Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17, PART TWO 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: 6,112/11,591
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.
*
Holmes ties his cravat and slips his coat on as he makes his way out of his room, onto the landing. He stops a moment to pull his hat on, before deciding he probably won’t need it for such a short trip - he’s only going down to Mr. Hancock’s Wood Works &Co, which is just on the corner of Bickenhall street, a five minutes’ walk from their home. He’s going to pick up Watson a new, and much better, cane, since he forgot to go back to look for Watson’s old one.
Speaking of the devil himself, Holmes watches as Watson cautiously makes his way out of his own room, looking faintly green, and stumbles in the direction of the bathroom. When Watson catches sight of Holmes hooking his hat over the end of the banister, he stops, and draws his dressing gown further around his body, as though he’s ashamed of Holmes seeing him so underdressed.
“Where are you off to?” he asks frowning.
Holmes taps his nose to say it’s a secret and turns to leave Watson alone.
“Holmes,” Watson calls out, drawing him back with a voice that sounds oddly panicked. “What I said last night - ”
“We were drunk,” Holmes says, trying to make it easier for Watson, who nods in agreement then nods again to signal the end of their brief conversation.
He tips his head courteously in return, and turns on his heel to head down the stairs, passing by a window that shows him a picture of a dark and rolling sky above London. The front door opens easily under his touch, helped in part by a blustery wind that’s whipping down the street, and he finds himself outside, with the black wood of the door shut firmly at his back before he knows it. As he steps from under the porch cover, he feels the first drops of rain on the top of his head and curses his luck; that’ll teach him to forgo his hat. He flips the collar of his coat up and takes the steps to the street two at a time, before turning left, out of the gale that’s starting to chill him to the bone.
The rain gets heavier with each passing step he takes as he hurries down the street, past other Londoners, who have their heads tilted down to ward off the weather. When he enters the business he’s looking for, the sky seems to open completely and the rain pours down behind him. The bell above the door jingles, sounding happy regardless of the poor weather and Holmes’ rather foul mood, and a stout man with thinning white hair appears from behind a shelf housing different sorts of cigar boxes.
“Back again so soon, sir?” the man asks, recognising him from his last visit not yet two months ago. He runs his eyes over Holmes’ damp person and tuts. “Awful weather we’ve got today, ain’t it?”
“I am looking for a cane,” Holmes says abruptly, “something sturdy, for a man just a few inches taller than myself. It must be clean cut and handsome, like the gentleman I’d like to offer it to.”
The shopkeeper seems put-off by Holmes’ lack of interest in small talk, but nods to acknowledge his request and disappears into what must be the store’s backroom. Holmes glances around, taking special interest in the row of handmade smoking pipes that look finely crafted by a skilled hand. He’s distracted from them as the old man returns grasping three canes, holding them out for Holmes to inspect.
The first it far too thin, one that’s obviously made for beatings; the second is sleek, made of a dark stained oak, which Holmes knows would look fine gripped in Watson’s hand; the third is made of a lighter coloured wood, but it has a curved handle that Holmes knows Watson wouldn’t appreciate. He takes the second cane from the man’s hand carefully, eyeing up the rounded end - perfect for hollowing out and placing a blade within - and the small silver band wrapped around the wood, a hand’s width from the top.
“I’ll take it,” Holmes says, indifferent to the price. The clerk smiles brightly at him and takes the cane to wrap it in a thick brown paper, sealing it with hot wax. Holmes hands over a fistful of paper, which he should probably save to pay this month’s rent with, but feels no regret as the man gives him his change, a handwritten receipt, and the wrapped cane. He slips the first two items into his pockets and keeps the third trapped tightly under his arm.
Holmes leaves the shop, the bell jingling cheerfully in his wake again, and finds himself with a wet foot as he accidentally steps straight into a puddle. He bites his tongue to stop himself from swearing at his misfortune and sets off and a quick pace back to 221B. He can barely see through the heavy rainfall, and every now and then, he has to dodge past another poor stranger hurrying in the opposite direction. His hair sticks uncomfortably down the back of his neck and to his forehead, and it only serves to drip more water into his eyes.
He’s almost home, he can see the light on the porch that’s been lit because of the rain, but then someone grabs his shoulder and removes the cane from under his arm. He takes a breath to call out thief! but before he can get the word out, the air is knocked from his lungs as he’s pushed down an empty side street and into a brick wall. As he gasps for breath, he sucks in rain and starts coughing and spluttering in response. He still hasn’t been able to see his attackers face, but when the man leans in close Holmes can smell him - above the scent of the rain wetting the pavement around them and the dingy London smell that always lingers under the nose - and knows it can’t be anyone else except Watson.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I got inside?” Holmes asks as soon as he’s caught his breath again.
Watson pushes him harder into the wall angrily.
“Where have you been?” he cries sounding rather desperate.
“It was going to be a surprise,” Holmes says, uncertain why Watson’s so angry with him, but his answer only seems to incense Watson more, as he slips his forearm up to Holmes’ collarbone and pins him in place. Holmes could easily escape with a well-placed punch to Watson’s kidney, but he’s curious to know what Watson thinks he’s been up to.
“A surprise?” cries Watson incredulously. “Holmes, this is my life we’re talking about, not some birthday present!”
“But -” Holmes starts before Watson interrupts.
“What makes you think you can just do this? Don’t you care about me enough not to try to ruin my life?”
“Well, I could hardly see it ruining your life; I did it to help you.”
“Help me? How could it possibly help me?” Watson yells incredulously.
“Don’t be daft, Watson; if I didn’t do it, your ailment would continue to hold you back, and where would that get us when a new case comes along?”
“An ailment? I hardly think you can call it that!”
“It’s your Achilles' heel, Watson, even you can’t argue that.”
“My fiancée is not my Achilles’ heel, Holmes!” Watson cries and Holmes suddenly gets the feeling that they’ve been holding two entirely separate conversations. Before he can point this out to Watson, Watson continues. “You say you want to help me, but I know you’ve been to see Mary, and I know you’ve told her everything I said last night, but it’s not true; I take everything back! I was drunk, and in a moment of weakness, I said some reckless things, but you have to believe me when I say I take them back. Mary’s only looking out for my welfare because she believes your intentions are far from innocent, which I know is true, because I’ve seen it myself. You’re not as secretive as you might like to believe, Holmes, and I know your opinion of me has changed within these past few months, but you don’t need to bring Mary into this. This is between us and we need to figure it out privately!”
Watson peters out and Holmes is left with the distinct sense that anything he says could be highly awkward. He settles for avoiding the obvious.
“I bought you a cane.”
“Now’s hardly the time, Holmes -”
“No, you are mistaken, Watson; that’s where I went. I didn’t visit Miss Morstan; I went to buy you a new cane.”
Watson suddenly lets him go and it rather feels as though everything - each of Watson’s accidental confessions -- is hovering above their heads, waiting for the moment when gravity pulls them back down on top of them.
“Oh,” is all Watson says, his cheeks tinged with humiliation.
“I just picked it up this morning,” he says tipping his head towards the cane that’s now laying in a puddle near the entranceway of the alley. The paper is ripped completely off, laying nearby, and looking almost as soggy as Holmes feels.
