and it only takes him a few minutes to close the wound and tie the stitches off. He cuts the excess thread off and cleans the bloody skin again.
“Leave it open to the air, don’t get dirt in it, don’t get it wet for the first few days - why am even telling you this, Holmes? I know you won’t listen.”
Holmes shoots him a lopsided smile, which he means to say thank you, and moves to sit up.
“Why don’t you just stay here, Holmes?” Watson suggests with a gentle, but firm push.
“I was hoping to write down all the evidence we have against the man we captured today; it’ll be good to do while the memory is still fresh, don’t you think?”
Watson concedes with a nod, but there’s always a but where Watson is concerned and Holmes knows it’s coming before Watson even opens his mouth.
“But I can do that, Holmes. I will sit right here,” he points to Holmes’ desk, which is just a few metres away, “and you can lie here and rest a while - at least until tea.”
Holmes struggles a moment longer, mostly for show, and then gives in with a huff. Watson pats him on the shoulder gently, taking care to mind his wounds, then rolls the dumb waiter out of the room. Holmes doesn’t see when Watson comes back into the room because he dozes off fairly quickly, an obvious sign that Watson laced his drink with some sort of sedative. The man could poison him and he wouldn’t even realise until too late.
*
He rouses from unconsciousness sometime in the evening to see Watson - holding up to his word - sitting at the desk across from him, scribbling notes onto a piece of paper. There’s a fire in the fireplace crackling madly and it’s warm enough for his eyes to slip closed again easily.
“I am sorry about your cane, Watson,” he mumbles sleepily and the noise of Watson writing stops.
“You can buy me a new one to make up for it,” Watson jokes and Holmes only just remembers to chuckle deep in his throat before drifting back off to sleep.
*
When he next wakes, he finds the room dark - there are no candles lit and the fire has burned itself out from a lack of tending - only the moonlight falling through the window that hasn’t had the curtains pulled across it lightens the room. Watson is missing from his position at the desk and Holmes feels strangely vulnerable. His shirt is missing and he can feel the tightness of the bandages across his back when he shifts. A shadow drifts across the window, blocking the light from the moon.
“Who’s there?” he calls, moving to sit up. A hand falls on his shoulder and pushes him back down, before Watson’s familiar face enters his view. His heart begins to steady itself as he lets out a huff of laughter that’s between relief and exasperation. “I thought it was my job to prowl around in the dark, Watson.”
Watson doesn’t respond and he doesn’t remove his hand from Holmes’ skin. He can feel Watson’s thumb digging into his skin, where he knows Watson only just removed large chunks of wood from, but it doesn’t hurt. Perhaps Watson numbed him while he was sleeping to stop him from waking himself up with the pain every time he moved. Whatever it is, it’s good because Holmes can sit up on his elbows and twist around to look at Watson without it hurting.
Watson shifts until he’s kneeling next to Holmes’ body, similar to his position when he stitched up Holmes’ brow, and Holmes starts to think that he’s come to check on his wounds. He twists his neck to try to glance at the material covering his shoulders.
“There’s no pain, doctor; I think you’ve done a mighty fine job this time. The bandages are still tight and -”
He stops, holding in his breath, as Watson’s hand leaves his shoulder and slides down to his chest, resting between his nipples.
“Watson?” he asks tentatively, letting his eyes travel to Watson’s surprisingly blank face without noticeably turning his head around.
The hand moves further down his body and when Watson’s fingertips slip under the waistband of his trousers, his head snaps around so quickly it takes a few moments for his eyes to catch up.
“Watson, what are you doing?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.
Watson slowly looks at him and a lazy grin slides onto his face.
“Isn’t this what you want, Holmes?” he drawls, deep and rough. “Hidden in your subconscious, waiting to come out; aren’t I the one to give you everything you need, everything you desire?” He leans in close and Holmes can smell the same scent that was on Watson’s coat earlier, the one he had found himself breathing in deep, as he finds himself doing now, without even realising. “It would be so easy to just take what you want, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t resist, Holmes, you know I wouldn’t - I never do, not where you’re concerned.”
His traitorous body starts to respond and a furious blush blazes its way across his cheeks, but there’s a force keeping him pinned, frozen, on his elbows, making him watch as Watson’s hand disappears completely inside his clothes. The split second before Watson finally touches him, where he’s half-hard and throwing off heat, like hot coals, his body jolts with pain and the room falls away, leaving a brighter one in its place.
He gasps for air, his chest heaving with the force, which only makes his back hurt more, as he realises he was dreaming and that the fire is still lit, he’s still wearing a shirt, and Watson is still sitting at the desk nearby. He is definitely not by Holmes’ side with his hand down the front of Holmes’ trousers. Holmes quickly glances at his lap and finds himself embarrassingly hard. He pulls his untucked shirt down lower, successfully covering the evident bulge, and tries to catch his breath.
“Are you all right, Holmes?” Watson asks him, and he can’t help the slight whimper he lets out at the sound of Watson’s voice, gravelly from disuse, like the voice the Watson in his dream has used to try to seduce him. He finds himself rocking minutely into thin air for any pressure where he most wants it, but then he stills and shuts his eyes tightly.
Apparently, Watson takes the noise as pain, as he quickly stands and moves to his side, leaning over and pressing a cool hand against Holmes’ forehead - careful of Holmes’ wound - to check for any signs of a fever, but he pulls it away as Holmes lets out another involuntary groan. Watson’s scent begins to invade his nose and his senses feel like they’re on overload. He opens his eyes, almost manically, and shoots a hand out to grab Watson by the collar, pulling him further over him. For a brief moment he thinks he might just kiss him, he finds himself staring at the lips that, in his dream just a moment ago, had told him he could take what he wanted and nothing would stop him, but then he snaps and pushes Watson back with all of his strength, ignoring the pain that flares across his shoulders.
