![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: Possible, Probable
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blighted_garden
Author:ficshun
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, explicit sexual content
Summary: A case gone awry forces Watson to reconsider his relationship with Holmes. 09 movie verse.
“You know, Holmes, only months ago such activity would strike me as quite extraordinary,” John Watson said as he unbuttoned his coat. “Aberrant, even.”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear boy?” Sherlock Holmes said, laying his own coat across a chair back in a sitting room very much not belonging to Baker Street.
“Ignorance does not suit you, nor is it very convincing.”
“Honestly, you must be more specific,” the detective said and began to unwind his cravat. “You refer to trespassing?”
“Indeed. That begins to scratch the surface.” Watson surveyed the drawing room, populated with exotic curiosities and hunting trophies from one Colonel William Carver’s travels. A polished elephant tusk joined a cluster of tribal spears propped against the wall like a spiny bouquet. Only a trickle of sunlight crept past the door, gleaming on slivers of arrow tips, machetes, and an assortment of rifles. Before the empty grate laid a tiger skin rug; its teeth and glass eyes shone dully, not unlike Holmes’ own at Baker Street.
Two days prior, before that very rug, Colonel Carver’s neighbor entreated Holmes to investigate the disappearance of his prize racehorse, Haleb. The neighbor made no direct accusations, but cited Carver’s eccentric behavior of late. For one, he had abruptly released his entire staff from his employ. Secondly, locals recounted witnessing Colonel Carver stalking through the fields under cover of morning mist, wearing a pith helmet and equipped with firearms, nets, and even a blowgun.
Holmes hypothesized that the delusional Carver fancied himself on permanent safari. Holmes grew more convinced of Haleb’s demise between William Carver’s crosshairs after discovery of a sheep stricken with elephant shot in an outlying pasture. As he was wont to do, Holmes brought Watson to Carver’s estate, confident he would find the key to the racehorse’s fate, but concealing his knowledge until he could reveal all with a flourish. The detective was so confident, in fact, that Watson was quite shocked when Holmes scurried to where he left the doctor, exclaimed he was discovered, and hustled them both into the neglectfully unlocked sitting room. Watson noted an evident lack of care--unlit lamps, drawn curtains, a fine layer of dust--and felt relieved that they would not soon be discovered by servants.
“I am not a renowned detective, but it seems the household of your pursuer is not the best place to avoid his detection.”
“You would prefer we undress in the heath? Quickly now-” Holmes grabbed the doctor’s coat from his hands and hastily put on the garment.
“I prefer cases that do not necessitate disrobing.”
“Curious. My recollection of our case in Somerset argues quite to the contrary.” Holmes smiled as Watson colored and cleared his throat, but couldn’t entirely suppress his own grin. “Besides, I merely require exchange of articles, not complete bareness.”
“Is this absolutely necessary?” Watson said with a sigh. He shrugged on Holmes’ dark, ribbed coat and eyed the cuffs, which left his wrists bare.
“As I explained, I was circuiting the rear pasture when Colonel Carver suddenly sprang from the woods, shouting and threatening harm. I fled, but am quite sure he did not observe my destination. You’re certain you are so far undetected?”
“Yes.”
“Carver has no knowledge of a second man. Therefore, you will draw his attention, wearing my clothes, and lead him away while I conclude the investigation undeterred.”
“Oh, capital idea, Holmes!” He huffed and pulled at his sleeves. “You seriously intend for me to provoke a hostile, addled man who hunts livestock, believing them to be wild beasts of the Serengeti?”
“You will benefit to keep well ahead of him, undoubtedly.”
“I am to be shot!” Watson exclaimed.
“Nonsense. You give no merit to your athleticism, Mother Hen.” Holmes continued to smile and approached the doctor, cravat in hand. “Come now, even a man as large as the Colonel will surely arrive soon.”
Despite his insistence on urgency, Holmes carefully began to fasten the scarf around Watson’s neck. He said nothing and watched the detective as he focused on his task with great intensity. Watson took in his long fingers, deftly arranging the fabric, his slate eyes shaded by dark lashes. Absently, Holmes drew his lower lip between his teeth and Watson hoped the sudden racing of his heart passed unnoticed.
“I’m beginning to believe this was all contrived to steal yet more of my clothing,” Watson said, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.
“I never knew you were such a distrusting fellow!” Holmes grinned and appraised his handiwork. “Though, you must agree, that waistcoat is far too small.”
Gently, Holmes placed his hand against Watson’s ribs and ran his palm down his side. Even if his quickened heart escaped Holmes’ attention, Watson’s sudden intake of breath was surely noted. He intended to protest, but his lips fell open with a sigh as Holmes’ hand stroked downward to the edge of the waistcoat, which he tugged slightly.
“It certainly feels much tighter,” Watson breathed.
Holmes raised his glance to meet him, eyes shining with a wild spark, typically excited by an elusive case or unveiling of a clue therein. No sooner had he lifted his gaze to Watson than he whipped his head toward the door standing ajar. Watson perceived no disturbance, but Holmes raised his hand for silence and turned his back to the doctor to face the doorway, his stance wide and tense. Only then did Watson hear hurried footsteps and cursing in a deep voice. His breath caught. The door flew open with a shove from Colonel William Carver.
For a moment, no one moved, surprise and startlement paralyzed action in all parties. Carver’s face shone red with exertion; the sight of the two trespassers gave rise to another flush of color. His eyes bulged, his expression contorted into a horrible, gnashing grimace, and he raised the rifle in his grip. Holmes rushed to the Colonel, grabbing the dark barrel in an attempt to wrest it from his grasp. Carver kicked at Holmes, causing them both to fall to the floor in a heap.
Watson picked up his cane and watched the tangle of limbs for his opportunity to assist. But Holmes wrestled on top and Watson feared he was as likely to strike his friend as the raving Colonel grappling below. He took a step forward and the rifle swung wildly in his direction.
“Stay back!” Holmes commanded. Watson complied reluctantly, but trusted his friend’s keen assessment of any situation. Through benefit of sheer weight and size, Carver held his own in the struggle. With a fierce, wordless shout, he struck out with his elbow, which landed against Holmes’ temple, rocking him to the side. He was dazed for only a moment, but long enough for Carver to twist the weapon and place its muzzle against the detective’s chest.
“Holmes!” Watson shouted desperately as Carver’s finger squeezed the trigger. He felt he could hear the firing pin strike like a stone against a boulder. Then, nothing.
Holmes recovered from the shock in an instant and pulled the rifle from Carver’s hands, who could only stare in dumb confusion. With the firearm secure, Holmes sprang to his feet and stepped to Watson’s side. He slid the bolt to reveal the chamber, holding up the rifle for the doctor’s own inspection.
“Unloaded,” Holmes said with as much solemnity and assurance as ever. “Now, Colonel Carver, perhaps we can conclude our encounter like gentlemen.”