Watson seems to be stuck trying to figure out where everything in life has gone wrong, and, while still mixed up in apparent disorientation, doesn’t try to stop Holmes as he walks over and scoops the cane off the ground, shaking it gently to get the excess water off. He offers it over to Watson, who stares at him dumbly, not even looking at the object in Holmes’ hand, until Holmes jabs him in the shoulder with it gently.
“Here,” Holmes says and Watson finally takes it from him.
“Holmes, forgive me, I-” Watson starts, but Holmes interjects.
“Now, Watson, I’ve bought you a present. Don’t be rude; tell me what you think of it.”
Watson stares at him a minute longer, then looks down at the cane in his clenched fist. He takes a moment to eye up the fine craftsmanship, before resting the end of it on the ground and leaning on it to test the strength and feel of it. It’s the perfect height and is decidedly rather Watson-esque; Holmes is rather pleased with himself - well, as pleased as he can feel after a rather embarrassing mix-up.
“There’s no blade in the top, but I thought that was a job for yourself; make it a little bit more personal for you.”
Watson looks at him, his face open, and when he says thank you, Holmes knows he truly means it, for everything, not just the cane. Holmes clears his throat and looks up into the sky, blinking against the rain that he’d almost forgotten was still falling around them.
“What say you to finding somewhere dryer and nicer smelling? This rather foul smelling alleyway is giving me a headache.” It’s either the bins, or the throbbing lump he can feel on the back of his skull, from where he knocked his head into the wall when Watson first pushed him backwards against the unrelenting bricks.
For once, it’s Watson who leads, walking swiftly out of the alleyway and back onto Baker Street, his new cane tapping against the cobbles with every other step. Holmes regards his friend’s back with a defeatist silence, knowing full well now that everything he wants is everything he can never have.
He slowly follows after Watson, his shoulders heavy from the weight of his drenched coat.
*
When Holmes awakens, he doesn’t know what time it - there’s nothing but darkness surrounding him - but there’s something not quite right, something different about his room, and he keeps his breathing even, imitating sleep, while he tries to gather his bearings.
There’s a smoky scent hanging heavily in the air, as though the logs on the fire have finally burned themselves out; from that information, Holmes estimates that it’s closer to one or two in the morning. There’s a draft, hinting that either the wind outside is strong and blowing down the chimney, or that the bedroom door is open. He can’t hear any whistling, which means it has to be option two, which is unnerving because he shut his door firmly before undressing and falling between the sheets on his bed.
There’s a gentle snick sound and the draft dies away, suggesting that the door is now closed, but whether the person who opened it to begin with is inside or outside of the room, is something Holmes can’t quite figure out. Someone shuffles, moving with an unsteady gait, and everything falls into place. The person is inside the room, and that person is Watson.
Watson edges nearer to where he’s lying, pretending to be asleep, but stops at the foot of the bed.
“I know you’re awake,” he says quietly and Holmes finally opens his eyes and rolls over to look at Watson’s shadowed figure.
“You know me too well, Watson,” he replies, pushing his pillows back against the headboard and sitting up to lean comfortably on them.
Watson drags a nearby chair up to the bedside, then sits with his elbows on his knees and his chin balanced on steepled fingers.
“You’re brooding,” Holmes points out, as he leans over the side of his bed and lights the lamp on his nightstand; it casts a gentle glow over Watson and the rest of the room.
“I’m not,” Watson counters sounding more tired than anything, and when he leans back, letting the light filter across his face, Holmes can see the exhaustion spread over his features.
“Haven’t you slept yet?” Holmes inquires, not really surprised when Watson shakes his head in a silent negative answer.
Watson stares at Holmes with a hollow look and says, “We need to talk about what happened earlier.”
“Now, Watson? Can’t it wait until the morning?” Holmes finishes his sentence with a yawn, hoping that Watson will get the hint because it’s far too late - or is it considered early, now? - for him to be told that he’s running after something unobtainable and that he should seek healthier outlets for his feelings.
Watson buries his face in his hands, threading all of his fingers into his hair and mussing it up. When he speaks, his voice is muffled by his palms.
“I’ve done something awfully stupid, Holmes,” Watson whispers, “she warned me this would happen, that we would end up too close, and I didn’t listen.” He raises his head and furrows his brow. “I can never seem to resist, Holmes, not where you’re concerned.”
Holmes stomach plummets downwards and it feels as though he’s missed a step on a staircase and there’s a brief moment where he’s just falling. He’s heard Watson tell this to him before, except the last time the words rolled off his tongue, he was dreaming and Watson had one of his hands pushed down Holmes’ trousers. Holmes can’t deal with this, not when his subconscious is starting to bleed into reality. He swings his legs out from under the covers and lets his feet drop to the cool wooden floor.
“Where are you going?” Watson asks standing at the same time as Holmes. “This discussion isn’t over.”
“It is now,” Holmes says, turning to leave. Before he can take more than two steps, Watson catches him by the shoulders and drags him back, pushing him down onto the bed behind, forcing him to sit. The mattress springs creak under his weight and Watson lets go of him abruptly, as though suddenly coming to his senses.
“What have you done to me, Holmes?” Watson asks, but Holmes doesn’t have an answer for him, in fact, he could be asking Watson the same question; it’s funny how life works sometimes.
Watson stands, staring at him as though he has no idea what else to do or say.
“How I feel isn’t right,” he sighs and after a brief pause, Holmes replies carefully.
“And who told you you should think like that?”
“Everyone, Holmes! Mary, the whole of society, even myself!”
“And what about me; do I get a say in this?”
Watson laughs derisively.
“I think you’ve done enough, Holmes.”
A heavy silence hangs over them and Watson carefully straightens the collar of his nightshirt, though there’s nothing wrong with it to begin with.
“I should leave -”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” Holmes replies quickly, standing politely as Watson turns and starts heading for the door. Holmes watches the way Watson’s shoulders sag in defeat and he can feel his own start to droop; there are no winners in war, he thinks, just killers and the killed.
He’s about to head to his desk - the idea of sleep fleeting now - where he knows he’s stored something stronger than alcohol that will give him the bliss he needs to see the night through, when he notices that Watson’s stopped, just in front of the doorway. He’s about to ask if everything is okay, when Watson spins around and marches back towards him, a look of intent in his eyes - Holmes can’t decipher it and doesn’t know whether he should step out of Watson’s path or meet him halfway.
Long fingers curl around the back of his head and Watson draws him in, bringing their mouths together for the first kiss Holmes has been waiting months for. Watson’s lips are firm against his own, moving and taking everything Holmes has to offer. It’s irrational and careless and Holmes kind of likes this new side to Watson.
“I don’t care,” Watson says against his lips. “I don’t, I don’t.”
Holmes can’t help but agree.
Without thinking, Holmes slackens his jaw and lets Watson’s probing tongue slip into his mouth. The taste and absolute warmth is dizzying; it’s everything he’s ever wanted from Watson and it distracts him from the way Watson’s moustache tickles his upper lip and nose. After Holmes responds, rolling his tongue against Watson’s own, Watson’s hands run down his body, touching absolutely everywhere they can reach, almost as if Watson can’t quite believe Holmes is really there, kissing him in return.
A distinct lack of air causes Holmes to draw back, gulping in oxygen through a mouth that’s wet and bruised, and he can’t help dropping smaller kisses against Watson’s swollen bottom lip. Watson pulls away, out of his reach, and regards him silently.