Watson stumbles backwards, knocking into Holmes’ desk and Holmes moves himself off the settee and practically sprints out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His back hurts and his head throbs, but they’re nothing compared to the painful clench of his stomach when he finds the front of his trousers stained dark with an embarrassing dampness.
*
It’s a new case - Lady Van der Sanden has had a piece of jewellery stolen, which wouldn’t usually strike Holmes’ interest, except the only piece of jewellery stolen was a charm bracelet that was hardly worth anything, and the prized diamond - worth at least £300 - sitting next to it was left untouched. Holmes believes it’s linked to the disappearance of a small iron box belonging to Mr. Lefèvre, who’s adamant that it won’t open - he says he’s tried a hundred times - and that it’s not worth anything, but would like it returned to him as it used to belong to his great-great-great grandmother, Pandore. Holmes doesn’t believe in coincidences, but the legend surrounding Pandora’s Box will never fail to tickle his fancy and he finds the case fantastically ironic.
He and Watson are making their way through an abandoned estate, one that was brought to their attention by an anonymous source and might just hold the last clue. Holmes has a good feeling about it, however, the good feelings vanish as he rounds a corner and finds himself with a face full of pistol and he comes to realise it’s just a trap. He doesn’t know where Watson is - they split up somewhere near the kitchens - but he hopes he hasn’t been found, too.
Holmes goes quietly - not that he has much choice in the matter - and the man, who’s wearing a cloth over the lower part of his face to protect his identity, although Holmes already knows who it is, pulls him by the collar of his coat down a hallway that smells like mildew and some kind of dead animal. The man wears the same long black jacket as his father; the inside lining is made of a fine silk, the quality of which can only be found in the fancier boutiques of Paris. There is also the matter of smell of his breath - an exceptional wine - red - that Holmes knows belongs to the man’s family, who own a vineyard in the countryside of France, as he’s been offered a glass of it before. The man holding him hostage is Jacque, the son of Mr. Lefèvre. If the man had opened his mouth, it would have made Holmes’ job a lot easier, as the accent would have given him away instantly, but the same ending is reached, nonetheless.
“What will your father say about all this when he finds out?” Holmes taunts, even though he’s in no position to do so.
Jacque glances at him and Holmes knows he’s been taken by surprise, which is just what he needs, because Jacque lets his guard down for one second - one tiny little second, which is all Holmes needs - and Holmes slaps his arm to the side. Jacque fires his gun, the blast deafening Holmes in one ear momentarily, and the bullet shoots straight into the wall behind them, sending up dust in its wake. An elbow to the temple sends Jacque tumbling to the floor and Holmes takes his weapon and pats the unconscious body down for anything else he might have. As he suspected he would, he finds Lady Van der Sanden’s stolen bracelet in the man’s inner coat pocket, and Mr. Lefèvre’s small stolen box in his outer coat pocket.
The sound of loud footsteps -- obviously belonging to some of Jacque’s henchmen as they hurry to find what the disturbance was about - racing down the main staircase, which is through a door to Holmes’ left, encourages Holmes to hurry his exit up. He turns to the right and dahes through room after room, heading in, what he hopes is the direction of the back door to the mansion. A door down a corridor on his right opens and he only just has time to dart into another room to stop himself from being seen.
However, the room he darts into, is not a room after all; it’s a closet, and a very small, dark one at that. It would be small to begin with, but the fact that there already seems to be someone else occupying the space, makes it even worse. He accidentally drops Mr Lefèvre’s box with a loud clang and finds himself pressed flush against a man’s strong chest, a man that smells rather familiar.
“Holmes, I daresay I hope that’s you,” comes the whispering voice of Watson by his ear.
“It is indeed,” Holmes answers, breathing as quietly as he can against Watson’s throat.
“How did you end up in here, Watson?” Holmes asks with a casual interest.
“I heard footsteps - your footsteps, apparently - and this was the nearest hiding space. What about you?”
“There’s someone just down the hallway; I think they might have seen me.”
They fall silent, both of them holding their breaths as the sound of boots against concrete grows louder, coming towards where they’re hiding. The noise stops and it sounds like one of Jacque’s cronies is standing just outside the door they’re behind. Something knocks on the wall nearby - perhaps the rapping of knuckles, though it sounds rather like the wooden tapping of a cane - and there’s a gentle click and the unmistakeable sound of a sliding key.
Oh dear, Holmes thinks before the man beyond the wall can say anything.
“Enjoy your time together,” the man croons unpleasantly with a laugh and then footsteps start up again and begin to fade into the distance.
“Holmes, did he - did he just lock the door?”
Holmes lets his forehead flop onto Watson’s shoulder and sighs.
“I believe so, yes,” he says in a resigned voice, and hopes they can escape soon because the scent of Watson is bring back old memories, ones he thought he’d managed to suppress, and his head is starting to hurt.
As if to double check, one of Watson’s arms reaches around Holmes’ body and Holmes can hear the door handle rattle as Watson tries to open it. The door doesn’t budge and Watson retracts the limb.
“What’s the plan?” Watson asks, his moustache rubbing against the shell of Holmes’ ear. Holmes draws his head back, but only succeeds in banging it against the door behind. Without saying anything, Holmes slips Lady Van der Sanden’s charm bracelet into one of the pockets on Watson’s jacket and then with a slightly muffled protest from Watson, tucks the pistol he’s acquired into the waistband of Watson’s trousers. With his hands now free, Holmes can rustle about in his own pockets for the small picklock he knows he has. With it safely clasped in his fist, Holmes sets about trying to turn around in the small space.