--
Watson sat near the hearth, staring at the amber ripples skirting across his glass of brandy with each tremor of his hand. They had returned to Baker Street hours before, but the drink remained largely untouched in favor of quiet contemplation. Holmes, on the other hand, was imbued with a sort of restless energy, which often rushed up in the wake of a successful case. He sat on the floor, surrounded by a net of papers and index cards, as he updated his directories. Colonel William Carver’s name floated up in bold strokes from the mess of papers and Watson grabbed his glass with both hands to still the shaking. He sighed and Holmes turned his eyes to him.
“My dear Watson, you’ve scarcely uttered a word since today’s exertions.” This was true. Once Carver had been disarmed, Holmes promptly launched into the damning circumstances, which laid the blame of Haleb’s disappearance squarely at the Colonel’s feet. Even without the final bit of evidence they had gone in search of, Carver admitted with great shame to shooting the horse. After agreeing to pay his neighbor reparations, he sedately let the two leave, much to Watson’s great relief in face of their own, literal, trespasses. He remained nearly silent during the cab ride home and listened with only half an ear to Holmes’ proclamations of success.
“If you applied the same energy to your notebook as to sighing and moping about, you’d already have a novella for your publisher.”
“Are you really so unaffected?” Watson gritted his teeth as Holmes cocked his head, curiosity evident in the lines of his face. “Holmes, for God’s sake, you were nearly killed.”
“Far from it!” Holmes scoffed and may have laughed if not for the sharp reproval that flashed through Watson’s eyes. He schooled himself and continued. “There was no bullet in the chamber. Granted, he could have clobbered me with its stock...”
“Yes, but had it been loaded-”
“But it wasn’t! If we are to consider every possible outcome of every situation, I daresay we risk mortal danger each time we step foot out of bed. What if that cab with the broken hub veered toward the cafe? Or had that bricklayer’s scaffolding crumbled but a quarter hour later.” Watson ran his hand down his face and stroked his mustache, wishing to protest but recognizing the impossibility of derailing Holmes once he picked up steam. The detective paused, then softened his voice. “In a world of infinite possibilities, you mustn’t dwell on all that never came to pass.”
For a moment, Watson couldn’t meet his eyes, the scene in Carver’s sitting room replayed unbidden. He shook his head and set his glass aside to distract from unwanted thoughts.
“Oh, Holmes...”
The detective knelt before him, placing his hands on the doctor’s knees with a firm touch.
“I’m all right, Watson.” The assured nature of Holmes’ voice arrested Watson, who was caught by his steady gaze. He always thought Holmes’ eyes impossibly large, especially when they shone with reflected firelight, dark though they were. Leaning forward, he brushed aside a bit of unruly hair and tucked it behind Holmes’ ear. He let his palm rest against Holmes’ cheek, thumb tracing the corner of his eye, then slid his fingers into his hair, drawing him forward. Holmes raised himself from his haunches to his knees, guided by Watson’s hand, and stretched to meet his partner.
Watson pressed his lips to Holmes’, unhurried. The familiar warmth and feel of Holmes mouth against his rushed into Watson, making him sigh with pleasure. His fingers tightened in his hair as he kissed him again. Holmes responded with equal enthusiasm and quickly parted his mouth. At the first whisper of breath against his lips, Watson eagerly slid his tongue into Holmes’ pliant mouth. He groaned at the headiness of the slick heat, soon joined by a shuddering noise high in Holmes’ throat. As Watson drew away for breath, Holmes placed a kiss against his jaw, then downward along his neck. When he reached the collar, he pushed back to unbutton Watson’s waistcoat, then the shirt beneath.
Watson breathed heavily and, closing his eyes, leaned into Holmes’ strokes against his stomach, ribs--every plane of uncovered skin. Holmes kissed the hollow of his sternum and guided his hands between Watson’s legs. Gasping, Watson arched against Holmes’ hand, which cupped his member through his trousers. Deftly, Holmes stroked his palm down Watson’s length, who rocked his hips at the touch. Lights bloomed under Watson’s eyelids and heat raced across his skin at the warm press between his thighs. He felt flush and sanguine, as though he had drunk the entire glass of brandy, lulled by the feel of Holmes’ fingers and lips. Holmes bent lower to kiss his erection; even through the fabric, his mouth felt incredible. Then the detective shifted, reaching for Watson’s pants’ buttons.
“Holmes, wait.” Watson said breathlessly and caught his hand.
“Is anything the matter?”
“No. It’s only that...” Watson paused, unsure how to continue. Suddenly, his mouth felt drier than all the expanses of Afghanistan. “I wish to do this properly.”
“Properly? You never complained about my methods before.” With a smirk, Holmes pointedly eyed the bulge in Watson’s trousers.
“Do not misunderstand me.” Watson steeled his voice. “What I mean to say is, I wish to...consummate our relationship.”
All mirth drained from Holmes’ face, adopting an expression of utter seriousness. Still, his eyes flared with internal energy as he searched Watson’s face.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“It pains me to say it but, no, I am far from certain.” Watson knew Holmes to be a talented actor--unmatched at entirely concealing his self for the sake of a disguise--but not even his depth of skill could hide a momentary flash of emotion. His eyes slammed shut and his lips pursed as though bracing against a blinding light or a sudden blow. An instant later, he was recovered, but a vise clenched at Watson’s throat. “What I mean to say is, I’ve thought often of...us, yet I can’t know what lies at the end of a path I’ve never seen. I’m uncertain of the consequences, yes.”
“Consequences?” Watson cringed at the chill of Holmes’ voice. “You eagerly accompanied me to apprehend Jonathan Small, unflinchingly chased him down the Thames, and very nearly suffered a fatal wound from a poisoned dart. Yet, you are somehow cowed by the thought of relations with another man. Am I really more fearsome, more venomous?”
“Holmes-”
“I feel you flinch at even a touch against your arm if we are not entirely alone. I admit, my reaction is much the same at your every florid syllable about the handsomeness of our fairer clientele. What makes you, my dear Watson, more willing to pursue danger for the sake of a tarnished society than my company for your own?” Holmes did not shout, raise his voice, or barely even blink. Still, it was plain to Watson he had wounded him, not just that evening, but many times over. “Now you desire more. You’ll be pleased, I am sure, to learn I have formulated no solution to this mystery.”
“Holmes, forgive me.” Watson leaned forward and clasped one hand atop the detective’s, relieved when he did not pull away. “Of course I am proud to deter criminals for London’s sake, meager though my contribution may be. But surely you must see I accompany you on your adventures because they are precisely that: your adventures.”
He suddenly remembered the man in the hospital laboratory, the chemical stains on his thin fingers, the dark blaze in his eyes, and how immediately his interest was ensnared by that man. That same initial wonder and appreciation always skirted below the surface of his regard for Holmes, like music softly playing in the distance. Watson ventured a small smile and though Holmes did not return the gesture, his expression subtly shifted from scorn to interest.