“This will either be the best or worst decision of my life,” he mutters, letting his gaze fall to Holmes’ lips, which he quickly captures again. Holmes thinks it has to be the best decision, because he knows that only good things come to those who wait, and he’s be waiting rather a long time. He moves his hands around Watson’s waist and lets his fingers slip under the back of Watson’s nightshirt, pressing against smooth, taut skin. With a gentle tug, he pulls Watson flush against his own body and rubs their hips together. Watson bites his bottom lip sharply at the movement and the mix of pain and pleasure floods straight through his body.
Watson’s own hands glide up to Holmes’ shoulders and without even undoing any fasteners, tugs Holmes’ shirt over his head, forcing their kiss to break once again and Holmes’ hair to stand in all directions. Watson fixes his gaze upon the skin he’s just uncovered and he maps his fingers up and down Holmes’ chest with a delicacy Holmes has only felt when Watson’s tended to him in the past. The muscles in Holmes’ stomach twitch reflexively as Watson sears his fingerprints into the skin there, and Holmes can’t even bring himself to look - has to force himself to watch the expressions flittering across Watson’s face instead - as Watson undoes the drawstring keeping up Holmes’ trousers and lets the loose material slide to the ground. Holmes isn’t wearing anything underneath, but Watson’s reaction - eyes falling half-closed, lips gently parted - tells him that the sight’s not unwelcome.
He’s already half-hard from the sheer anticipation thrumming through his veins, and he can feel himself harden more under Watson’s gaze. With a barely-there touch, Watson drags his fingertips along the underside of his cock and Holmes’ hips buck, trying to find more contact, but all he manages to do is push the sticky head of his erection into the material of Watson’s sleeping garments, leaving a damp smudge in its wake. In what seems to Holmes as an act of mercy, Watson closes his fist around Holmes and strokes, faltering only a couple of times as he tries to find the right pressure and speed.
Moans tumble from Holmes’ lips and Watson licks his way into Holmes’ mouth, pushing words of encouragement straight to the back of Holmes’ throat.
Holmes has never felt so much at once; his senses are being bombarded by everything Watson is doing to him and he knows that if Watson keeps it up, he won’t last long at all. To even the playing field, Holmes moves his hands to the closures of Watson’s nightshirt and undoes them with fumbling fingers and a lack of accuracy. When it’s completely open, he pushes the clothing off Watson’s shoulders and curves his arms around Watson’s own so he can reach to unfasten and push his trousers down.
Watson’s skin is pale and inviting, and he finds his fingers automatically drift to the small patch of hair between Watson’s nipples. Watson hums appreciatively into his mouth then draws away from Holmes completely. The loss of Watson’s hands on him draws a restless groan from Holmes, but he quietens when Watson slips his fingertips into the waistband of his own undergarments and pushes his last piece of clothing off.
Holmes’ eyes dart about as they try to take in every detail of Watson’s body, but stop when Watson catches a hold of his chin and forces him to stare back at him.
“I am not something you can just runaway from in the morning, Holmes, remember that.”
Holmes shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them and nods his consent; he would never be stupid enough to do such a thing to Watson, not now that he finally has him.
Watson keeps a hold of his jaw as he kisses him once more, turning them towards the bed, and gently urging Holmes to recline backwards onto it. The sheets under his back are no longer sleep-warm, but with Watson pressing his heated chest against his own, it doesn’t matter; he has all the warmth he needs.
After dropping one last kiss onto Holmes’ lips, Watson straightens up and turns towards Holmes’ nightstand. He rummages about, picking up and setting glass bottles back down again every now and then, until he finds what he’s looking for. He presses the small phial into Holmes’ palm, but Holmes just pushes it back. He wraps a loose arm around Watson’s neck and draws him down.
Breathlessly, he whispers, “I need you inside me, Watson” into Watson’s ear.
The words seem to take a while to compute for Watson, as he doesn’t move for a few beats. Holmes is just about to repeat his request - just in case Watson didn’t hear the first time - when Watson pulls back and looks as though he’s trying to assess whether Holmes is being serious or not.
“You don’t have to, just because of me,” Watson says and Holmes finds himself needing to prove that he does in fact want it, and isn’t just forcing himself to. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather break the law with.
He tugs Watson onto the bed, until he’s hovering tensely over Holmes’ body and Holmes realises the position isn’t going to work for them, not when all he needs is for Watson to lie back and enjoy what he has to offer. With gentle hands, he moves Watson until he’s on his back, head resting on one of Holmes’ pillows, with Holmes kneeling between his splayed legs. Carefully, he takes back the small glass bottle of oil from Watson’s clenched fist and unstoppers it, pouring a generous amount into his palm.
For the first time, Holmes finally touches Watson, folding his hand around Watson’s reddened cock and spreading the lubricant over him with steady strokes. Watson lifts his hips up, pushing further into Holmes’ fist, and Holmes takes pleasure in watching him, as he’s unable to hold himself back. The usually reserved Watson seems to have fallen away completely and in its place, it’s left a man rutting and writhing under his hands, gasping and pleading for more.
Holmes teases him, drawing him close to the edge, then slowing down and watching the thoroughly tormented Watson struggle, clutching helpless at the bedclothes underneath him, as he slips further away from bliss again. When Watson cries out, sobbing for Holmes to end his suffering, Holmes knows he’s far enough gone, and that it’s time to show some compassion.
He lets go of Watson’s leaking cock and tips more oil onto his hand. He sets the vial on the nightstand, then kneels, using his clean hand against Watson’s chest to hold himself up. Carefully, he slips his hand between his legs and pushes one fingertip inside himself. It’s an awkward angle - he can’t seem to get his finger in the right position to hit his prostate, but with Watson watching him, he doesn’t need anything else to help his muscles relax. The second finger is harder to get inside, but he tilts his hips towards Watson’s body and it fits smoothly alongside the other. By the third finger, Holmes’ thighs begin to shake and he knows he needs more than what he can give himself.
With a roll of his hips, he slips his fingers out, wiping them briefly on the sheets below them, before moving his hands to grip Watson’s shoulders so he can slide himself up to straddle Watson’s hips. Watson doesn’t seem to be able to do anything other than stare, which is perfectly fine with Holmes, as he moves a hand to steady Watson’s cock against his entrance and gently lowers himself down onto it.
Watson’s hands fly to Holmes’ waist and Holmes loses himself in the feeling of Watson stretching him out even more, loving the burn that only just pushes its way through the haze of pleasure. He moves his hand back to Watson’s shoulder and presses down onto the last inch or so, letting himself rest in Watson’s lap for a moment. All he can focus on is Watson’s flushed face and the way he bites his lip to stop himself from crying out. He doesn’t want Watson to hold back, though; he wants Watson to call out his name and grunt and groan and yell loud enough to wake the neighbours; he wants to see Watson come completely undone, at his doing.
Holmes lifts himself up slightly only to fall back down, revelling in the feel of how easily Watson slides in and out of him. He continues to rise and fall, arching his back for a better angle, until Watson nudges at his prostate and he finds himself riding Watson’s cock with abandon, trying to keep a hold of the flare of pleasure that sweeps over him.
