Holmes/Watson. NC-17. ~3800 words. Pre-movie. Co-produced with Ponderosa. Embedded image NSFW.
“Gently, gently!” Holmes rocked nearly up onto his toes with the force of it, his hand grabbing in a most satisfying way at Watson’s forearm.
“Watson,” Holmes said, his eyes squinched tightly shut in defence against the cutting edges of encroaching sunbeams, “what is it you are doing in my room?”
“Since I’ve made it to your bedside with my neck intact, you should have already deduced that it is in fact not your bedside but my bedside, and it is my bedside precisely because it is in my room.” With a good dose of malicious glee, Watson knocked his cane against the bed’s sturdy frame. “Up with you now. It’s half three.”
“God in heaven,” Holmes groaned, rolling to the far side of the bed. “Show me mercy, Watson.”
Watson sat on the bed’s edge and folded his hands atop his cane. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. It’s Thursday.”
“I can see no reason why the day of the week should hold such sway over your capacity for compassion,” came Holmes’s muffled voice.
“You might recall that Parsifal opens today.”
“Unless you have bought us passage to Germany, my dearest friend, I care not an iota.” Holmes slunk further beneath the blankets, seemingly determined to pursue sleep despite all of Watson’s meddling. At times, he was more like Gladstone than Gladstone. “And if you have, I admit I would be curious to know how you went about it considering I have your funds under firm lock and key.”
“Indeed,” Watson said, trying his very best to keep his smile from the timbre of his voice. “But there is the production of The Mastersingers of Nuremberg to be performed tonight for us less fortunate folk, and I thought perhaps you would like to attend.”
A small rustle and Holmes’s silence spoke utter volumes of intrigue.
“Shall I draw you a bath?”
A further moment of silence, and then, “I suppose you might as well, since you doggedly refuse to leave me be.”
Watson patted the mound of blankets somewhere about Holmes’s thigh before regaining his feet. “Perhaps a bit of tea as well?”
“Yes, mother hen, that would be lovely, thank you.”
Unable to find his favourite cravat to go with his standing collar, Watson risked the continued good health of the rest of his limbs by tromping in to search Holmes’s room. Bypassing the wardrobe entirely, he opened several of the drawers in Holmes’s desk and within the fourth discovered his missing tie lovingly coiled around a stoppered tube of gunpowder.
“Honestly, Holmes,” Watson muttered, pulling it free and attempting to shake the wrinkles out.
“That’s mine, you know,” Holmes said, entering the room from the adjoining bath, dressing gown cinched tightly about his waist and a sizeable lump, suspiciously shaped like a volumetric flask, protruding from the left pocket.
“This is my favourite tie.”
“Yes, I know.” Moving to his dressing chamber, of which one quarter was dedicated to its intended purpose and the other three to laboratory supplies, Holmes began flicking through his clothing. “And it’s mine.”
Watson stared down at the tie, brow furrowed. “It is not.”
“I’m afraid it is. You are of course welcome to borrow it for tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your questionable care has left it in dire need of laundering.” While Holmes’s back was turned, Watson quickly stuffed it inside his jacket. “Speaking of which, have you even the proper attire?”
“Of course! Watson, please. I realise it has been a few days–”
“One week, two days.”
“–since we last went out, but I assure you that only means– Ah, yes.” Holmes cleared his throat. “I see your point. I had momentarily forgotten that experiment. Thank you for reminding me, Watson.”
“My pleasure,” Watson said, briefly checking to make sure his rescued tie remained tucked out of sight before moving to Holmes’s side. He took a moment to reassess the damage, taking special note of the light mud-coloured soot that stood out equally obnoxiously on white as well as black. “Bit worse than I had recalled.”
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, and made a soft noise of consideration. “I believe I may have to borrow an item or two from you.”
“Perhaps a tie?”
“Yes,” Holmes said again, taking a large step back from his soiled clothing and brushing his hands off fussily. “That would make an excellent start.”
“No, no, not that one. Be serious, Watson.”
Watson looked down at the waistcoat he held. “Why not?”
“If you have to ask, you are not as observant as I had previously inferred. What a grave disappointment you are.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with it,” Watson said, flicking a bit of lint from its shoulder. “You’ve worn it before. If I remember correctly, and I believe I do, it fits you perfectly.”
Ignoring him, Holmes plucked a hanger from the airing stand. “This one should do nicely.”
“No, it won’t,” Watson said, snatching it from Holmes’s hand to put it right back. “I wore that to my club last night. Wear this one.”
“Then at the very least pick one freshly laundered.”
Holmes grabbed the hanger and quickly retreated, his hand held out to ward Watson off. “I’m afraid only this one will do.”