“True, I may admire the handsome women who frequent Baker Street, but you would do well to note how may more words are devoted to my dear friend and unmatched detective.” Watson knew well Holmes was far from immune to flattery, and noticed him soften. Watson continued, more sober than before. “If we were to be discovered, all your brilliant work--your reputation--would be utterly dashed. I couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for lowering your name amongst the true criminals, or worse-”
“You should not overly concern yourself with such intangible notions of reputation, especially those outside of your own agency.” He scoffed and there was an edge to his words, but no more caustic than his usual distaste for others’ irrationality. “You are an honest man, Watson, and I understand your concern, nonetheless misguided. But do not use what you suppose to be my interest as a wedge against me. Forgive my bluntness, but I deduce your own reputation plays no small part in your reluctance. Your medical practice-”
“Yes.” Watson looked down, stroked his thumb against the back of Holmes’ hand. “Of course. I am not of the same mettle as you--I am unable to entirely dismiss the opinion of others as it suits me. Nor do I possess the genius to excuse...eccentricities.”
He looked up and smiled sadly.
“Forgive me, Holmes. I do not doubt you, but neither do I entirely know myself. Even now, here, I feel as though the walls are made of glass and I am pinned like a specimen.”
Watson averted his gaze, looking toward the shuttered window as though he could peer through and picture the passersby on the streets, staring back. Holmes shifted, placing his hands to either side of Watson’s face, turning his head to meet his eyes.
“Why now?”
“Earlier, you spoke of possibilities. When that rifle pressed against you, I felt the world drop from my feet. If you had-” He couldn’t continue. His eyes fluttered closed and he leaned his cheek into Holmes’ palm.
Holmes pressed his lips to Watson’s and kissed him soundly.
--
Over the years, Holmes’ many and varied cases directed him to all corners of the world and all manner of people. Yet, he struggled to recall a sight or person more exquisite than the man stretched before him.
Watson sprawled, nude, across the detective’s bed. Though no longer exceptionally tan, his skin appeared bronze in the low light and blushed with arousal. Lines of orange sunset shone off his stomach and chest with each gasp. Holmes gave the head of Watson’s shaft another firm stroke and was rewarded with a low moan. One more pumping grip and Watson’s spine arched off the bed; he clutched at the sheets and every line of lean muscle along his arms tensed. Holmes’ own erection ached at the sight, but he forced himself to be patient.
He couldn’t precisely remember when last he coupled with another man. Sometime during medical school, he decided. For that matter, any dalliance with a woman was equally--if not more--foggy. Holmes once protested Watson’s assertion that “his ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge,” but if he were so dismissive of past intimate encounters as to forget them almost entirely, perhaps it was true.
But Watson was different than that young man at Cambridge, who was certainly no stranger to lovemaking. Of course, everything about Watson was different. Holmes’ thoughts often wandered to fancy when the good doctor was involved, even at the height of cases. Had it been anyone else, he would have resented the distraction, but he couldn’t help but consider Watson with unmediated fondness. He recalled the Pembroke case when, after minutes of scuffling, they finally subdued a hulking strong arm. Both barely escaped blows from the brick he wielded, rendering him insensible on the floor of an alleyway. Watson rushed up to Holmes--breathless, cheeks reddened with exertion--grabbed his arm, and gave him a quick but searing kiss. He smiled, his blue eyes shone with relief and triumph, and it took every ounce of Holmes’ restraint not to push him against the wall and take him, unconscious culprit be damned.
So much contemplation, so seldom action. It was unlike him. He realized, for all his powers of deduction, he was never quite sure his dear friend desired more--desired all. In fact, he was often convinced of the opposite, despite their occasional dalliances and breathless encounters. Watson would become distant after such meetings, infuriatingly professional. Like a pendulum, desperate touches were followed by cold aloofness, and back again.
Holmes looked at the man writhing beneath his touch and felt a sudden swell of emotion, knowing little question remained. He leaned across Watson, propped his elbow beside his head, and captured his lips, wet and open-mouthed. Closing his fingers around the head of Watson’s erection, he squeezed and pushed downward, tracing his thumb across the wetness at the slit. Watson broke away from the kiss, gasping.
“Holmes...” His words blew hotly against Holmes’ lips. Holmes detected a thread of urgency in his voice. It was not quite the pleading tone he adopted when he was achingly aroused, but close.
“Patience, my dear boy.” Holmes spoke softly into his ear. “All good things...”
Despite his words, he too was anxious to continue. The mere thought of things to come made his member twitch pleasantly. He raised up on his elbow and reached across Watson, picking up a small jar of petroleum jelly from the nightstand. Sliding slowly down along Watson’s body, he kissed his collar bone, his navel, his hip. A pleased hum escaped Watson’s parted lips, then a moan as Holmes’ mouth closed around the head of his penis.
Holmes relaxed his throat and --pressing his tongue against the underside of Watson’s shaft--slid his lips to its base. Watson was searing hot and hard against his tongue; he purred and felt the doctor shiver at the sensation. He lingered for a moment, reveling in the familiar taste and heft, before releasing the length. Pursing his lips, he sucked at the swollen tip, moving rapidly along the full head. He pressed his thumb against the frenulum, then clenched his fingers around the shaft, wet with saliva, stroking up and down. Rocking his hips slightly, Watson melted under his ministrations. Glancing up, Holmes looked at Watson--lips parted and moist, eyes closed, toned stomach heaving like a bellow. Holmes continued stroking his erection while deftly opening the jar with his free hand.
Quickly, he dipped two fingers into the jar and rubbed them against his thumb to coat and warm the jelly. Without pausing the pace of his lips and tongue, he pressed the flat of his palm against Watson’s testicles, kneading the flesh beneath his hand.
“Ah!” Watson groaned and jerked his hips, Encouraged and pleased, Holmes again pushed his palm, then his fingers against Watson’s entrance. He circled his fingers around the taut flesh until it was slick with lubricant. With the pads of his fingers, he pressed against the flesh, firmly without penetrating. He alternated pushing and stroking in small circles until Watson practically writhed beneath him. Gently, he pushed the pad of a finger past the tight muscle, stroking and sliding up to the knuckle; Watson made an almost startled noise and quickly sucked his lip between his teeth. Holmes gave Watson’s flushed erection another pump before drawing his lips away.
“You’re all right?”
“Yes.” Watson answered quickly and gave a lopsided smile to reassure him. Still, Holmes noted fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, often observed in moments of apprehension.
“Good.” Returning the smile, Holmes continued slowly. He slightly crooked the finger inside his body, caressing the warm inner channel until Watson moved against his hand, meeting his movements. Carefully, Holmes slid his finger out, joined it with a second, and pushed both against his entrance. Muscles stretched around him and drew his fingers in measured, thrusting slides, faster than before. Soon Watson visibly relaxed, his long legs splayed slightly open and his hips rocked upward with each stroke.