The thrill spreading through Holmes’ body is like nothing he’s ever felt before and, from the looks of it, Watson seems to be experiencing the same feelings, as he’s not even trying to hold back his gasps, too caught up in the moment. Holmes can’t stop himself as he bends, still rocking in Watson’s lap, and slips his mouth over the one that’s red and raw and oh-so-inviting beneath him. Watson kisses back with too much tongue and teeth, but Holmes is beyond caring; his cock is pressed between both of their stomachs, dripping freely onto Watson’s skin, and it feels like every single one of his nerves is alight.
Watson pushes upwards, interrupting the rhythm Holmes has created, but Holmes does nothing but take it. The sound of their bodies slipping against one another is the only thing Holmes can hear until he breaks away from Watson’s mouth and Watson starts panting and begging for more again. He obliges, running his tongue along Watson’s jaw, then down his throat, where he trails love bites and wet kisses. Holmes can feel Watson’s skin vibrating against his mouth and he realises it’s his own name that’s being shaken onto his tongue. With one last nip, he pulls away and makes eye contact with Watson, who can’t seem to do anything but repeat Holmes’ name.
Holmes pulls up, almost all the way off, before falling back down, and that’s all it takes before Watson shudders underneath him, calling out his name into the silent room. The spread of warmth inside him, leaking out of him, is enough to make him slip his hand down between his legs and stroke himself to completion, coming just moments after Watson.
It feels as though he’s being pulled out of his own body into nothing but whiteness, before he comes crashing back down into his skin, with a sudden sharpness that leaves him shaking and gasping for breath. Watson’s chest rises and falls rapidly under his palm and he can feel Watson’s heart fluttering madly, caged within his ribs.
After a moment or two, Holmes finally gathers enough strength to pull himself off of Watson, who’s softened and slipped most of the way out already anyway, and crumples into the space beside him on the bed. Neither of them says anything, both still trying to catch their breaths, but the silence is anything but awkward; Holmes is satiated and sleepy and the happiest he’s felt in a long while, despite being sweaty and sticky. Before long, Watson shifts and Holmes is almost lead to believe he’s getting off the bed, but then all he does is lean over and blow out the light - Holmes can always count on Watson to make sure he doesn’t burn their house down.
When Watson lies back down, he rolls onto his side and pulls Holmes against him and a sudden feeling of comfort washes over Holmes. Watson makes him feel safe and warm and, most of all, less alone. With a contented sigh and a gentle kiss against Watson’s shoulder, Holmes lets himself drift off, thinking that tonight might be the night he actually sleeps though until dawn.
*
A bright sliver of light shines directly into Holmes’ face and everything behind his eyelids goes a peach colour. He grunts sleepily and shifts, rolling onto his stomach and tucking his head into the softness of his pillow. His whole body aches pleasantly and everything that happened the night before rushes back to him. He presses his smile into the cloth under his face because he knows they have a whole morning to themselves, and Holmes has a fair few ideas about how they should spend it.
With a searching hand, Holmes gropes for the body that should be warm and resting next to his, but he finds nothing but cool sheets. His heart picks up speed and his mind automatically jumps to the worst scenario it can - something where Watson, too embarrassed to face Holmes in the morning, decides to collect up a few personal belongings and leave 221B for good.
He peels his eyes open and lifts his head up slightly; there’s no sign of Watson in his bed, just rumpled sheets and a dent in the other pillow, where he had once lain. He moves onto his back and glances about the gently lit room, but there’s nothing, nobody else except himself.
With a small sigh of disappointment, Holmes drags the pillow he isn’t using over his face and wonders whether he should just smother himself now, to do himself a favour. The material pushing against his nose smells distinctly like Watson, which only seems to make things worse. He thinks about what Watson said to him - telling him that he wasn’t to run away and leave Watson alone - and wonders if Watson has decided to eat his own words and flee. Slightly upset, he tosses the pillow over the side of the bed and, after stretching, slips out from under the sheets.
His whole body feels grimy and he’s in dire need of a bath, so he slips on a pair underwear he finds in his dresser, and heads towards the door, set on hiding himself away in the bathroom for the rest of the day, for a lack of anything better to do, now that Watson’s gone.
He takes his dressing gown, which is hanging on a hook next to the door, and slips it on, tying the material belt in a tight knot around his waist to keep it secure. The door handle is cool under his palm, but before he can twist it, it turns by itself and the door opens slowly towards him.
“Oh!” is Watson’s reaction when he finds Holmes just the other side of the wood and Holmes takes a step back in surprise. He takes in Watson’s appearance - neatly combed hair, smartly pressed collar, tidily buttoned waistcoat, and spotlessly clean trousers. If Holmes didn’t know any better, he’d never believe that beneath Watson’s neat and collected outward appearance, there’s the same man who spent the night with him.
“You were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you,” Watson says before nodding towards the tray Holmes only just notices is resting on one palm. “I brought tea.”
Now it’s Holmes’ turn to say, “Oh.”
He steps out of Watson’s way and shuts the door behind them, following after Watson, who moves to set the tray on Holmes’ desk and starts pouring out two cups of steaming hot drink. Watson takes one of the cups and saucer, leaving Holmes to take the other, and sits carefully at the end of Holmes’ settee. Holmes watches him take careful sips, giving nothing away as to what he’s thinking, and Holmes finds himself grappling for anything to hold onto; it feels like he’s thrown himself off the cliffs of Dover and he’s falling and falling and -
“Holmes, your tea will go cold if all you do is stare at it.”
Watson’s voice cuts into his reverie and he blinks to clear his head. Without thinking, he goes with what feels right, taking the cup - without the saucer, which is a habit Holmes knows always irritates Watson - and moves to sit on the floor at Watson’s feet, leaning casually against both the settee and Watson’s legs.
His mouth burns when he takes too big of a swallow of his drink, but that’s the way he always drinks his tea - Watson always tells him, in his I-am-a-doctor-and-I-know-what’s-best voice that he’ll have no tastebuds left, but Holmes knows it’s a lie; he knows that Watson just gets fed up of listening to him complaining that everything tastes like rubber afterwards.
“Watson?”
“Yes, Holmes?”
“What will you tell Miss Morstan?”
The question seems to catch Watson off guard, but when he sighs, Holmes can tell that it’s not the first time he’s thought about it.
“The truth; that’s the least she deserves, but I think the worst part is that she probably won’t be surprised. She knows you, Holmes,” he sighs again, as though he’s frustrated with himself, “and she knows me. Something tells me that she might be more disappointed than shocked.”
Watson drains what’s left in his teacup and sets it on the open seat next to him.
“What are you telling yourself?” Holmes asks curiously.
“Apart from the obvious: that I must be completely insane?” Watson shrugs, then catches Holmes by surprise as he runs his fingers through Holmes’ hair. “That nothing will change between us; you’ll still be a pain, and I’ll still get annoyed at everything you do.”
“However, Watson, you may have failed to take into account that we might have to move, as I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will soon grow weary with us. You are, after all, quite loud when you’re being ravished.”
Watson lets out a sharp snort of protest
“Holmes, that is hardly -” he starts, but Holmes interrupts.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Watson; sometimes I forget my own prowess and -”
This time it’s Watson’s turn to cut him off, as he slips his hand under Holmes’ jaw to turn his head towards him.
“Be quiet, Holmes,” Watson tells him, leaning in to press tea-warmed lips against Holmes’ own and Holmes gladly complies. He’s glad to know that some things will never change, no matter what.