He accidentally steps on Watson’s toes more than once and Watson - though he insists that it’s not on purpose - manages to jab him in the ribs with his elbow. Eventually, Holmes finds himself facing the door, but it takes more than a few minutes to locate the keyhole and slip the picklock into it. He jiggles it, hoping it’ll open the door quickly, but when he tries the door handle, it still doesn’t move. It’s hard to focus when he has Watson pressed up against his back, fitting so perfectly down the length of his body that it’s almost like they’re complementary puzzle pieces. Holmes bends at the waist, trying to get closer to the lock to see what he’s doing as he continues to twist the picklock, but all it manages is to knock his head once again into the wood in front of him and push his backside firmly into Watson’s crotch.
Watson grunts and two very warm hands move to grasp at his hips. Watson rolls his body gently into Holmes’, which steals away all of Holmes’ breath and rationality, but Holmes knows the movement can’t be anything other than Watson trying to find a more suitable position, as his shoulder blades are probably digging against the unforgiving wall behind. Holmes shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his thrumming body, because all he can think about is Watson losing control and just grinding into him, and it’s not helping in the slightest. He can feel the hard length of the pistol in Watson’s waistband and he tries not to pretend it’s anything else - specifically, not something belonging to Watson. Each time Watson takes a breath, his chest presses harder against Holmes’ back and Holmes can feel own his body striking up a sudden interest. If he doesn’t get the door open soon, something’s going to happen that he’s going to regret later.
He tenses his body, holding himself completely still and wrenches the picklock so hard that when he hears a loud click he thinks he’s snapped the metal prong and that they’ll never get out of the closet. However, when he tries the door handle, it turns completely and the door swings open, letting in a rush of cool air and the musty smell of the dilapidated house. For a second, neither of them moves; Watson still has a tight grip on Holmes’ waist, and Holmes can’t see straight his head is spinning so much.
After a moment, Watson seems to come to, as he lets go of Holmes, like Holmes is burning his hands through the clothes separating them, and gives Holmes a nudge to make him step from their cramped hiding place. Holmes fastens his coat to hide any incriminating evidence that Watson can hold against him and hopes his flushed face doesn’t give him away as he turns towards his partner. He’s greeted with the sight of Watson’s trousers pulled taut over his backside, as Watson is bent over, picking up Mr Lefèvre’s fallen box.
He hums in the back of his throat appreciatively and tries to cover the sound by coughing loudly. Watson stands upright again and turns towards Holmes, seemingly innocent of everything, and holds the item out to give to Holmes. Holmes takes it, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush in the exchange, and jams it into his pocket without a word. He turns on his heel and sets off down the corridor, listening to the way Watson follows him automatically, his footsteps short and sharp as he hurries to catch up, his cane thudding along with every right footfall.
“Are you all right, Holmes?”
He bites the inside of his cheek severely before answering.
“I am fine, Watson, just dandy.”
He’s not, though, he’s going insane, and it’s all Watson’s - poor, oblivious Watson’s - fault.
*
Two weeks later - just enough time for Holmes to fall back into a comfortable routine with Watson, sans disconcerting and highly inappropriate thoughts about exactly what he’d like to do to his friend - Holmes finds himself suggesting that he and Watson spend a night off at the beerhouse down the end of the street. Watson says no, makes it seem as though he means no, but shows up a quarter of an hour after Holmes plonks himself down on a stool and starts on his first beer of the night.
Watson greets him with a complaint about having to - in his words - take care of Holmes, as though he’s a child, steals Holmes’ beer, which Holmes has only taken one or two sips from, and sits himself on the neighbouring seat. Luckily, Holmes knows Watson lightens up the more alcohol he imbibes, and as soon as one beer is finished, he orders him a second, then a third, then a fourth, and by that time, Watson can’t stop laughing at a joke Holmes makes at the expense of some unfortunate, unknowing fool sitting across the room from them.
Holmes has drunk enough to make him laugh sporadically every time a heavy bout of hilarity washes over Watson, but he’s sober enough to know that he should take Watson home and put him to bed, because it won’t be a pretty sight in the morning when Watson is feeling the not-so-funny aftermath of his drinking.
He leaves money on the counter, enough to cover both of their bills, and stands, gently urging Watson to do the same. Watson staggers, laughing even harder now, and Holmes quickly gathers him up to stop him from falling over. With one of Watson’s arms thrown around Holmes’ neck for stability, they leave the beerhouse and head into the cool London night. The loud chattering, banging of beer bottles against tables, and the scraping of chairs against wooden floors falls away behind them and the only noises around them are the faint clattering of horse hooves in the distance, and the voice of a lady softly singing, her melodious tone drifting from an open window two storeys above their heads.
“’S rather chilly, Holmes, ‘s it not?”
Holmes hums in agreement, though only to appease Watson - he actually thinks it’s more pleasant than anything else. The alcohol warming his blood is enough to take the bitter edge off and Watson leaning warmly against his side removes the rest of the cold.
A silence falls between them until they’re only a few houses away from 221B.
“Mary and I had a fight,” Watson says, his face crumpling in sadness, which catches Holmes off guard; there’s no trace left of the cheerful drunken Watson that had exited the beerhouse laughing and joking.
“Did she yell at you for trimming your moustache with her sewing scissors?”
Watson hiccoughs and it sounds like a laugh, which is what Holmes was aiming to draw out of him.
“It is not a joking matter, Holmes,” Watson slurs at him indignantly.
“No of course not,” Holmes amends to placate Watson while manoeuvring them both carefully up the steps to the front door of 221B. He rings the bell because he knows Mrs. Hudson will still be up - the old biddy never seems to sleep - another reason why she could possibly be a demon or something similar that’s definitely not human.
He hoists more of Watson’s weight onto his shoulders as Watson begins to droop at his side.
“Stay awake, Watson, else we’ll have to carry you, and I for one am not sober enough to do such a thing safely.”
