Holmes/Watson. NC-17. ~2100 words. Temporary genderswap.
He knew exactly what course of action he must embark upon. “Watson! Watson!”
“Ah,” Holmes said, blinking down at his remarkably delicate hand. “So it is to be this again.” True, the last time he had undergone such a physical transformation, it had only been a matter of several years subtracted from his current age and the effect had lasted perhaps an hour at most. For such a drastic change, he estimated no more than half an hour before his natural state reasserted itself.
It was of no matter either way. He knew exactly what course of action he must embark upon. “Watson! Watson!”
“What, Holmes, what,” Watson said, rounding the corner from his practice room. “You know I am in the midst of my correspondence– Good Lord. What have you done?”
Holmes waved a negligent hand through the dense smoke. “Pay it no mind. Merely a side effect.”
“But your clothes, Holmes.” His eyes very round indeed, Watson resolutely fixed his gaze on the ceiling. In a deceptively calm voice, he asked, “Where have your clothes gone?”
“It was necessary to gauge the extent of the compound’s effects, Watson,” Holmes said, rubbing at a bit of soot on his arm. “Besides, it’s not as if they would fit properly now. Do come here.”
“Absolutely not. Put on your dressing gown.”
“Because I refuse to look at you in such a state!”
Holmes jerked backwards, his mouth snapping shut. He took quick stock of his appearance–two of everything there should be two of, no more than one of everything there should only be one of, ten fingers, ten toes–all seemed well. “It is not so bad a state,” he said defensively.
“It isn’t proper, Holmes,” Watson said, staring now at the terrarium on Holmes’s desk. “And with the draperies thrown so carelessly wide, honestly.”
Yanking hard on the pull, Watson set about drawing the curtains while Holmes folded his arms, adjusting for his new anatomy, and tapped his chin in thought. “You are taking this in great stride, Watson,” he said. “I would hazard to guess that you’re not terribly shocked at all.”
Watson’s shoulders slumped on a sigh. Without turning round, he said, “What are you going on about? Of course I’m not so terribly shocked. I live with you, Holmes. I’ve seen the results of your experiments. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“Ah,” Holmes said, accepting that as the insightful truth it was. And since Watson seemed determined to move not a step further from some ridiculous invisible line he had drawn between them, Holmes set about crossing it post-haste. His balance was a bit tricky for the first few feet, but quickly evened out as he learned to compensate. How fascinating that the newly widened set of his hips would lead his steps when as a man he most definitely led with his shoulders.
The differences in their heights seemed so much more pronounced now as Holmes slid his arms about Watson’s shoulders. He pressed close, the crispness of Watson’s shirt–no waistcoat in the way, as Holmes preferred–and the heat of his body were both wonderful sensations against his bare skin. As was the minute tensing of Watson’s muscled back.
“This is what we are going to do,” Holmes said softly, trailing a hand up the front of Watson’s shirt to find the first of his buttons nestled securely beneath his collar. “I am going to undress you and you are going to take me to bed. If my observations are correct–and please note they always are–then it is not my companionship that you objected to but my form, and since I’ve taken care of that most excellently, we may proceed.”
When Watson said nothing, not a word or a sigh, Holmes frowned. Briefly he considered the new arsenal of expressions at his command, but Watson was not likely to be swayed by a fetching pout or similar feminine wiles. His breasts then, he concluded, pressing them most firmly against Watson’s shirtfront. “If your course is still set upon an ascent into your very narrow view of respectability, I suppose I could be convinced of a trip to the altar. But you know my views of the Church, Watson, and I think my current compromise is more than sufficient.”
Watson turned slightly, first his head and then his body. He simply stared at Holmes for a moment, gaze carefully dipping no lower than the sweep of Holmes’s collarbones, and finally said, “Is that what you think it is?”
“I do not think so,” Holmes said crisply, sending Watson’s collar tumbling down to join the rest of the detritus on the floor, “I know so. As do you. So cease this dallying about of yours and come dally with me.”
Watson made no move away as Holmes pushed the braces from his shoulders and then followed with his shirt, baring the fine expanse of his chest to the press of Holmes’s mouth. Muscle jumped beneath his lips, firm and flushed delightfully with heat, and as he dragged Watson’s shirt from his arms he began to slip to his knees, fully intent on following the dark trail of hair on Watson’s belly to its end.
“Wait,” Watson said, catching his arm above the elbow. “Not here. You said you wanted me to take you to my bed.”
An intense rush of heat swept out from Holmes’s belly. He stumbled slightly in straightening up, Watson’s grip tightening minutely to help him maintain his balance. He wavered, the effect not unlike an overgenerous application of spirits, and once the room steadied he smiled up at Watson. “Ever the gentleman.”
Briefly closing his eyes, Watson said, “Not quite,” and before Holmes could question him on his meaning, he stepped out of his shoes and made for the rumple of Holmes’s bed.
“Have a bit of patience, Watson,” Holmes said, hurrying after him. “That is a task I was in the very midst of completing.”
“So you were.” The pulse in Watson’s throat visibly jumped as he sat on the bed. His gaze was as fixed and as resolute as before, but this time it rested squarely on Holmes’s approach, his knuckles slowly turning white as he gripped the mattress’s edge. “You are certain about this?”
“Never shall I be more so,” Holmes assured him, a slight quaver in his voice from the smoke still lingering in his lungs. He coughed delicately to clear it and waved ineffectually at the smoke. “Perhaps you should have opened a window during your endearingly zealous quest to protect my modesty.”