FIN
« PART ONE
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: 6,112/11,591
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.
*
Holmes ties his cravat and slips his coat on as he makes his way out of his room, onto the landing. He stops a moment to pull his hat on, before deciding he probably won’t need it for such a short trip - he’s only going down to Mr. Hancock’s Wood Works &Co, which is just on the corner of Bickenhall street, a five minutes’ walk from their home. He’s going to pick up Watson a new, and much better, cane, since he forgot to go back to look for Watson’s old one.
Speaking of the devil himself, Holmes watches as Watson cautiously makes his way out of his own room, looking faintly green, and stumbles in the direction of the bathroom. When Watson catches sight of Holmes hooking his hat over the end of the banister, he stops, and draws his dressing gown further around his body, as though he’s ashamed of Holmes seeing him so underdressed.
“Where are you off to?” he asks frowning.
Holmes taps his nose to say it’s a secret and turns to leave Watson alone.
“Holmes,” Watson calls out, drawing him back with a voice that sounds oddly panicked. “What I said last night - ”
“We were drunk,” Holmes says, trying to make it easier for Watson, who nods in agreement then nods again to signal the end of their brief conversation.
He tips his head courteously in return, and turns on his heel to head down the stairs, passing by a window that shows him a picture of a dark and rolling sky above London. The front door opens easily under his touch, helped in part by a blustery wind that’s whipping down the street, and he finds himself outside, with the black wood of the door shut firmly at his back before he knows it. As he steps from under the porch cover, he feels the first drops of rain on the top of his head and curses his luck; that’ll teach him to forgo his hat. He flips the collar of his coat up and takes the steps to the street two at a time, before turning left, out of the gale that’s starting to chill him to the bone.
The rain gets heavier with each passing step he takes as he hurries down the street, past other Londoners, who have their heads tilted down to ward off the weather. When he enters the business he’s looking for, the sky seems to open completely and the rain pours down behind him. The bell above the door jingles, sounding happy regardless of the poor weather and Holmes’ rather foul mood, and a stout man with thinning white hair appears from behind a shelf housing different sorts of cigar boxes.
“Back again so soon, sir?” the man asks, recognising him from his last visit not yet two months ago. He runs his eyes over Holmes’ damp person and tuts. “Awful weather we’ve got today, ain’t it?”
“I am looking for a cane,” Holmes says abruptly, “something sturdy, for a man just a few inches taller than myself. It must be clean cut and handsome, like the gentleman I’d like to offer it to.”
The shopkeeper seems put-off by Holmes’ lack of interest in small talk, but nods to acknowledge his request and disappears into what must be the store’s backroom. Holmes glances around, taking special interest in the row of handmade smoking pipes that look finely crafted by a skilled hand. He’s distracted from them as the old man returns grasping three canes, holding them out for Holmes to inspect.
The first it far too thin, one that’s obviously made for beatings; the second is sleek, made of a dark stained oak, which Holmes knows would look fine gripped in Watson’s hand; the third is made of a lighter coloured wood, but it has a curved handle that Holmes knows Watson wouldn’t appreciate. He takes the second cane from the man’s hand carefully, eyeing up the rounded end - perfect for hollowing out and placing a blade within - and the small silver band wrapped around the wood, a hand’s width from the top.
“I’ll take it,” Holmes says, indifferent to the price. The clerk smiles brightly at him and takes the cane to wrap it in a thick brown paper, sealing it with hot wax. Holmes hands over a fistful of paper, which he should probably save to pay this month’s rent with, but feels no regret as the man gives him his change, a handwritten receipt, and the wrapped cane. He slips the first two items into his pockets and keeps the third trapped tightly under his arm.
Holmes leaves the shop, the bell jingling cheerfully in his wake again, and finds himself with a wet foot as he accidentally steps straight into a puddle. He bites his tongue to stop himself from swearing at his misfortune and sets off and a quick pace back to 221B. He can barely see through the heavy rainfall, and every now and then, he has to dodge past another poor stranger hurrying in the opposite direction. His hair sticks uncomfortably down the back of his neck and to his forehead, and it only serves to drip more water into his eyes.
He’s almost home, he can see the light on the porch that’s been lit because of the rain, but then someone grabs his shoulder and removes the cane from under his arm. He takes a breath to call out thief! but before he can get the word out, the air is knocked from his lungs as he’s pushed down an empty side street and into a brick wall. As he gasps for breath, he sucks in rain and starts coughing and spluttering in response. He still hasn’t been able to see his attackers face, but when the man leans in close Holmes can smell him - above the scent of the rain wetting the pavement around them and the dingy London smell that always lingers under the nose - and knows it can’t be anyone else except Watson.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I got inside?” Holmes asks as soon as he’s caught his breath again.
Watson pushes him harder into the wall angrily.
“Where have you been?” he cries sounding rather desperate.
“It was going to be a surprise,” Holmes says, uncertain why Watson’s so angry with him, but his answer only seems to incense Watson more, as he slips his forearm up to Holmes’ collarbone and pins him in place. Holmes could easily escape with a well-placed punch to Watson’s kidney, but he’s curious to know what Watson thinks he’s been up to.
“A surprise?” cries Watson incredulously. “Holmes, this is my life we’re talking about, not some birthday present!”
“But -” Holmes starts before Watson interrupts.
“What makes you think you can just do this? Don’t you care about me enough not to try to ruin my life?”
“Well, I could hardly see it ruining your life; I did it to help you.”
“Help me? How could it possibly help me?” Watson yells incredulously.
“Don’t be daft, Watson; if I didn’t do it, your ailment would continue to hold you back, and where would that get us when a new case comes along?”
“An ailment? I hardly think you can call it that!”
“It’s your Achilles' heel, Watson, even you can’t argue that.”
“My fiancée is not my Achilles’ heel, Holmes!” Watson cries and Holmes suddenly gets the feeling that they’ve been holding two entirely separate conversations. Before he can point this out to Watson, Watson continues. “You say you want to help me, but I know you’ve been to see Mary, and I know you’ve told her everything I said last night, but it’s not true; I take everything back! I was drunk, and in a moment of weakness, I said some reckless things, but you have to believe me when I say I take them back. Mary’s only looking out for my welfare because she believes your intentions are far from innocent, which I know is true, because I’ve seen it myself. You’re not as secretive as you might like to believe, Holmes, and I know your opinion of me has changed within these past few months, but you don’t need to bring Mary into this. This is between us and we need to figure it out privately!”
Watson peters out and Holmes is left with the distinct sense that anything he says could be highly awkward. He settles for avoiding the obvious.
“I bought you a cane.”
“Now’s hardly the time, Holmes -”
“No, you are mistaken, Watson; that’s where I went. I didn’t visit Miss Morstan; I went to buy you a new cane.”
Watson suddenly lets him go and it rather feels as though everything - each of Watson’s accidental confessions -- is hovering above their heads, waiting for the moment when gravity pulls them back down on top of them.
“Oh,” is all Watson says, his cheeks tinged with humiliation.
“I just picked it up this morning,” he says tipping his head towards the cane that’s now laying in a puddle near the entranceway of the alley. The paper is ripped completely off, laying nearby, and looking almost as soggy as Holmes feels.