Watson jerks, as though waking suddenly from a dream in which he’s falling and about to hit the ground. In his confusion, he reaches his other arm around Holmes’ chest for balance and ends up with his face in the crook of Holmes’ neck. He mumbles something that’s too muffled by coat for Holmes to hear, and then Watson lets his head flop backwards, his eyes shut and a loose smile on his face.
“It’s nice t’ be drunk,” he murmurs, “there’s a lot less t’ worry ‘bout. You can’t get in trouble,” he finishes as he pushes his face back against Holmes’ throat.
Holmes lets out a snort of laughter and says, “I beg to differ, Watson, there’s a lot of trouble to be had from being intoxicated.”
Holmes untangles an arm and rings the doorbell again, because where is that wretched woman? He’s having difficulty keeping Watson upright because he seems to be slowly, but steadily, sliding down his body again. He moves his fingers into Watson’s open coat and hooks them under his belt, using the leather to pull Watson out of his slouched position. Without thinking, he twists them so that Watson’s back is pressed against the banister of the porch and pins him there with his weight, keeping Watson fixed in place as he continues to wait for Mrs. Hudson to unlock and open the front door.
Holmes glances about, trying to distract himself from the way Watson keeps shifting against him, and a thought suddenly dawns on him.
“Watson, where’s your cane?”
Watson looks up at him and screws his face up in concentration.
“I don’t rem’ber. Beerhouse?”
Holmes nods.
“I’ll go back and get it for you after I get you inside; if it’s not there, I’ll buy you another.”
“Another?” Watson says incredulously, “But you bought the last one, too.”
“Yes, well I distinctly remember it being my fault that it was broken to begin with; it’s only fair.”
Watson hums happily.
“You’re good to me, Holmes, I don’t care what Mary says.” He fits his nose, which is cold from the outside air, into the soft patch of skin under Holmes’ jaw, before he continues. “That’s what we fought about; she said -,” he sighs heavily against Holmes’ flesh and Holmes finds himself wanting Watson to stop torturing him - as Watson’s lips drag against his throat as he speaks - and just press his mouth to the skin completely. “ - she said you were leading me down a road I shouldn’t travel, that you’d end up getting me in serious trouble, but I don’t see how that can be true, Holmes, because all you ever do is look out for me, as I for you. She doesn’t understand us; she just envies our relationship. She doesn’t like how I - ”
For a second, Holmes holds his breath, waiting for Watson to continue, but then Watson tenses against his body and tries to push Holmes away.
“Are you all right, Watson?” Holmes asks, taking a careful step back.
Watson doesn’t respond, just lets go of Holmes, turns around, and is sick over the banister of the stairs, into Mrs. Hudson’s carefully pruned flowerbed.
The front door opens, revealing said landlady in her nightie and slippers, and Holmes finds himself shooting her a look of apology as he rubs Watson’s back soothingly.
Their night off could have gone a lot better.
*
PART TWO »
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: [Movieverse] Based on THIS prompt from the sherlockkink meme; Something where they weren't fucking from the start and even though Holmes dreams about it and is stupidly suggestive all the time Watson completely misses it. And it'd be amazingly awesome if Holmes could ride Watson, with Watson just laying back and taking it and having his mind completely blown.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 5,478/11,591
Rating: NC-17
A/N: This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Sherlock Holmes or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
A man - dark hair, dark eyes, approximately 185 centimetres tall, one leg longer than the other causing a limp when he walks - is crouching behind a stack of wooden crates and has a weapon drawn. Holmes is pressed flat against a brick wall, with Watson as his side, down a side street, running through the possible consequences of him strolling from his hiding place, out into the open.
One scenario: he will take two steps covering four lines of cobbled stones and the crouching man will spot him, raise his pistol and fire. The bullet will miss him, but the loud crack of the weapon will stir a frenzy within the people milling about the market, the ones slowly walking from one stand to the next, haggling and swapping money with merchants. They will run every which way, making it harder for the man to spot him amongst the crowd, but there will be a second shot fired and an innocent lad - perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old - will topple to the ground, holding his side, and watching in horror as blood flows from a wound that won’t be able to be fixed in time to save him. His mother will cry for three days and his father will leave and drink himself to an early grave.
Second scenario: he will trade coats with Watson. Watson will look ridiculous as the sleeves will end at his wrists and the coat will be nowhere near close to closing because his shoulders will be too broad. Watson’s coat will swamp him with material and warmth and he’ll breathe in the familiar smell of his friend when the raised collar rubs against his jaw line. Holmes will take Watson’s hat, despite his complaints of it having only just been fitted for his own head, and then he’ll steal his cane. Without a backwards glance, Holmes will stroll from their hiding place, acting every part the stranger, the person the man with the gun isn’t looking for, and he’ll head up the street, counting the number of times his shoes click against the pavement, towards the crouching man. When he’s close enough, Watson will dart into the road, catching the man’s attention and making him draw his gun, which Holmes will quickly kick out of his hand before delivering a sharp jab to the temple with Watson’s cane, which will render the other man unconscious.
The second scenario is the one they go for, however, not everything goes to plan as Holmes kicks the gun out the man’s hand, but before he can deliver the final blow, the coup de grâce, the man grabs the cane that’s headed for his skull and twists it from Holmes’ grasp. He throws the wooden stick at the wall behind them and it snaps as it bounces off the bricks and lands on the ground. Watson won’t forgive him for that, Holmes thinks as he ducks under the fist the man throws at him. He isn’t quick enough to move out of the way of the other hand that grabs him by the throat and squeezes, making him gasp for a breath that just won’t come, but he tenses his neck, taking some of the pressure off as he brings a foot up at swiftly kicks the man in the chest. The man lets him go as all the air falls out of him, and staggers backwards into a pile of jute sacks filled with sand, which he trips over as he wheezes. While he’s down, Holmes looks to his right to check on Watson, who nods at him, then to the left to find the abandoned pistol, which he notices is laying next to the wall that belongs to some factory that he only just realises is towering over them.