Holmes marveled at the sheer heat clenched around his fingers and imagined himself inside; his pelvis jerked instinctively at the thought, pressing his erection against his leg folded beneath him. He sighed at the contact, meager substitute though it was. He knew he couldn’t be patient much longer.
Firmly, he pushed deeper, caressing the perenium with his thumb to distract from any discomfort. Holmes curved his fingers upward toward Watson’s stomach until they met with a full, round bump of flesh. He gave one long stroke and Watson bucked his hips off the bed with a yelp.
“God, Holmes!”
Holmes couldn’t help but grin at such honest, raw reaction. Intrigued, he watched Watson’s lips fall open with pleasurable, moaning sighs as he applied firm pressure against the inner flesh. He continued, thrusting with his fingers, pressing, stroking, until Watson writhed with each stroke. Watson released his tangled grip on the sheets to clutch Holmes’ shoulder.
“Holmes, please-” His voice was low and strained, forced between shallow breaths.
Without a word, Holmes kissed the inside of his thigh and carefully pulled back his fingers until they slid from Watson’s body. Quickly, he sat up on his knees and retrieved the jar of lubricant. At the first touch of jelly-slick fingers around his erection, which was almost painfully aroused, a small moan shuddered from his lips. He took a moment to enjoy the sensation, clenching his fingers around tender skin, squeezing and stroking along his length. Watson watched Holmes intently as he touched himself; the head of Holmes’ penis slid between his long fingers and Watson squirmed.
Satisfied with his preparation, Holmes placed his knees under Watson’s thighs, straddling his hips and pushing his legs apart slightly. Watson obliged further, wrapping his legs loosely around the detective and raising his pelvis; Holmes slipped a pillow to the small of his back, further curving his hips for better accommodation.
Holmes ran still-slick fingers across his hip, along the outside of a lean thigh, then squeezed one buttock. Swiftly, he shifted his grip to firmly grasp the underside of his leg, leveraging it slightly upward. With his other hand, he guided the flushed head of his erection to Watson’s entrance. Slowly, he thrust forward, exerting only enough to press his penis against Watson’s firm flesh. Watson let out a small whine and rocked forward, increasing the exhilarating pressure without penetration. Holmes drew back, repositioned himself, and paused.
Suddenly, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe, like wool had settled in his lungs in place of air. There, with him, was Watson. And everything within that simple observation was staggering. Watson’s muscles clenched beneath his palm--supple yet strong, like metal from a furnace. His ribs formed valleys against his flanks with each breath. His eyes--Holmes couldn’t always read those turbulent blue depths, but when he could, Watson’s mind was as plain as ink on paper. They were bright and open, radiating warm certainty. Holmes leaned forward, feeling Watson’s hard length against his stomach, kissed him, and thrust his hips in earnest.
The tip of Holmes’ penis met with tight resistance before breaching the ring of muscle. He pushed until the swollen head was entirely surrounded in velvet warmth. Holmes groaned at the slick heat tightening around him and slowly pressed forward until his shaft was enveloped to the hilt. Watson moaned loudly and Holmes felt him tighten around his length. The sensation was overwhelming, more powerful and eradicating than even his seven percent solution. Yet the tense pressure pooled low in his gut yearned for movement. He rocked his hips backward with a sigh until only his head remained inside, the air starkly chill against his exposed shaft. Urgently, he bucked into Watson, exhilarated by the sight of Watson’s body stretching around his girth. Holmes felt a tingle like electric current trip across his every inch of skin as he slowly pumped his hips. He paused briefly only to plunge back in.
Watson keened sharply as Holmes buried himself inside, pressing his member against a concentration of delicate nerves. Holmes drew away only for the space of a breath, but long enough for both to feel the twinge of need for contact, for surrounding, for fullness. Watson arched his back to meet Holmes’ quickening motions.
After a few more unrestrained thrusts, they began to move together like a well-calibrated machine. Both lunging and rocking perfectly to meet the other’s rhythm. Holmes steadily pistoned his hips, only occasionally slowing to savor the tight slide in and out, or the way Watson arched and gasped each time Holmes sunk deep into his body. He tightened his grip against the underside of Watson’s thigh, bending his leg and his own body forward as he increased his pace in answer to the heady pressure building at the base of his erection. His flesh collided with Watson’s and he grunted with each meeting of their bodies.
Every motion forced a throaty exhalation from Watson, which enticed Holmes to even more vigorous action. He watched the doctor strain beneath him, the planes of his chest and stomach heaving and tensing under a sheen of sweat. Somehow, he longed for more, even as he fully sheathed his girth. Holmes leaned forward and plunged his tongue past Watson’s parted lips in one swift movement, swallowing a moan as their mouths and hips met. Moulded skin to skin, he felt the occasional press of Watson’s arousal against him, pushed upward with the rocking of their hips. Holmes opened his jaw wider, delving into every inch of Watson’s mouth, sharing short breaths as their movement built to a frantic pace.
With a loud, rising moan, Watson broke away from the kiss, wrenching his face aside to swallow a large gasp of air.
“Holmes!” Watson’s entire body shuddered against him and clenched around his member--impossibly, unbelievably tight. Holmes felt the slick warmth of release against his stomach as Watson panted and jerkily bucked his hips. Holmes slid his hand to Watson’s hip, clutching with bruising strength as he thrust, desperate now for his own release.
Holmes snapped his pelvis forward, surrounded by the thrumming, constricting warmth of Watson, until his own arousal swelled and crested, crashing like a plume of white-hot sparks. With a sharp yell, Holmes released himself in Watson’s yielding body. The painfully pleasurable tension emptied from his gut in a breathless wave. He continued to pump his hips languidly; Watson’s tight muscles elicited a pleasing shiver, sliding wetly across his penis’ sensitive flesh. Sighing, utterly satiated and engulfed by a pervasive warmth, Holmes collapsed against Watson’s chest. He pressed a kiss to Watson’s throat and felt his pulse beat madly against his lips, like a moth fluttering against a glass jar. Holmes idly thrust his hips once more; though he had begun to soften, the sensation was pleasantly sharp, and a long, pleased sigh flowed from Watson’s lips.
Watson placed a soft kiss against Holmes’ damp, tousled hair and wrapped his arms around the detective’s lean shoulders.
“What was that you spoke of earlier about ‘aberrant’ activities?” Holmes smiled against his neck and Watson chuckled before placing his lips to his forehead.
“I believe I said extraordinary.”
“Hmmm.” With a sigh, Holmes closed his eyes, listening to Watson’s measured breaths and drifting to sleep amidst their warm tangle of limbs.
The end.
Recipient:
blighted_gardenAuthor:
ficshun Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, explicit sexual content
Summary: A case gone awry forces Watson to reconsider his relationship with Holmes. 09 movie verse.