Watson’s hands, always so remarkably strong–a soldier’s hands, even as they were as gentle as a doctor’s–came to rest low on Holmes’s hips, the heat of his palms prompting the prickle of gooseflesh everywhere his touch wasn’t. His eyes sliding shut, he pressed a single slow kiss to the tender softness of Holmes’s stomach. The brush of his moustache elicited a ticklish thrill that pulsed hotly along Holmes’s nerves.
Somewhere between belly and brain the sensation became confused, one minute a warm building ache and the next a sharp pressure, frightfully demanding. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple as if that would help to clear his mind, but as Watson’s hands slid down to the juncture of his thighs, it only worsened.
He pitched forward suddenly, his hands slapping roughly to Watson’s shoulders, and in an instant Watson turned to push him to the bed. “Are you all right?” Watson asked, his voice dim and distant.
Holmes shook his head, not an answer but another attempt to clear it, and again lifted a hand to his forehead to find Watson’s already there. Like a gunshot in reverse, his ability to hear popped back into being; he slumped back, immensely relived.
“Another side effect,” Watson said, his mouth drawn into a tight, grim line.
“All temporary,” Holmes said, pushing up onto one elbow. As was his transmogrification, but he dared not reveal that fact to Watson. The truth would out in time. “Pray return to those very excellent kisses of yours.”
“How do you know they’re very excellent?” Watson asked, thankfully a trace a humour softening his brow. “I don’t believe you’ve had one yet.”
Tilting his chin up to offer his mouth, Holmes said, “My imagination is a tool as finely honed as your blade, Watson. But in no way should you infer that proper evidence is not required.”
“Which is your very roundabout way of saying you would like me to kiss you.”
“I hope this is your very roundabout way of eventually doing so.”
A second as long as a minute passed and after it came another, and then another. Holmes’s patience failed him utterly and he surged up to take the kiss he so very badly wanted. Soft noises pushed into his mouth, not quite words and still some distance from pure sounds of pleasure, but as a wide hand came to settle on his breast, the last of Watson’s reservations faded into memory. With the other hand cupping his face, Watson took full control of their kiss, sweeping the bitter taste of the compound’s dredges entirely from Holmes’s mouth.
But restlessness soon overtook Watson and he slipped away, pressed too-brief kisses to Holmes’s throat, the centre of his chest, the inside of his wrist. His hands continued southward as he returned to Holmes’s mouth, and again as they slid between Holmes’s thighs a swift and alarming dizziness rose up to blacken his vision.
“Do not stop,” Holmes quickly grit out. “My body is simply not used to such intimacy. It’s of no consequence.” He grabbed tightly to Watson’s arm and held it in place, forcing his body to obey him in rocking against the palm of Watson’s hand. The strange spike of sensation gave way to a more familiar pleasure, pressure and want, and spreading his legs to bracket Watson he dropped back to the blankets.
Through the muffle of raw cotton stuffed in his ears, Holmes heard the sharp intake of Watson’s breath. His body felt alight, anchored only at the points most sensitive. The peaked tips of his breasts ached to feel the faint scratch of Watson’s cheek and he moved fitfully against the tender ministrations of the fingers cupped at his mons veneris. “You’ve come this far,” he said, closing his eyes in the hopes the ceiling would cease swimming, “and done this much. It would be so very crass of you to leave me now.”
“I would not,” Watson said, the edges of his words far too sharp and cutting deeply. At Holmes’s wince, he breathed a noise like a sigh. “You’re going to think so little of me come morning.”
Holmes opened his mouth to say, Nonsense, but it was at that moment that Watson lowered his head and what came tumbling out from between his lips was a ragged jumble of syllables that meant nothing at all. He arched up off the sheets and Watson pushed him quickly back down, hands on his hips pinning him there are as teeth and tongue and lips and the wonderfully rough scrape of whiskers and stubble pushed him gasping over the edge. He grabbed rudely onto the back of Watson’s head, helpless to stop his eager grinding as the wave of pleasure broke.
He tried to offer his apologies before the darkness took him, but failed utterly.
When he woke, it was to a raging headache and a mouth as dry as Mycroft’s wit. He took quick stock of the room–drapes drawn, a steaming teapot on the table, the steady scrape of Watson’s pen. It halted a moment later, and Watson said, “Welcome back.”
“Watson,” Holmes greeted, his voice sounding and rather feeling like the tumble of pebbles on the shore. “Have you been keeping vigil?”
“You’ve been out nearly a day.”
Silence from Watson, and then a familiar weighty sigh. His chair creaked as he stood. “You’re angry with me.”
“No,” Holmes said, far too quickly and only aggravating the ache in his head for all the effect it had on Watson. “I am well aware of the hallucinogenic properties of the compounds I chose to work with. It was my mistake in believing I would not forget their effects even as I suffered from them. I apologise for involving you.”
Watson simply looked at him. “So that is that, then?”
“Yes,” Holmes said, attempting to settle back down as cue for Watson to take his leave. “Thank you for your care, doctor.”
“All right,” Watson said. Nodding once, he resumed his seat. “You are very welcome.”
Now Holmes’s turn to stare, he began, “What-”
As the scratch of his pen resumed, Watson said, “I told you I would not leave you, Holmes. And as with the rest of yesterday’s events, I meant it.”