Watson seems to be stuck trying to figure out where everything in life has gone wrong, and, while still mixed up in apparent disorientation, doesn’t try to stop Holmes as he walks over and scoops the cane off the ground, shaking it gently to get the excess water off. He offers it over to Watson, who stares at him dumbly, not even looking at the object in Holmes’ hand, until Holmes jabs him in the shoulder with it gently.
“Here,” Holmes says and Watson finally takes it from him.
“Holmes, forgive me, I-” Watson starts, but Holmes interjects.
“Now, Watson, I’ve bought you a present. Don’t be rude; tell me what you think of it.”
Watson stares at him a minute longer, then looks down at the cane in his clenched fist. He takes a moment to eye up the fine craftsmanship, before resting the end of it on the ground and leaning on it to test the strength and feel of it. It’s the perfect height and is decidedly rather Watson-esque; Holmes is rather pleased with himself - well, as pleased as he can feel after a rather embarrassing mix-up.
“There’s no blade in the top, but I thought that was a job for yourself; make it a little bit more personal for you.”
Watson looks at him, his face open, and when he says thank you, Holmes knows he truly means it, for everything, not just the cane. Holmes clears his throat and looks up into the sky, blinking against the rain that he’d almost forgotten was still falling around them.
“What say you to finding somewhere dryer and nicer smelling? This rather foul smelling alleyway is giving me a headache.” It’s either the bins, or the throbbing lump he can feel on the back of his skull, from where he knocked his head into the wall when Watson first pushed him backwards against the unrelenting bricks.
For once, it’s Watson who leads, walking swiftly out of the alleyway and back onto Baker Street, his new cane tapping against the cobbles with every other step. Holmes regards his friend’s back with a defeatist silence, knowing full well now that everything he wants is everything he can never have.
He slowly follows after Watson, his shoulders heavy from the weight of his drenched coat.
*
When Holmes awakens, he doesn’t know what time it - there’s nothing but darkness surrounding him - but there’s something not quite right, something different about his room, and he keeps his breathing even, imitating sleep, while he tries to gather his bearings.
There’s a smoky scent hanging heavily in the air, as though the logs on the fire have finally burned themselves out; from that information, Holmes estimates that it’s closer to one or two in the morning. There’s a draft, hinting that either the wind outside is strong and blowing down the chimney, or that the bedroom door is open. He can’t hear any whistling, which means it has to be option two, which is unnerving because he shut his door firmly before undressing and falling between the sheets on his bed.
There’s a gentle snick sound and the draft dies away, suggesting that the door is now closed, but whether the person who opened it to begin with is inside or outside of the room, is something Holmes can’t quite figure out. Someone shuffles, moving with an unsteady gait, and everything falls into place. The person is inside the room, and that person is Watson.
Watson edges nearer to where he’s lying, pretending to be asleep, but stops at the foot of the bed.
“I know you’re awake,” he says quietly and Holmes finally opens his eyes and rolls over to look at Watson’s shadowed figure.
“You know me too well, Watson,” he replies, pushing his pillows back against the headboard and sitting up to lean comfortably on them.
Watson drags a nearby chair up to the bedside, then sits with his elbows on his knees and his chin balanced on steepled fingers.
“You’re brooding,” Holmes points out, as he leans over the side of his bed and lights the lamp on his nightstand; it casts a gentle glow over Watson and the rest of the room.
“I’m not,” Watson counters sounding more tired than anything, and when he leans back, letting the light filter across his face, Holmes can see the exhaustion spread over his features.
“Haven’t you slept yet?” Holmes inquires, not really surprised when Watson shakes his head in a silent negative answer.
Watson stares at Holmes with a hollow look and says, “We need to talk about what happened earlier.”
“Now, Watson? Can’t it wait until the morning?” Holmes finishes his sentence with a yawn, hoping that Watson will get the hint because it’s far too late - or is it considered early, now? - for him to be told that he’s running after something unobtainable and that he should seek healthier outlets for his feelings.
Watson buries his face in his hands, threading all of his fingers into his hair and mussing it up. When he speaks, his voice is muffled by his palms.
“I’ve done something awfully stupid, Holmes,” Watson whispers, “she warned me this would happen, that we would end up too close, and I didn’t listen.” He raises his head and furrows his brow. “I can never seem to resist, Holmes, not where you’re concerned.”
Holmes stomach plummets downwards and it feels as though he’s missed a step on a staircase and there’s a brief moment where he’s just falling. He’s heard Watson tell this to him before, except the last time the words rolled off his tongue, he was dreaming and Watson had one of his hands pushed down Holmes’ trousers. Holmes can’t deal with this, not when his subconscious is starting to bleed into reality. He swings his legs out from under the covers and lets his feet drop to the cool wooden floor.
“Where are you going?” Watson asks standing at the same time as Holmes. “This discussion isn’t over.”
“It is now,” Holmes says, turning to leave. Before he can take more than two steps, Watson catches him by the shoulders and drags him back, pushing him down onto the bed behind, forcing him to sit. The mattress springs creak under his weight and Watson lets go of him abruptly, as though suddenly coming to his senses.
“What have you done to me, Holmes?” Watson asks, but Holmes doesn’t have an answer for him, in fact, he could be asking Watson the same question; it’s funny how life works sometimes.
Watson stands, staring at him as though he has no idea what else to do or say.
“How I feel isn’t right,” he sighs and after a brief pause, Holmes replies carefully.
“And who told you you should think like that?”
“Everyone, Holmes! Mary, the whole of society, even myself!”
“And what about me; do I get a say in this?”
Watson laughs derisively.
“I think you’ve done enough, Holmes.”
A heavy silence hangs over them and Watson carefully straightens the collar of his nightshirt, though there’s nothing wrong with it to begin with.
“I should leave -”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” Holmes replies quickly, standing politely as Watson turns and starts heading for the door. Holmes watches the way Watson’s shoulders sag in defeat and he can feel his own start to droop; there are no winners in war, he thinks, just killers and the killed.
He’s about to head to his desk - the idea of sleep fleeting now - where he knows he’s stored something stronger than alcohol that will give him the bliss he needs to see the night through, when he notices that Watson’s stopped, just in front of the doorway. He’s about to ask if everything is okay, when Watson spins around and marches back towards him, a look of intent in his eyes - Holmes can’t decipher it and doesn’t know whether he should step out of Watson’s path or meet him halfway.
Long fingers curl around the back of his head and Watson draws him in, bringing their mouths together for the first kiss Holmes has been waiting months for. Watson’s lips are firm against his own, moving and taking everything Holmes has to offer. It’s irrational and careless and Holmes kind of likes this new side to Watson.
“I don’t care,” Watson says against his lips. “I don’t, I don’t.”
Holmes can’t help but agree.
Without thinking, Holmes slackens his jaw and lets Watson’s probing tongue slip into his mouth. The taste and absolute warmth is dizzying; it’s everything he’s ever wanted from Watson and it distracts him from the way Watson’s moustache tickles his upper lip and nose. After Holmes responds, rolling his tongue against Watson’s own, Watson’s hands run down his body, touching absolutely everywhere they can reach, almost as if Watson can’t quite believe Holmes is really there, kissing him in return.
A distinct lack of air causes Holmes to draw back, gulping in oxygen through a mouth that’s wet and bruised, and he can’t help dropping smaller kisses against Watson’s swollen bottom lip. Watson pulls away, out of his reach, and regards him silently.