He moves to grab it, but finds himself flying backwards, as the man - who he thought was unconscious, but has apparently righted himself in the brief moments it took Holmes to gather his wits - picks him up by the lapels of Watson’s coat and tosses him into the wooden crates at his back. He can feel them shifting and breaking under his weight and a sharp pain spreads across his shoulders before the remaining crates topple sideways on top of him and he finds himself lost amongst the wood. From what sounds like a very long distance away, there’s a thump and someone lets out a grunt before another thump, though this one sounds more like a body hitting the ground; Holmes rather hopes it isn't Watson. After that, it all drifts away and his pounding skull doesn’t hurt much at all.
*
When he wakes, it’s a different matter altogether, because everything is painful.
He peels his eyes open and glances about; the familiar sight of a desk and a fireplace lets him know that he’s safely back at 221B. He moves to sit up, letting out a small groan as his sore limbs protest, but a firm hand on his chest holds him down. He looks at the hand almost in confusion for a few beats, then follows the arm it’s attached to, up and up and up, until he finds Watson’s face peering down at him.
“Holmes?”
Holmes tries to sit up again, but the hand is still on him, pinning him to his settee he’s reclined upon. He stops trying, flopping back in fatigue, and Watson lets him go.
“Enjoy your nap?” Watson asks, and although it’s light-hearted, Holmes can sense the relief underneath. “Don’t worry, while you were sleeping, I took liberty of knocking out the man who did this to you, and now Lestrade has him safely locked up.”
“Very good,” Holmes says, a faint rasp in his voice; his mouth has dried out and it’s hard to swallow.
Watson holds up a small glass jar full of wood fragments - some almost as big as Holmes’ index finger - and shakes it at him.
“You had a few splinters in your back from the boxes you landed on, but I managed to get them all out and you’re all bandaged up.”
Holmes takes the container and looks at the pieces with interest - that’ll look nice on his mantle, he thinks. He sets it on the floor and glances back at Watson, who’s milling around his side with a dumb waiter loaded with strips of material and small basins of water - one’s murky, a reddish colour, while the other is clear. There’s also a glass of whiskey, a needle, and what looks like one of the strings from Holmes’ violin, however, he knows it has to be something medical, probably a length of catgut.
Watson captures Holmes’ roving gaze and looks at him with an expression he probably gives all his patients.
“You’ll live,” he says, handing the whiskey to Holmes, who knows how this works and quickly tosses it back. While he’s reeling in the burn it leaves as it makes its way to his stomach, Watson moves to kneel at his side. He wets one of the fabric strips and wipes blood off Holmes’ brow, carefully cleaning a gash that makes Holmes’ whole head pound. The air between and around them smells metallic and it makes Holmes’ stomach roll uneasily.
Watson picks out one or two splinters with a pair of tweezers, then gathers up the needle and suture. It pinches as he makes the first stitch, but then his forehead goes strangely numb, like it’s so painful, his body has just given up trying to relay the message to his nervous system. Watson is skilled and it only takes him a few minutes to close the wound and tie the stitches off. He cuts the excess thread off and cleans the bloody skin again.
“Leave it open to the air, don’t get dirt in it, don’t get it wet for the first few days - why am even telling you this, Holmes? I know you won’t listen.”
Holmes shoots him a lopsided smile, which he means to say thank you, and moves to sit up.
“Why don’t you just stay here, Holmes?” Watson suggests with a gentle, but firm push.
“I was hoping to write down all the evidence we have against the man we captured today; it’ll be good to do while the memory is still fresh, don’t you think?”
Watson concedes with a nod, but there’s always a but where Watson is concerned and Holmes knows it’s coming before Watson even opens his mouth.
“But I can do that, Holmes. I will sit right here,” he points to Holmes’ desk, which is just a few metres away, “and you can lie here and rest a while - at least until tea.”
Holmes struggles a moment longer, mostly for show, and then gives in with a huff. Watson pats him on the shoulder gently, taking care to mind his wounds, then rolls the dumb waiter out of the room. Holmes doesn’t see when Watson comes back into the room because he dozes off fairly quickly, an obvious sign that Watson laced his drink with some sort of sedative. The man could poison him and he wouldn’t even realise until too late.
*
He rouses from unconsciousness sometime in the evening to see Watson - holding up to his word - sitting at the desk across from him, scribbling notes onto a piece of paper. There’s a fire in the fireplace crackling madly and it’s warm enough for his eyes to slip closed again easily.
“I am sorry about your cane, Watson,” he mumbles sleepily and the noise of Watson writing stops.
“You can buy me a new one to make up for it,” Watson jokes and Holmes only just remembers to chuckle deep in his throat before drifting back off to sleep.
*
When he next wakes, he finds the room dark - there are no candles lit and the fire has burned itself out from a lack of tending - only the moonlight falling through the window that hasn’t had the curtains pulled across it lightens the room. Watson is missing from his position at the desk and Holmes feels strangely vulnerable. His shirt is missing and he can feel the tightness of the bandages across his back when he shifts. A shadow drifts across the window, blocking the light from the moon.
“Who’s there?” he calls, moving to sit up. A hand falls on his shoulder and pushes him back down, before Watson’s familiar face enters his view. His heart begins to steady itself as he lets out a huff of laughter that’s between relief and exasperation. “I thought it was my job to prowl around in the dark, Watson.”
Watson doesn’t respond and he doesn’t remove his hand from Holmes’ skin. He can feel Watson’s thumb digging into his skin, where he knows Watson only just removed large chunks of wood from, but it doesn’t hurt. Perhaps Watson numbed him while he was sleeping to stop him from waking himself up with the pain every time he moved. Whatever it is, it’s good because Holmes can sit up on his elbows and twist around to look at Watson without it hurting.