“You know, Holmes, only months ago such activity would strike me as quite extraordinary,” John Watson said as he unbuttoned his coat. “Aberrant, even.”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear boy?” Sherlock Holmes said, laying his own coat across a chair back in a sitting room very much not belonging to Baker Street.
“Ignorance does not suit you, nor is it very convincing.”
“Honestly, you must be more specific,” the detective said and began to unwind his cravat. “You refer to trespassing?”
“Indeed. That begins to scratch the surface.” Watson surveyed the drawing room, populated with exotic curiosities and hunting trophies from one Colonel William Carver’s travels. A polished elephant tusk joined a cluster of tribal spears propped against the wall like a spiny bouquet. Only a trickle of sunlight crept past the door, gleaming on slivers of arrow tips, machetes, and an assortment of rifles. Before the empty grate laid a tiger skin rug; its teeth and glass eyes shone dully, not unlike Holmes’ own at Baker Street.
Two days prior, before that very rug, Colonel Carver’s neighbor entreated Holmes to investigate the disappearance of his prize racehorse, Haleb. The neighbor made no direct accusations, but cited Carver’s eccentric behavior of late. For one, he had abruptly released his entire staff from his employ. Secondly, locals recounted witnessing Colonel Carver stalking through the fields under cover of morning mist, wearing a pith helmet and equipped with firearms, nets, and even a blowgun.
Holmes hypothesized that the delusional Carver fancied himself on permanent safari. Holmes grew more convinced of Haleb’s demise between William Carver’s crosshairs after discovery of a sheep stricken with elephant shot in an outlying pasture. As he was wont to do, Holmes brought Watson to Carver’s estate, confident he would find the key to the racehorse’s fate, but concealing his knowledge until he could reveal all with a flourish. The detective was so confident, in fact, that Watson was quite shocked when Holmes scurried to where he left the doctor, exclaimed he was discovered, and hustled them both into the neglectfully unlocked sitting room. Watson noted an evident lack of care--unlit lamps, drawn curtains, a fine layer of dust--and felt relieved that they would not soon be discovered by servants.
“I am not a renowned detective, but it seems the household of your pursuer is not the best place to avoid his detection.”
“You would prefer we undress in the heath? Quickly now-” Holmes grabbed the doctor’s coat from his hands and hastily put on the garment.
“I prefer cases that do not necessitate disrobing.”
“Curious. My recollection of our case in Somerset argues quite to the contrary.” Holmes smiled as Watson colored and cleared his throat, but couldn’t entirely suppress his own grin. “Besides, I merely require exchange of articles, not complete bareness.”
“Is this absolutely necessary?” Watson said with a sigh. He shrugged on Holmes’ dark, ribbed coat and eyed the cuffs, which left his wrists bare.
“As I explained, I was circuiting the rear pasture when Colonel Carver suddenly sprang from the woods, shouting and threatening harm. I fled, but am quite sure he did not observe my destination. You’re certain you are so far undetected?”
“Yes.”
“Carver has no knowledge of a second man. Therefore, you will draw his attention, wearing my clothes, and lead him away while I conclude the investigation undeterred.”
“Oh, capital idea, Holmes!” He huffed and pulled at his sleeves. “You seriously intend for me to provoke a hostile, addled man who hunts livestock, believing them to be wild beasts of the Serengeti?”
“You will benefit to keep well ahead of him, undoubtedly.”
“I am to be shot!” Watson exclaimed.
“Nonsense. You give no merit to your athleticism, Mother Hen.” Holmes continued to smile and approached the doctor, cravat in hand. “Come now, even a man as large as the Colonel will surely arrive soon.”
Despite his insistence on urgency, Holmes carefully began to fasten the scarf around Watson’s neck. He said nothing and watched the detective as he focused on his task with great intensity. Watson took in his long fingers, deftly arranging the fabric, his slate eyes shaded by dark lashes. Absently, Holmes drew his lower lip between his teeth and Watson hoped the sudden racing of his heart passed unnoticed.
“I’m beginning to believe this was all contrived to steal yet more of my clothing,” Watson said, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.
“I never knew you were such a distrusting fellow!” Holmes grinned and appraised his handiwork. “Though, you must agree, that waistcoat is far too small.”
Gently, Holmes placed his hand against Watson’s ribs and ran his palm down his side. Even if his quickened heart escaped Holmes’ attention, Watson’s sudden intake of breath was surely noted. He intended to protest, but his lips fell open with a sigh as Holmes’ hand stroked downward to the edge of the waistcoat, which he tugged slightly.
“It certainly feels much tighter,” Watson breathed.
Holmes raised his glance to meet him, eyes shining with a wild spark, typically excited by an elusive case or unveiling of a clue therein. No sooner had he lifted his gaze to Watson than he whipped his head toward the door standing ajar. Watson perceived no disturbance, but Holmes raised his hand for silence and turned his back to the doctor to face the doorway, his stance wide and tense. Only then did Watson hear hurried footsteps and cursing in a deep voice. His breath caught. The door flew open with a shove from Colonel William Carver.
For a moment, no one moved, surprise and startlement paralyzed action in all parties. Carver’s face shone red with exertion; the sight of the two trespassers gave rise to another flush of color. His eyes bulged, his expression contorted into a horrible, gnashing grimace, and he raised the rifle in his grip. Holmes rushed to the Colonel, grabbing the dark barrel in an attempt to wrest it from his grasp. Carver kicked at Holmes, causing them both to fall to the floor in a heap.
Watson picked up his cane and watched the tangle of limbs for his opportunity to assist. But Holmes wrestled on top and Watson feared he was as likely to strike his friend as the raving Colonel grappling below. He took a step forward and the rifle swung wildly in his direction.
“Stay back!” Holmes commanded. Watson complied reluctantly, but trusted his friend’s keen assessment of any situation. Through benefit of sheer weight and size, Carver held his own in the struggle. With a fierce, wordless shout, he struck out with his elbow, which landed against Holmes’ temple, rocking him to the side. He was dazed for only a moment, but long enough for Carver to twist the weapon and place its muzzle against the detective’s chest.
“Holmes!” Watson shouted desperately as Carver’s finger squeezed the trigger. He felt he could hear the firing pin strike like a stone against a boulder. Then, nothing.
Holmes recovered from the shock in an instant and pulled the rifle from Carver’s hands, who could only stare in dumb confusion. With the firearm secure, Holmes sprang to his feet and stepped to Watson’s side. He slid the bolt to reveal the chamber, holding up the rifle for the doctor’s own inspection.
“Unloaded,” Holmes said with as much solemnity and assurance as ever. “Now, Colonel Carver, perhaps we can conclude our encounter like gentlemen.”