“This will either be the best or worst decision of my life,” he mutters, letting his gaze fall to Holmes’ lips, which he quickly captures again. Holmes thinks it has to be the best decision, because he knows that only good things come to those who wait, and he’s be waiting rather a long time. He moves his hands around Watson’s waist and lets his fingers slip under the back of Watson’s nightshirt, pressing against smooth, taut skin. With a gentle tug, he pulls Watson flush against his own body and rubs their hips together. Watson bites his bottom lip sharply at the movement and the mix of pain and pleasure floods straight through his body.
Watson’s own hands glide up to Holmes’ shoulders and without even undoing any fasteners, tugs Holmes’ shirt over his head, forcing their kiss to break once again and Holmes’ hair to stand in all directions. Watson fixes his gaze upon the skin he’s just uncovered and he maps his fingers up and down Holmes’ chest with a delicacy Holmes has only felt when Watson’s tended to him in the past. The muscles in Holmes’ stomach twitch reflexively as Watson sears his fingerprints into the skin there, and Holmes can’t even bring himself to look - has to force himself to watch the expressions flittering across Watson’s face instead - as Watson undoes the drawstring keeping up Holmes’ trousers and lets the loose material slide to the ground. Holmes isn’t wearing anything underneath, but Watson’s reaction - eyes falling half-closed, lips gently parted - tells him that the sight’s not unwelcome.
He’s already half-hard from the sheer anticipation thrumming through his veins, and he can feel himself harden more under Watson’s gaze. With a barely-there touch, Watson drags his fingertips along the underside of his cock and Holmes’ hips buck, trying to find more contact, but all he manages to do is push the sticky head of his erection into the material of Watson’s sleeping garments, leaving a damp smudge in its wake. In what seems to Holmes as an act of mercy, Watson closes his fist around Holmes and strokes, faltering only a couple of times as he tries to find the right pressure and speed.
Moans tumble from Holmes’ lips and Watson licks his way into Holmes’ mouth, pushing words of encouragement straight to the back of Holmes’ throat.
Holmes has never felt so much at once; his senses are being bombarded by everything Watson is doing to him and he knows that if Watson keeps it up, he won’t last long at all. To even the playing field, Holmes moves his hands to the closures of Watson’s nightshirt and undoes them with fumbling fingers and a lack of accuracy. When it’s completely open, he pushes the clothing off Watson’s shoulders and curves his arms around Watson’s own so he can reach to unfasten and push his trousers down.
Watson’s skin is pale and inviting, and he finds his fingers automatically drift to the small patch of hair between Watson’s nipples. Watson hums appreciatively into his mouth then draws away from Holmes completely. The loss of Watson’s hands on him draws a restless groan from Holmes, but he quietens when Watson slips his fingertips into the waistband of his own undergarments and pushes his last piece of clothing off.
Holmes’ eyes dart about as they try to take in every detail of Watson’s body, but stop when Watson catches a hold of his chin and forces him to stare back at him.
“I am not something you can just runaway from in the morning, Holmes, remember that.”
Holmes shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them and nods his consent; he would never be stupid enough to do such a thing to Watson, not now that he finally has him.
Watson keeps a hold of his jaw as he kisses him once more, turning them towards the bed, and gently urging Holmes to recline backwards onto it. The sheets under his back are no longer sleep-warm, but with Watson pressing his heated chest against his own, it doesn’t matter; he has all the warmth he needs.
After dropping one last kiss onto Holmes’ lips, Watson straightens up and turns towards Holmes’ nightstand. He rummages about, picking up and setting glass bottles back down again every now and then, until he finds what he’s looking for. He presses the small phial into Holmes’ palm, but Holmes just pushes it back. He wraps a loose arm around Watson’s neck and draws him down.
Breathlessly, he whispers, “I need you inside me, Watson” into Watson’s ear.
The words seem to take a while to compute for Watson, as he doesn’t move for a few beats. Holmes is just about to repeat his request - just in case Watson didn’t hear the first time - when Watson pulls back and looks as though he’s trying to assess whether Holmes is being serious or not.
“You don’t have to, just because of me,” Watson says and Holmes finds himself needing to prove that he does in fact want it, and isn’t just forcing himself to. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather break the law with.
He tugs Watson onto the bed, until he’s hovering tensely over Holmes’ body and Holmes realises the position isn’t going to work for them, not when all he needs is for Watson to lie back and enjoy what he has to offer. With gentle hands, he moves Watson until he’s on his back, head resting on one of Holmes’ pillows, with Holmes kneeling between his splayed legs. Carefully, he takes back the small glass bottle of oil from Watson’s clenched fist and unstoppers it, pouring a generous amount into his palm.
For the first time, Holmes finally touches Watson, folding his hand around Watson’s reddened cock and spreading the lubricant over him with steady strokes. Watson lifts his hips up, pushing further into Holmes’ fist, and Holmes takes pleasure in watching him, as he’s unable to hold himself back. The usually reserved Watson seems to have fallen away completely and in its place, it’s left a man rutting and writhing under his hands, gasping and pleading for more.
Holmes teases him, drawing him close to the edge, then slowing down and watching the thoroughly tormented Watson struggle, clutching helpless at the bedclothes underneath him, as he slips further away from bliss again. When Watson cries out, sobbing for Holmes to end his suffering, Holmes knows he’s far enough gone, and that it’s time to show some compassion.
He lets go of Watson’s leaking cock and tips more oil onto his hand. He sets the vial on the nightstand, then kneels, using his clean hand against Watson’s chest to hold himself up. Carefully, he slips his hand between his legs and pushes one fingertip inside himself. It’s an awkward angle - he can’t seem to get his finger in the right position to hit his prostate, but with Watson watching him, he doesn’t need anything else to help his muscles relax. The second finger is harder to get inside, but he tilts his hips towards Watson’s body and it fits smoothly alongside the other. By the third finger, Holmes’ thighs begin to shake and he knows he needs more than what he can give himself.
With a roll of his hips, he slips his fingers out, wiping them briefly on the sheets below them, before moving his hands to grip Watson’s shoulders so he can slide himself up to straddle Watson’s hips. Watson doesn’t seem to be able to do anything other than stare, which is perfectly fine with Holmes, as he moves a hand to steady Watson’s cock against his entrance and gently lowers himself down onto it.
Watson’s hands fly to Holmes’ waist and Holmes loses himself in the feeling of Watson stretching him out even more, loving the burn that only just pushes its way through the haze of pleasure. He moves his hand back to Watson’s shoulder and presses down onto the last inch or so, letting himself rest in Watson’s lap for a moment. All he can focus on is Watson’s flushed face and the way he bites his lip to stop himself from crying out. He doesn’t want Watson to hold back, though; he wants Watson to call out his name and grunt and groan and yell loud enough to wake the neighbours; he wants to see Watson come completely undone, at his doing.
Holmes lifts himself up slightly only to fall back down, revelling in the feel of how easily Watson slides in and out of him. He continues to rise and fall, arching his back for a better angle, until Watson nudges at his prostate and he finds himself riding Watson’s cock with abandon, trying to keep a hold of the flare of pleasure that sweeps over him.