Watson shifts until he’s kneeling next to Holmes’ body, similar to his position when he stitched up Holmes’ brow, and Holmes starts to think that he’s come to check on his wounds. He twists his neck to try to glance at the material covering his shoulders.
“There’s no pain, doctor; I think you’ve done a mighty fine job this time. The bandages are still tight and -”
He stops, holding in his breath, as Watson’s hand leaves his shoulder and slides down to his chest, resting between his nipples.
“Watson?” he asks tentatively, letting his eyes travel to Watson’s surprisingly blank face without noticeably turning his head around.
The hand moves further down his body and when Watson’s fingertips slip under the waistband of his trousers, his head snaps around so quickly it takes a few moments for his eyes to catch up.
“Watson, what are you doing?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.
Watson slowly looks at him and a lazy grin slides onto his face.
“Isn’t this what you want, Holmes?” he drawls, deep and rough. “Hidden in your subconscious, waiting to come out; aren’t I the one to give you everything you need, everything you desire?” He leans in close and Holmes can smell the same scent that was on Watson’s coat earlier, the one he had found himself breathing in deep, as he finds himself doing now, without even realising. “It would be so easy to just take what you want, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t resist, Holmes, you know I wouldn’t - I never do, not where you’re concerned.”
His traitorous body starts to respond and a furious blush blazes its way across his cheeks, but there’s a force keeping him pinned, frozen, on his elbows, making him watch as Watson’s hand disappears completely inside his clothes. The split second before Watson finally touches him, where he’s half-hard and throwing off heat, like hot coals, his body jolts with pain and the room falls away, leaving a brighter one in its place.
He gasps for air, his chest heaving with the force, which only makes his back hurt more, as he realises he was dreaming and that the fire is still lit, he’s still wearing a shirt, and Watson is still sitting at the desk nearby. He is definitely not by Holmes’ side with his hand down the front of Holmes’ trousers. Holmes quickly glances at his lap and finds himself embarrassingly hard. He pulls his untucked shirt down lower, successfully covering the evident bulge, and tries to catch his breath.
“Are you all right, Holmes?” Watson asks him, and he can’t help the slight whimper he lets out at the sound of Watson’s voice, gravelly from disuse, like the voice the Watson in his dream has used to try to seduce him. He finds himself rocking minutely into thin air for any pressure where he most wants it, but then he stills and shuts his eyes tightly.
Apparently, Watson takes the noise as pain, as he quickly stands and moves to his side, leaning over and pressing a cool hand against Holmes’ forehead - careful of Holmes’ wound - to check for any signs of a fever, but he pulls it away as Holmes lets out another involuntary groan. Watson’s scent begins to invade his nose and his senses feel like they’re on overload. He opens his eyes, almost manically, and shoots a hand out to grab Watson by the collar, pulling him further over him. For a brief moment he thinks he might just kiss him, he finds himself staring at the lips that, in his dream just a moment ago, had told him he could take what he wanted and nothing would stop him, but then he snaps and pushes Watson back with all of his strength, ignoring the pain that flares across his shoulders.
Watson stumbles backwards, knocking into Holmes’ desk and Holmes moves himself off the settee and practically sprints out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His back hurts and his head throbs, but they’re nothing compared to the painful clench of his stomach when he finds the front of his trousers stained dark with an embarrassing dampness.
*
It’s a new case - Lady Van der Sanden has had a piece of jewellery stolen, which wouldn’t usually strike Holmes’ interest, except the only piece of jewellery stolen was a charm bracelet that was hardly worth anything, and the prized diamond - worth at least £300 - sitting next to it was left untouched. Holmes believes it’s linked to the disappearance of a small iron box belonging to Mr. Lefèvre, who’s adamant that it won’t open - he says he’s tried a hundred times - and that it’s not worth anything, but would like it returned to him as it used to belong to his great-great-great grandmother, Pandore. Holmes doesn’t believe in coincidences, but the legend surrounding Pandora’s Box will never fail to tickle his fancy and he finds the case fantastically ironic.
He and Watson are making their way through an abandoned estate, one that was brought to their attention by an anonymous source and might just hold the last clue. Holmes has a good feeling about it, however, the good feelings vanish as he rounds a corner and finds himself with a face full of pistol and he comes to realise it’s just a trap. He doesn’t know where Watson is - they split up somewhere near the kitchens - but he hopes he hasn’t been found, too.
Holmes goes quietly - not that he has much choice in the matter - and the man, who’s wearing a cloth over the lower part of his face to protect his identity, although Holmes already knows who it is, pulls him by the collar of his coat down a hallway that smells like mildew and some kind of dead animal. The man wears the same long black jacket as his father; the inside lining is made of a fine silk, the quality of which can only be found in the fancier boutiques of Paris. There is also the matter of smell of his breath - an exceptional wine - red - that Holmes knows belongs to the man’s family, who own a vineyard in the countryside of France, as he’s been offered a glass of it before. The man holding him hostage is Jacque, the son of Mr. Lefèvre. If the man had opened his mouth, it would have made Holmes’ job a lot easier, as the accent would have given him away instantly, but the same ending is reached, nonetheless.
“What will your father say about all this when he finds out?” Holmes taunts, even though he’s in no position to do so.
Jacque glances at him and Holmes knows he’s been taken by surprise, which is just what he needs, because Jacque lets his guard down for one second - one tiny little second, which is all Holmes needs - and Holmes slaps his arm to the side. Jacque fires his gun, the blast deafening Holmes in one ear momentarily, and the bullet shoots straight into the wall behind them, sending up dust in its wake. An elbow to the temple sends Jacque tumbling to the floor and Holmes takes his weapon and pats the unconscious body down for anything else he might have. As he suspected he would, he finds Lady Van der Sanden’s stolen bracelet in the man’s inner coat pocket, and Mr. Lefèvre’s small stolen box in his outer coat pocket.