--
Watson sat near the hearth, staring at the amber ripples skirting across his glass of brandy with each tremor of his hand. They had returned to Baker Street hours before, but the drink remained largely untouched in favor of quiet contemplation. Holmes, on the other hand, was imbued with a sort of restless energy, which often rushed up in the wake of a successful case. He sat on the floor, surrounded by a net of papers and index cards, as he updated his directories. Colonel William Carver’s name floated up in bold strokes from the mess of papers and Watson grabbed his glass with both hands to still the shaking. He sighed and Holmes turned his eyes to him.
“My dear Watson, you’ve scarcely uttered a word since today’s exertions.” This was true. Once Carver had been disarmed, Holmes promptly launched into the damning circumstances, which laid the blame of Haleb’s disappearance squarely at the Colonel’s feet. Even without the final bit of evidence they had gone in search of, Carver admitted with great shame to shooting the horse. After agreeing to pay his neighbor reparations, he sedately let the two leave, much to Watson’s great relief in face of their own, literal, trespasses. He remained nearly silent during the cab ride home and listened with only half an ear to Holmes’ proclamations of success.
“If you applied the same energy to your notebook as to sighing and moping about, you’d already have a novella for your publisher.”
“Are you really so unaffected?” Watson gritted his teeth as Holmes cocked his head, curiosity evident in the lines of his face. “Holmes, for God’s sake, you were nearly killed.”
“Far from it!” Holmes scoffed and may have laughed if not for the sharp reproval that flashed through Watson’s eyes. He schooled himself and continued. “There was no bullet in the chamber. Granted, he could have clobbered me with its stock...”
“Yes, but had it been loaded-”
“But it wasn’t! If we are to consider every possible outcome of every situation, I daresay we risk mortal danger each time we step foot out of bed. What if that cab with the broken hub veered toward the cafe? Or had that bricklayer’s scaffolding crumbled but a quarter hour later.” Watson ran his hand down his face and stroked his mustache, wishing to protest but recognizing the impossibility of derailing Holmes once he picked up steam. The detective paused, then softened his voice. “In a world of infinite possibilities, you mustn’t dwell on all that never came to pass.”
For a moment, Watson couldn’t meet his eyes, the scene in Carver’s sitting room replayed unbidden. He shook his head and set his glass aside to distract from unwanted thoughts.
“Oh, Holmes...”
The detective knelt before him, placing his hands on the doctor’s knees with a firm touch.
“I’m all right, Watson.” The assured nature of Holmes’ voice arrested Watson, who was caught by his steady gaze. He always thought Holmes’ eyes impossibly large, especially when they shone with reflected firelight, dark though they were. Leaning forward, he brushed aside a bit of unruly hair and tucked it behind Holmes’ ear. He let his palm rest against Holmes’ cheek, thumb tracing the corner of his eye, then slid his fingers into his hair, drawing him forward. Holmes raised himself from his haunches to his knees, guided by Watson’s hand, and stretched to meet his partner.
Watson pressed his lips to Holmes’, unhurried. The familiar warmth and feel of Holmes mouth against his rushed into Watson, making him sigh with pleasure. His fingers tightened in his hair as he kissed him again. Holmes responded with equal enthusiasm and quickly parted his mouth. At the first whisper of breath against his lips, Watson eagerly slid his tongue into Holmes’ pliant mouth. He groaned at the headiness of the slick heat, soon joined by a shuddering noise high in Holmes’ throat. As Watson drew away for breath, Holmes placed a kiss against his jaw, then downward along his neck. When he reached the collar, he pushed back to unbutton Watson’s waistcoat, then the shirt beneath.
Watson breathed heavily and, closing his eyes, leaned into Holmes’ strokes against his stomach, ribs--every plane of uncovered skin. Holmes kissed the hollow of his sternum and guided his hands between Watson’s legs. Gasping, Watson arched against Holmes’ hand, which cupped his member through his trousers. Deftly, Holmes stroked his palm down Watson’s length, who rocked his hips at the touch. Lights bloomed under Watson’s eyelids and heat raced across his skin at the warm press between his thighs. He felt flush and sanguine, as though he had drunk the entire glass of brandy, lulled by the feel of Holmes’ fingers and lips. Holmes bent lower to kiss his erection; even through the fabric, his mouth felt incredible. Then the detective shifted, reaching for Watson’s pants’ buttons.
“Holmes, wait.” Watson said breathlessly and caught his hand.
“Is anything the matter?”
“No. It’s only that...” Watson paused, unsure how to continue. Suddenly, his mouth felt drier than all the expanses of Afghanistan. “I wish to do this properly.”
“Properly? You never complained about my methods before.” With a smirk, Holmes pointedly eyed the bulge in Watson’s trousers.
“Do not misunderstand me.” Watson steeled his voice. “What I mean to say is, I wish to...consummate our relationship.”
All mirth drained from Holmes’ face, adopting an expression of utter seriousness. Still, his eyes flared with internal energy as he searched Watson’s face.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“It pains me to say it but, no, I am far from certain.” Watson knew Holmes to be a talented actor--unmatched at entirely concealing his self for the sake of a disguise--but not even his depth of skill could hide a momentary flash of emotion. His eyes slammed shut and his lips pursed as though bracing against a blinding light or a sudden blow. An instant later, he was recovered, but a vise clenched at Watson’s throat. “What I mean to say is, I’ve thought often of...us, yet I can’t know what lies at the end of a path I’ve never seen. I’m uncertain of the consequences, yes.”
“Consequences?” Watson cringed at the chill of Holmes’ voice. “You eagerly accompanied me to apprehend Jonathan Small, unflinchingly chased him down the Thames, and very nearly suffered a fatal wound from a poisoned dart. Yet, you are somehow cowed by the thought of relations with another man. Am I really more fearsome, more venomous?”
“Holmes-”
“I feel you flinch at even a touch against your arm if we are not entirely alone. I admit, my reaction is much the same at your every florid syllable about the handsomeness of our fairer clientele. What makes you, my dear Watson, more willing to pursue danger for the sake of a tarnished society than my company for your own?” Holmes did not shout, raise his voice, or barely even blink. Still, it was plain to Watson he had wounded him, not just that evening, but many times over. “Now you desire more. You’ll be pleased, I am sure, to learn I have formulated no solution to this mystery.”
“Holmes, forgive me.” Watson leaned forward and clasped one hand atop the detective’s, relieved when he did not pull away. “Of course I am proud to deter criminals for London’s sake, meager though my contribution may be. But surely you must see I accompany you on your adventures because they are precisely that: your adventures.”
He suddenly remembered the man in the hospital laboratory, the chemical stains on his thin fingers, the dark blaze in his eyes, and how immediately his interest was ensnared by that man. That same initial wonder and appreciation always skirted below the surface of his regard for Holmes, like music softly playing in the distance. Watson ventured a small smile and though Holmes did not return the gesture, his expression subtly shifted from scorn to interest.