The thrill spreading through Holmes’ body is like nothing he’s ever felt before and, from the looks of it, Watson seems to be experiencing the same feelings, as he’s not even trying to hold back his gasps, too caught up in the moment. Holmes can’t stop himself as he bends, still rocking in Watson’s lap, and slips his mouth over the one that’s red and raw and oh-so-inviting beneath him. Watson kisses back with too much tongue and teeth, but Holmes is beyond caring; his cock is pressed between both of their stomachs, dripping freely onto Watson’s skin, and it feels like every single one of his nerves is alight.
Watson pushes upwards, interrupting the rhythm Holmes has created, but Holmes does nothing but take it. The sound of their bodies slipping against one another is the only thing Holmes can hear until he breaks away from Watson’s mouth and Watson starts panting and begging for more again. He obliges, running his tongue along Watson’s jaw, then down his throat, where he trails love bites and wet kisses. Holmes can feel Watson’s skin vibrating against his mouth and he realises it’s his own name that’s being shaken onto his tongue. With one last nip, he pulls away and makes eye contact with Watson, who can’t seem to do anything but repeat Holmes’ name.
Holmes pulls up, almost all the way off, before falling back down, and that’s all it takes before Watson shudders underneath him, calling out his name into the silent room. The spread of warmth inside him, leaking out of him, is enough to make him slip his hand down between his legs and stroke himself to completion, coming just moments after Watson.
It feels as though he’s being pulled out of his own body into nothing but whiteness, before he comes crashing back down into his skin, with a sudden sharpness that leaves him shaking and gasping for breath. Watson’s chest rises and falls rapidly under his palm and he can feel Watson’s heart fluttering madly, caged within his ribs.
After a moment or two, Holmes finally gathers enough strength to pull himself off of Watson, who’s softened and slipped most of the way out already anyway, and crumples into the space beside him on the bed. Neither of them says anything, both still trying to catch their breaths, but the silence is anything but awkward; Holmes is satiated and sleepy and the happiest he’s felt in a long while, despite being sweaty and sticky. Before long, Watson shifts and Holmes is almost lead to believe he’s getting off the bed, but then all he does is lean over and blow out the light - Holmes can always count on Watson to make sure he doesn’t burn their house down.
When Watson lies back down, he rolls onto his side and pulls Holmes against him and a sudden feeling of comfort washes over Holmes. Watson makes him feel safe and warm and, most of all, less alone. With a contented sigh and a gentle kiss against Watson’s shoulder, Holmes lets himself drift off, thinking that tonight might be the night he actually sleeps though until dawn.
*
A bright sliver of light shines directly into Holmes’ face and everything behind his eyelids goes a peach colour. He grunts sleepily and shifts, rolling onto his stomach and tucking his head into the softness of his pillow. His whole body aches pleasantly and everything that happened the night before rushes back to him. He presses his smile into the cloth under his face because he knows they have a whole morning to themselves, and Holmes has a fair few ideas about how they should spend it.
With a searching hand, Holmes gropes for the body that should be warm and resting next to his, but he finds nothing but cool sheets. His heart picks up speed and his mind automatically jumps to the worst scenario it can - something where Watson, too embarrassed to face Holmes in the morning, decides to collect up a few personal belongings and leave 221B for good.
He peels his eyes open and lifts his head up slightly; there’s no sign of Watson in his bed, just rumpled sheets and a dent in the other pillow, where he had once lain. He moves onto his back and glances about the gently lit room, but there’s nothing, nobody else except himself.
With a small sigh of disappointment, Holmes drags the pillow he isn’t using over his face and wonders whether he should just smother himself now, to do himself a favour. The material pushing against his nose smells distinctly like Watson, which only seems to make things worse. He thinks about what Watson said to him - telling him that he wasn’t to run away and leave Watson alone - and wonders if Watson has decided to eat his own words and flee. Slightly upset, he tosses the pillow over the side of the bed and, after stretching, slips out from under the sheets.
His whole body feels grimy and he’s in dire need of a bath, so he slips on a pair underwear he finds in his dresser, and heads towards the door, set on hiding himself away in the bathroom for the rest of the day, for a lack of anything better to do, now that Watson’s gone.
He takes his dressing gown, which is hanging on a hook next to the door, and slips it on, tying the material belt in a tight knot around his waist to keep it secure. The door handle is cool under his palm, but before he can twist it, it turns by itself and the door opens slowly towards him.
“Oh!” is Watson’s reaction when he finds Holmes just the other side of the wood and Holmes takes a step back in surprise. He takes in Watson’s appearance - neatly combed hair, smartly pressed collar, tidily buttoned waistcoat, and spotlessly clean trousers. If Holmes didn’t know any better, he’d never believe that beneath Watson’s neat and collected outward appearance, there’s the same man who spent the night with him.
“You were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you,” Watson says before nodding towards the tray Holmes only just notices is resting on one palm. “I brought tea.”
Now it’s Holmes’ turn to say, “Oh.”
He steps out of Watson’s way and shuts the door behind them, following after Watson, who moves to set the tray on Holmes’ desk and starts pouring out two cups of steaming hot drink. Watson takes one of the cups and saucer, leaving Holmes to take the other, and sits carefully at the end of Holmes’ settee. Holmes watches him take careful sips, giving nothing away as to what he’s thinking, and Holmes finds himself grappling for anything to hold onto; it feels like he’s thrown himself off the cliffs of Dover and he’s falling and falling and -
“Holmes, your tea will go cold if all you do is stare at it.”
Watson’s voice cuts into his reverie and he blinks to clear his head. Without thinking, he goes with what feels right, taking the cup - without the saucer, which is a habit Holmes knows always irritates Watson - and moves to sit on the floor at Watson’s feet, leaning casually against both the settee and Watson’s legs.
His mouth burns when he takes too big of a swallow of his drink, but that’s the way he always drinks his tea - Watson always tells him, in his I-am-a-doctor-and-I-know-what’s-best voice that he’ll have no tastebuds left, but Holmes knows it’s a lie; he knows that Watson just gets fed up of listening to him complaining that everything tastes like rubber afterwards.
“Watson?”
“Yes, Holmes?”
“What will you tell Miss Morstan?”
The question seems to catch Watson off guard, but when he sighs, Holmes can tell that it’s not the first time he’s thought about it.
“The truth; that’s the least she deserves, but I think the worst part is that she probably won’t be surprised. She knows you, Holmes,” he sighs again, as though he’s frustrated with himself, “and she knows me. Something tells me that she might be more disappointed than shocked.”
Watson drains what’s left in his teacup and sets it on the open seat next to him.
“What are you telling yourself?” Holmes asks curiously.
“Apart from the obvious: that I must be completely insane?” Watson shrugs, then catches Holmes by surprise as he runs his fingers through Holmes’ hair. “That nothing will change between us; you’ll still be a pain, and I’ll still get annoyed at everything you do.”
“However, Watson, you may have failed to take into account that we might have to move, as I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will soon grow weary with us. You are, after all, quite loud when you’re being ravished.”
Watson lets out a sharp snort of protest
“Holmes, that is hardly -” he starts, but Holmes interrupts.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Watson; sometimes I forget my own prowess and -”
This time it’s Watson’s turn to cut him off, as he slips his hand under Holmes’ jaw to turn his head towards him.
“Be quiet, Holmes,” Watson tells him, leaning in to press tea-warmed lips against Holmes’ own and Holmes gladly complies. He’s glad to know that some things will never change, no matter what.
FIN
« PART ONE