“It doesn’t even match the jacket,” Watson said, and pressed the tips of two fingers very firmly to the slight twitch above his eyebrow. Holmes, when given cause to care, was an impeccable dresser with absolutely no need of Watson’s slightly less fashion-savvy input. Which left but one conclusion for Watson to inevitably draw.
“Then it is a simple matter for you to select another that does,” Holmes said, and cautiously, as if Watson were a particularly volatile criminal, closed the distance between them. With a satisfied nod, he offered the waistcoat for Watson to help him with.
“You know,” Watson said, practically yanking the blasted thing from Holmes’s grip, “if you truly have no desire to socialise this evening, you simply have to say.” He held it up for Holmes to slip on, settling the cloth just so before he began to button it.
“Very well.” Holmes smoothed down the front and tugged smartly on the waistcoat’s hem, then he crisply straightened sleeves. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, he fiddled with his collar. “I truly have no desire to socialise this evening.”
Watson stared at him for a long moment, one in which he could think of not a thing to say and Holmes said not a word more, merely lifted one brow imperiously. Struck with a feeling of disappointment he hadn’t anticipated, he placed the rejected waistcoat back into the wardrobe and softly shut its doors. “As you like,” he said, moving to the dresser to put away the scarves he’d considered for Holmes’s use.
“You did not ask me what I would like,” Holmes said, his gaze arrowing in hotly, “merely to state what I did not.”
“Fine then.” Watson gave a careless wave of one hand. “Tell me what you would like.”
“Oh, there are many things. Best to keep it brief, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Watson replied, listening with half a mind and a heavy heart. Having begun dressing at the same time as Holmes, he had only to select a cravat for the evening, tie it about his neck, and he would be ready to leave. For once he had been looking forward to the opera as much as Holmes’s company, which was not to say he was no patron of the arts but that he was frequently far more fascinated by Holmes’s all-consuming appreciation of the music than by the music itself.
The night’s outlook seemed so much more dull, hardly worth the trouble of hailing a hansom, without Holmes by his side, and never mind that he had made the decision hours before asking Holmes to accompany him that he would be going regardless.
“In truth,” Holmes went on, oblivious to his crushing regret, “I never have nor ever will posses the desire to socialise, but to bask in the joy of Wagner’s fine hand, yes, that I did. It was a desire only to be eclipsed by the realisation that in accompanying you to that bliss I would be required to do so in borrowed clothing, clothing that naturally I would borrow from you. Which of course meant your aid in dressing, and which then finally brings me to my point–as I see you growing weary it is about time my point was reached–now all I desire is that you go about undressing me with a focus and a passion equal to that of which you dressed me.”
Watson slumped against the edge of a table. “Good Lord.”
“Is that a yes or a no, I can’t quite tell.”
“I’d say it’s a prayer as well as a statement of disbelief, Holmes, for God’s sake.”
Holmes hummed quietly. “No, I require more data. I am still unable to draw a firm conclusion.”
Righting himself, Watson tugged off his collar, leaving it on the table perched atop his waiting gloves. His jacket he left on a chair, his waistcoat the floor as he crossed it. “And now?”
Holmes’s answer was slightly delayed, his attention wandering southward with Watson’s hands as Watson stripped off his belt and dropped it, the buckle clattering against the floorboards. “I believe we’re on to something.”
“We are indeed,” Watson agreed, his patience–already sorely tested by this game of Holmes’s, this roundabout way of manoeuvring them into a position to repeat events that had lurked in the back of Watson’s mind, hovered there, plague-like, dogging his heels through both day and night–wearing even thinner still. “Perhaps we would have been on to it a bit sooner if you’d considered a more direct approach.”
“I confess I had,” Holmes said, again belatedly. His hand twitched, as if he meant to reach out to touch, but he held his ground. “But upon considering your hasty retreat the last time we found ourselves in such a position, I deemed it less than prudent.”
Though sheer strength of will alone did Watson throttle the growl threatening to escape his throat, and when he spoke, the ghost of it still remained, low and guttural at the edges of his words. “A mutual hasty retreat, Holmes. Like guilty schoolboys a hair from expulsion.”
“I distinctly recall the proposal of my mouth–”
Watson caught Holmes’s chin between thumb and forefinger, instantly bringing about the fall of blessed silence. “An excellent idea,” he said in its wake, tilting Holmes’s head up just so. “I accept the proposal of your mouth.”
There was no hesitation this time, no cautious, abortive brush of their lips, only his mouth on Holmes’s, his tongue tracing Holmes’s lips, slipping between them like the softest night whispers. The moment Holmes opened to him, his considerable patience evaporated, burnt up like early morning fog in the rising sun. He crushed the sleeve of Holmes’s borrowed shirt in one hand and held Holmes trapped with the other, pushed fully into his mouth to taste whatever there was to taste left lingering on his tongue.