The sound of loud footsteps -- obviously belonging to some of Jacque’s henchmen as they hurry to find what the disturbance was about - racing down the main staircase, which is through a door to Holmes’ left, encourages Holmes to hurry his exit up. He turns to the right and dahes through room after room, heading in, what he hopes is the direction of the back door to the mansion. A door down a corridor on his right opens and he only just has time to dart into another room to stop himself from being seen.
However, the room he darts into, is not a room after all; it’s a closet, and a very small, dark one at that. It would be small to begin with, but the fact that there already seems to be someone else occupying the space, makes it even worse. He accidentally drops Mr Lefèvre’s box with a loud clang and finds himself pressed flush against a man’s strong chest, a man that smells rather familiar.
“Holmes, I daresay I hope that’s you,” comes the whispering voice of Watson by his ear.
“It is indeed,” Holmes answers, breathing as quietly as he can against Watson’s throat.
“How did you end up in here, Watson?” Holmes asks with a casual interest.
“I heard footsteps - your footsteps, apparently - and this was the nearest hiding space. What about you?”
“There’s someone just down the hallway; I think they might have seen me.”
They fall silent, both of them holding their breaths as the sound of boots against concrete grows louder, coming towards where they’re hiding. The noise stops and it sounds like one of Jacque’s cronies is standing just outside the door they’re behind. Something knocks on the wall nearby - perhaps the rapping of knuckles, though it sounds rather like the wooden tapping of a cane - and there’s a gentle click and the unmistakeable sound of a sliding key.
Oh dear, Holmes thinks before the man beyond the wall can say anything.
“Enjoy your time together,” the man croons unpleasantly with a laugh and then footsteps start up again and begin to fade into the distance.
“Holmes, did he - did he just lock the door?”
Holmes lets his forehead flop onto Watson’s shoulder and sighs.
“I believe so, yes,” he says in a resigned voice, and hopes they can escape soon because the scent of Watson is bring back old memories, ones he thought he’d managed to suppress, and his head is starting to hurt.
As if to double check, one of Watson’s arms reaches around Holmes’ body and Holmes can hear the door handle rattle as Watson tries to open it. The door doesn’t budge and Watson retracts the limb.
“What’s the plan?” Watson asks, his moustache rubbing against the shell of Holmes’ ear. Holmes draws his head back, but only succeeds in banging it against the door behind. Without saying anything, Holmes slips Lady Van der Sanden’s charm bracelet into one of the pockets on Watson’s jacket and then with a slightly muffled protest from Watson, tucks the pistol he’s acquired into the waistband of Watson’s trousers. With his hands now free, Holmes can rustle about in his own pockets for the small picklock he knows he has. With it safely clasped in his fist, Holmes sets about trying to turn around in the small space.
He accidentally steps on Watson’s toes more than once and Watson - though he insists that it’s not on purpose - manages to jab him in the ribs with his elbow. Eventually, Holmes finds himself facing the door, but it takes more than a few minutes to locate the keyhole and slip the picklock into it. He jiggles it, hoping it’ll open the door quickly, but when he tries the door handle, it still doesn’t move. It’s hard to focus when he has Watson pressed up against his back, fitting so perfectly down the length of his body that it’s almost like they’re complementary puzzle pieces. Holmes bends at the waist, trying to get closer to the lock to see what he’s doing as he continues to twist the picklock, but all it manages is to knock his head once again into the wood in front of him and push his backside firmly into Watson’s crotch.
Watson grunts and two very warm hands move to grasp at his hips. Watson rolls his body gently into Holmes’, which steals away all of Holmes’ breath and rationality, but Holmes knows the movement can’t be anything other than Watson trying to find a more suitable position, as his shoulder blades are probably digging against the unforgiving wall behind. Holmes shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his thrumming body, because all he can think about is Watson losing control and just grinding into him, and it’s not helping in the slightest. He can feel the hard length of the pistol in Watson’s waistband and he tries not to pretend it’s anything else - specifically, not something belonging to Watson. Each time Watson takes a breath, his chest presses harder against Holmes’ back and Holmes can feel own his body striking up a sudden interest. If he doesn’t get the door open soon, something’s going to happen that he’s going to regret later.
He tenses his body, holding himself completely still and wrenches the picklock so hard that when he hears a loud click he thinks he’s snapped the metal prong and that they’ll never get out of the closet. However, when he tries the door handle, it turns completely and the door swings open, letting in a rush of cool air and the musty smell of the dilapidated house. For a second, neither of them moves; Watson still has a tight grip on Holmes’ waist, and Holmes can’t see straight his head is spinning so much.
After a moment, Watson seems to come to, as he lets go of Holmes, like Holmes is burning his hands through the clothes separating them, and gives Holmes a nudge to make him step from their cramped hiding place. Holmes fastens his coat to hide any incriminating evidence that Watson can hold against him and hopes his flushed face doesn’t give him away as he turns towards his partner. He’s greeted with the sight of Watson’s trousers pulled taut over his backside, as Watson is bent over, picking up Mr Lefèvre’s fallen box.
He hums in the back of his throat appreciatively and tries to cover the sound by coughing loudly. Watson stands upright again and turns towards Holmes, seemingly innocent of everything, and holds the item out to give to Holmes. Holmes takes it, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush in the exchange, and jams it into his pocket without a word. He turns on his heel and sets off down the corridor, listening to the way Watson follows him automatically, his footsteps short and sharp as he hurries to catch up, his cane thudding along with every right footfall.
“Are you all right, Holmes?”
He bites the inside of his cheek severely before answering.
“I am fine, Watson, just dandy.”
He’s not, though, he’s going insane, and it’s all Watson’s - poor, oblivious Watson’s - fault.