“True, I may admire the handsome women who frequent Baker Street, but you would do well to note how may more words are devoted to my dear friend and unmatched detective.” Watson knew well Holmes was far from immune to flattery, and noticed him soften. Watson continued, more sober than before. “If we were to be discovered, all your brilliant work--your reputation--would be utterly dashed. I couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for lowering your name amongst the true criminals, or worse-”
“You should not overly concern yourself with such intangible notions of reputation, especially those outside of your own agency.” He scoffed and there was an edge to his words, but no more caustic than his usual distaste for others’ irrationality. “You are an honest man, Watson, and I understand your concern, nonetheless misguided. But do not use what you suppose to be my interest as a wedge against me. Forgive my bluntness, but I deduce your own reputation plays no small part in your reluctance. Your medical practice-”
“Yes.” Watson looked down, stroked his thumb against the back of Holmes’ hand. “Of course. I am not of the same mettle as you--I am unable to entirely dismiss the opinion of others as it suits me. Nor do I possess the genius to excuse...eccentricities.”
He looked up and smiled sadly.
“Forgive me, Holmes. I do not doubt you, but neither do I entirely know myself. Even now, here, I feel as though the walls are made of glass and I am pinned like a specimen.”
Watson averted his gaze, looking toward the shuttered window as though he could peer through and picture the passersby on the streets, staring back. Holmes shifted, placing his hands to either side of Watson’s face, turning his head to meet his eyes.
“Why now?”
“Earlier, you spoke of possibilities. When that rifle pressed against you, I felt the world drop from my feet. If you had-” He couldn’t continue. His eyes fluttered closed and he leaned his cheek into Holmes’ palm.
Holmes pressed his lips to Watson’s and kissed him soundly.
--
Over the years, Holmes’ many and varied cases directed him to all corners of the world and all manner of people. Yet, he struggled to recall a sight or person more exquisite than the man stretched before him.
Watson sprawled, nude, across the detective’s bed. Though no longer exceptionally tan, his skin appeared bronze in the low light and blushed with arousal. Lines of orange sunset shone off his stomach and chest with each gasp. Holmes gave the head of Watson’s shaft another firm stroke and was rewarded with a low moan. One more pumping grip and Watson’s spine arched off the bed; he clutched at the sheets and every line of lean muscle along his arms tensed. Holmes’ own erection ached at the sight, but he forced himself to be patient.
He couldn’t precisely remember when last he coupled with another man. Sometime during medical school, he decided. For that matter, any dalliance with a woman was equally--if not more--foggy. Holmes once protested Watson’s assertion that “his ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge,” but if he were so dismissive of past intimate encounters as to forget them almost entirely, perhaps it was true.
But Watson was different than that young man at Cambridge, who was certainly no stranger to lovemaking. Of course, everything about Watson was different. Holmes’ thoughts often wandered to fancy when the good doctor was involved, even at the height of cases. Had it been anyone else, he would have resented the distraction, but he couldn’t help but consider Watson with unmediated fondness. He recalled the Pembroke case when, after minutes of scuffling, they finally subdued a hulking strong arm. Both barely escaped blows from the brick he wielded, rendering him insensible on the floor of an alleyway. Watson rushed up to Holmes--breathless, cheeks reddened with exertion--grabbed his arm, and gave him a quick but searing kiss. He smiled, his blue eyes shone with relief and triumph, and it took every ounce of Holmes’ restraint not to push him against the wall and take him, unconscious culprit be damned.
So much contemplation, so seldom action. It was unlike him. He realized, for all his powers of deduction, he was never quite sure his dear friend desired more--desired all. In fact, he was often convinced of the opposite, despite their occasional dalliances and breathless encounters. Watson would become distant after such meetings, infuriatingly professional. Like a pendulum, desperate touches were followed by cold aloofness, and back again.
Holmes looked at the man writhing beneath his touch and felt a sudden swell of emotion, knowing little question remained. He leaned across Watson, propped his elbow beside his head, and captured his lips, wet and open-mouthed. Closing his fingers around the head of Watson’s erection, he squeezed and pushed downward, tracing his thumb across the wetness at the slit. Watson broke away from the kiss, gasping.
“Holmes...” His words blew hotly against Holmes’ lips. Holmes detected a thread of urgency in his voice. It was not quite the pleading tone he adopted when he was achingly aroused, but close.
“Patience, my dear boy.” Holmes spoke softly into his ear. “All good things...”
Despite his words, he too was anxious to continue. The mere thought of things to come made his member twitch pleasantly. He raised up on his elbow and reached across Watson, picking up a small jar of petroleum jelly from the nightstand. Sliding slowly down along Watson’s body, he kissed his collar bone, his navel, his hip. A pleased hum escaped Watson’s parted lips, then a moan as Holmes’ mouth closed around the head of his penis.
Holmes relaxed his throat and --pressing his tongue against the underside of Watson’s shaft--slid his lips to its base. Watson was searing hot and hard against his tongue; he purred and felt the doctor shiver at the sensation. He lingered for a moment, reveling in the familiar taste and heft, before releasing the length. Pursing his lips, he sucked at the swollen tip, moving rapidly along the full head. He pressed his thumb against the frenulum, then clenched his fingers around the shaft, wet with saliva, stroking up and down. Rocking his hips slightly, Watson melted under his ministrations. Glancing up, Holmes looked at Watson--lips parted and moist, eyes closed, toned stomach heaving like a bellow. Holmes continued stroking his erection while deftly opening the jar with his free hand.
Quickly, he dipped two fingers into the jar and rubbed them against his thumb to coat and warm the jelly. Without pausing the pace of his lips and tongue, he pressed the flat of his palm against Watson’s testicles, kneading the flesh beneath his hand.
“Ah!” Watson groaned and jerked his hips, Encouraged and pleased, Holmes again pushed his palm, then his fingers against Watson’s entrance. He circled his fingers around the taut flesh until it was slick with lubricant. With the pads of his fingers, he pressed against the flesh, firmly without penetrating. He alternated pushing and stroking in small circles until Watson practically writhed beneath him. Gently, he pushed the pad of a finger past the tight muscle, stroking and sliding up to the knuckle; Watson made an almost startled noise and quickly sucked his lip between his teeth. Holmes gave Watson’s flushed erection another pump before drawing his lips away.
“You’re all right?”
“Yes.” Watson answered quickly and gave a lopsided smile to reassure him. Still, Holmes noted fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, often observed in moments of apprehension.
“Good.” Returning the smile, Holmes continued slowly. He slightly crooked the finger inside his body, caressing the warm inner channel until Watson moved against his hand, meeting his movements. Carefully, Holmes slid his finger out, joined it with a second, and pushed both against his entrance. Muscles stretched around him and drew his fingers in measured, thrusting slides, faster than before. Soon Watson visibly relaxed, his long legs splayed slightly open and his hips rocked upward with each stroke.