*
Two weeks later - just enough time for Holmes to fall back into a comfortable routine with Watson, sans disconcerting and highly inappropriate thoughts about exactly what he’d like to do to his friend - Holmes finds himself suggesting that he and Watson spend a night off at the beerhouse down the end of the street. Watson says no, makes it seem as though he means no, but shows up a quarter of an hour after Holmes plonks himself down on a stool and starts on his first beer of the night.
Watson greets him with a complaint about having to - in his words - take care of Holmes, as though he’s a child, steals Holmes’ beer, which Holmes has only taken one or two sips from, and sits himself on the neighbouring seat. Luckily, Holmes knows Watson lightens up the more alcohol he imbibes, and as soon as one beer is finished, he orders him a second, then a third, then a fourth, and by that time, Watson can’t stop laughing at a joke Holmes makes at the expense of some unfortunate, unknowing fool sitting across the room from them.
Holmes has drunk enough to make him laugh sporadically every time a heavy bout of hilarity washes over Watson, but he’s sober enough to know that he should take Watson home and put him to bed, because it won’t be a pretty sight in the morning when Watson is feeling the not-so-funny aftermath of his drinking.
He leaves money on the counter, enough to cover both of their bills, and stands, gently urging Watson to do the same. Watson staggers, laughing even harder now, and Holmes quickly gathers him up to stop him from falling over. With one of Watson’s arms thrown around Holmes’ neck for stability, they leave the beerhouse and head into the cool London night. The loud chattering, banging of beer bottles against tables, and the scraping of chairs against wooden floors falls away behind them and the only noises around them are the faint clattering of horse hooves in the distance, and the voice of a lady softly singing, her melodious tone drifting from an open window two storeys above their heads.
“’S rather chilly, Holmes, ‘s it not?”
Holmes hums in agreement, though only to appease Watson - he actually thinks it’s more pleasant than anything else. The alcohol warming his blood is enough to take the bitter edge off and Watson leaning warmly against his side removes the rest of the cold.
A silence falls between them until they’re only a few houses away from 221B.
“Mary and I had a fight,” Watson says, his face crumpling in sadness, which catches Holmes off guard; there’s no trace left of the cheerful drunken Watson that had exited the beerhouse laughing and joking.
“Did she yell at you for trimming your moustache with her sewing scissors?”
Watson hiccoughs and it sounds like a laugh, which is what Holmes was aiming to draw out of him.
“It is not a joking matter, Holmes,” Watson slurs at him indignantly.
“No of course not,” Holmes amends to placate Watson while manoeuvring them both carefully up the steps to the front door of 221B. He rings the bell because he knows Mrs. Hudson will still be up - the old biddy never seems to sleep - another reason why she could possibly be a demon or something similar that’s definitely not human.
He hoists more of Watson’s weight onto his shoulders as Watson begins to droop at his side.
“Stay awake, Watson, else we’ll have to carry you, and I for one am not sober enough to do such a thing safely.”
Watson jerks, as though waking suddenly from a dream in which he’s falling and about to hit the ground. In his confusion, he reaches his other arm around Holmes’ chest for balance and ends up with his face in the crook of Holmes’ neck. He mumbles something that’s too muffled by coat for Holmes to hear, and then Watson lets his head flop backwards, his eyes shut and a loose smile on his face.
“It’s nice t’ be drunk,” he murmurs, “there’s a lot less t’ worry ‘bout. You can’t get in trouble,” he finishes as he pushes his face back against Holmes’ throat.
Holmes lets out a snort of laughter and says, “I beg to differ, Watson, there’s a lot of trouble to be had from being intoxicated.”
Holmes untangles an arm and rings the doorbell again, because where is that wretched woman? He’s having difficulty keeping Watson upright because he seems to be slowly, but steadily, sliding down his body again. He moves his fingers into Watson’s open coat and hooks them under his belt, using the leather to pull Watson out of his slouched position. Without thinking, he twists them so that Watson’s back is pressed against the banister of the porch and pins him there with his weight, keeping Watson fixed in place as he continues to wait for Mrs. Hudson to unlock and open the front door.
Holmes glances about, trying to distract himself from the way Watson keeps shifting against him, and a thought suddenly dawns on him.
“Watson, where’s your cane?”
Watson looks up at him and screws his face up in concentration.
“I don’t rem’ber. Beerhouse?”
Holmes nods.
“I’ll go back and get it for you after I get you inside; if it’s not there, I’ll buy you another.”
“Another?” Watson says incredulously, “But you bought the last one, too.”
“Yes, well I distinctly remember it being my fault that it was broken to begin with; it’s only fair.”
Watson hums happily.
“You’re good to me, Holmes, I don’t care what Mary says.” He fits his nose, which is cold from the outside air, into the soft patch of skin under Holmes’ jaw, before he continues. “That’s what we fought about; she said -,” he sighs heavily against Holmes’ flesh and Holmes finds himself wanting Watson to stop torturing him - as Watson’s lips drag against his throat as he speaks - and just press his mouth to the skin completely. “ - she said you were leading me down a road I shouldn’t travel, that you’d end up getting me in serious trouble, but I don’t see how that can be true, Holmes, because all you ever do is look out for me, as I for you. She doesn’t understand us; she just envies our relationship. She doesn’t like how I - ”
For a second, Holmes holds his breath, waiting for Watson to continue, but then Watson tenses against his body and tries to push Holmes away.
“Are you all right, Watson?” Holmes asks, taking a careful step back.
Watson doesn’t respond, just lets go of Holmes, turns around, and is sick over the banister of the stairs, into Mrs. Hudson’s carefully pruned flowerbed.
The front door opens, revealing said landlady in her nightie and slippers, and Holmes finds himself shooting her a look of apology as he rubs Watson’s back soothingly.
Their night off could have gone a lot better.
*
PART TWO »