Holmes marveled at the sheer heat clenched around his fingers and imagined himself inside; his pelvis jerked instinctively at the thought, pressing his erection against his leg folded beneath him. He sighed at the contact, meager substitute though it was. He knew he couldn’t be patient much longer.
Firmly, he pushed deeper, caressing the perenium with his thumb to distract from any discomfort. Holmes curved his fingers upward toward Watson’s stomach until they met with a full, round bump of flesh. He gave one long stroke and Watson bucked his hips off the bed with a yelp.
“God, Holmes!”
Holmes couldn’t help but grin at such honest, raw reaction. Intrigued, he watched Watson’s lips fall open with pleasurable, moaning sighs as he applied firm pressure against the inner flesh. He continued, thrusting with his fingers, pressing, stroking, until Watson writhed with each stroke. Watson released his tangled grip on the sheets to clutch Holmes’ shoulder.
“Holmes, please-” His voice was low and strained, forced between shallow breaths.
Without a word, Holmes kissed the inside of his thigh and carefully pulled back his fingers until they slid from Watson’s body. Quickly, he sat up on his knees and retrieved the jar of lubricant. At the first touch of jelly-slick fingers around his erection, which was almost painfully aroused, a small moan shuddered from his lips. He took a moment to enjoy the sensation, clenching his fingers around tender skin, squeezing and stroking along his length. Watson watched Holmes intently as he touched himself; the head of Holmes’ penis slid between his long fingers and Watson squirmed.
Satisfied with his preparation, Holmes placed his knees under Watson’s thighs, straddling his hips and pushing his legs apart slightly. Watson obliged further, wrapping his legs loosely around the detective and raising his pelvis; Holmes slipped a pillow to the small of his back, further curving his hips for better accommodation.
Holmes ran still-slick fingers across his hip, along the outside of a lean thigh, then squeezed one buttock. Swiftly, he shifted his grip to firmly grasp the underside of his leg, leveraging it slightly upward. With his other hand, he guided the flushed head of his erection to Watson’s entrance. Slowly, he thrust forward, exerting only enough to press his penis against Watson’s firm flesh. Watson let out a small whine and rocked forward, increasing the exhilarating pressure without penetration. Holmes drew back, repositioned himself, and paused.
Suddenly, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe, like wool had settled in his lungs in place of air. There, with him, was Watson. And everything within that simple observation was staggering. Watson’s muscles clenched beneath his palm--supple yet strong, like metal from a furnace. His ribs formed valleys against his flanks with each breath. His eyes--Holmes couldn’t always read those turbulent blue depths, but when he could, Watson’s mind was as plain as ink on paper. They were bright and open, radiating warm certainty. Holmes leaned forward, feeling Watson’s hard length against his stomach, kissed him, and thrust his hips in earnest.
The tip of Holmes’ penis met with tight resistance before breaching the ring of muscle. He pushed until the swollen head was entirely surrounded in velvet warmth. Holmes groaned at the slick heat tightening around him and slowly pressed forward until his shaft was enveloped to the hilt. Watson moaned loudly and Holmes felt him tighten around his length. The sensation was overwhelming, more powerful and eradicating than even his seven percent solution. Yet the tense pressure pooled low in his gut yearned for movement. He rocked his hips backward with a sigh until only his head remained inside, the air starkly chill against his exposed shaft. Urgently, he bucked into Watson, exhilarated by the sight of Watson’s body stretching around his girth. Holmes felt a tingle like electric current trip across his every inch of skin as he slowly pumped his hips. He paused briefly only to plunge back in.
Watson keened sharply as Holmes buried himself inside, pressing his member against a concentration of delicate nerves. Holmes drew away only for the space of a breath, but long enough for both to feel the twinge of need for contact, for surrounding, for fullness. Watson arched his back to meet Holmes’ quickening motions.
After a few more unrestrained thrusts, they began to move together like a well-calibrated machine. Both lunging and rocking perfectly to meet the other’s rhythm. Holmes steadily pistoned his hips, only occasionally slowing to savor the tight slide in and out, or the way Watson arched and gasped each time Holmes sunk deep into his body. He tightened his grip against the underside of Watson’s thigh, bending his leg and his own body forward as he increased his pace in answer to the heady pressure building at the base of his erection. His flesh collided with Watson’s and he grunted with each meeting of their bodies.
Every motion forced a throaty exhalation from Watson, which enticed Holmes to even more vigorous action. He watched the doctor strain beneath him, the planes of his chest and stomach heaving and tensing under a sheen of sweat. Somehow, he longed for more, even as he fully sheathed his girth. Holmes leaned forward and plunged his tongue past Watson’s parted lips in one swift movement, swallowing a moan as their mouths and hips met. Moulded skin to skin, he felt the occasional press of Watson’s arousal against him, pushed upward with the rocking of their hips. Holmes opened his jaw wider, delving into every inch of Watson’s mouth, sharing short breaths as their movement built to a frantic pace.
With a loud, rising moan, Watson broke away from the kiss, wrenching his face aside to swallow a large gasp of air.
“Holmes!” Watson’s entire body shuddered against him and clenched around his member--impossibly, unbelievably tight. Holmes felt the slick warmth of release against his stomach as Watson panted and jerkily bucked his hips. Holmes slid his hand to Watson’s hip, clutching with bruising strength as he thrust, desperate now for his own release.
Holmes snapped his pelvis forward, surrounded by the thrumming, constricting warmth of Watson, until his own arousal swelled and crested, crashing like a plume of white-hot sparks. With a sharp yell, Holmes released himself in Watson’s yielding body. The painfully pleasurable tension emptied from his gut in a breathless wave. He continued to pump his hips languidly; Watson’s tight muscles elicited a pleasing shiver, sliding wetly across his penis’ sensitive flesh. Sighing, utterly satiated and engulfed by a pervasive warmth, Holmes collapsed against Watson’s chest. He pressed a kiss to Watson’s throat and felt his pulse beat madly against his lips, like a moth fluttering against a glass jar. Holmes idly thrust his hips once more; though he had begun to soften, the sensation was pleasantly sharp, and a long, pleased sigh flowed from Watson’s lips.
Watson placed a soft kiss against Holmes’ damp, tousled hair and wrapped his arms around the detective’s lean shoulders.
“What was that you spoke of earlier about ‘aberrant’ activities?” Holmes smiled against his neck and Watson chuckled before placing his lips to his forehead.
“I believe I said extraordinary.”
“Hmmm.” With a sigh, Holmes closed his eyes, listening to Watson’s measured breaths and drifting to sleep amidst their warm tangle of limbs.
The end.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-06 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 04:00 am (UTC)I was really excited to be assigned your prompt, since I loved the fic you wrote for me so much :)
Thanks for the kind review.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 04:01 am (UTC)Hot as a very hot thing
Haha, I aim to please ;) Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-12 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-24 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 04:05 am (UTC)