When he pulled back, intending to focus entirely on Holmes’s request, and Holmes followed, bit at his bottom lip and sucked on it in such a way as no one had ever done before, his hands convulsed. Buttons went tumbling across the carpet like the hushed patter of rain upon the roof.
“Have a bit of care, Watson,” Holmes said, a sly skew to his smile that slipped away on a sharp intake of breath as Watson stripped the waistcoat from his arms. “Honestly, must you always be so rough?”
“Yes,” Watson snapped, and started in on the buttons of Holmes’s shirt, soundly cursing himself thrice over for choosing one with a fleet of tiny stylish buttons. “You are the most vexing man,” he began, and cut the thought short by yanking neatly tucked shirttails up out of Holmes’s slacks.
“Gently, gently!” Holmes rocked nearly up onto his toes with the force of it, his hand grabbing in a most satisfying way at Watson’s forearm. “You’ll have naught but rags left by the time you’re through.”
“As they are my clothes,” Watson reminded him, “I’ll treat them as I see fit,” and dragged his shirt down to his elbows, baring the cut lines of his chest, the sharp wing of his collarbones. The shirt left dangling, Watson bent low to properly learn the exact flavour and texture of Holmes’s skin, something he had been denied before by their fumbling haste. Like some addictive substance, far sweeter than laudanum’s bitter haze, the more of Holmes he had, the more he wanted. He ripped at the fastenings on Holmes’s slacks, wrinkling them far beyond quick repair.
“A measure more care for my person then, as I’ve only the one and none to borrow,” Holmes said, but did very little in the way of commanding compliance with the way he hung near breathlessness, the heat of his palms burning through Watson’s clothes to scorch the skin beneath. “As with a woman, some tenderness would not go astray.”
“Holmes, the very last thing I want to be thinking of right now is a woman.” Shucking Holmes’s slacks and underclothes all down to his knees, Watson placed a hand dead centre to his chest, caught his wrist in the other to save his balance, and sent him stumbling backwards with a good shove. “Would you like to know what I am thinking?”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Holmes said, taking both another unsteady step back along with a matching breath.
“I’m thinking that you would look very good on that table there, yes, that one,” Watson said, catching the sound of a small clattering when Holmes reached back to grasp at its edge. “Turn around, Holmes. Bend yourself across it as you were so keen to lay yourself out for me on the settee that night.”
“Watson,” Holmes said, and that was all before he took another kiss, far too slow and lingering for Watson’s current liking. Later, long after the surge of Watson’s blood had eased, he’d like nothing more than to lie together and indulge in as many kisses as Holmes desired, but not now. As impossible as he knew it to be, he was sure he would die if he didn’t bring an end to the weeks and months of his illicit cravings as quickly as humanly possible.
Reaching for the travelling medical bag stored beneath the table, Watson dug out a small tin jar of Vaseline and pried at the top. “You say my name so frequently. Near twenty times a day.”
“I’ve a certain fondness for certain things of yours,” Holmes said, his eyes bright with the devil’s fever as he watched Watson open his trousers. “Perhaps some time when you are not teetering on the precipice of losing control of yourself, you’ll allow me the pleasure of smearing your cock with that.”
The scrap of metal that was the jar’s lid nearly bent in Watson’s grip. “Why wait to put your hands upon me,” he said, and gave the jar a clumsy shove into Holmes’s hands. “Do it now.”
The spark in Holmes’s eyes flared as bright as a match struck to flame. He pressed one hand to Watson’s stomach, causing muscles to twitch as he slowly lifted Watson’s shirttails out of the way, and dug the fingers of the other into the jar, emerging with a sizeable glob that he smeared across his fingers with his thumb. “Do alert me if you’re about to succumb.”
“I’m sure you’ll know,” Watson said, tense and close to trembling from only the memory of Holmes’s hand on him, the sweet, saliva-slick glide of it matching the steady roll of Holmes’s hips as he had thrust into Watson’s grip. A mere moment from seizing Holmes’s hand in his own and forcing it to his cock, Holmes firmly took hold of him, slid from root to tip with a clever flick of a thumb at his slit.
Watson’s knees buckled, his wounded leg nearly giving out on him entirely, and Holmes caught him under the arm. Shouldering his weight, Holmes tugged at him again and again, flirting at the limit of more than Watson could take as skilfully as his mouth flirted with the idea of another kiss, their lips brushing, skimming, never fully touching.
“Enough,” Watson grit out, his fingers clamping tightly around the delicate bones of Holmes’s wrist. “I want my pleasure in you this time, Holmes, not on you.”
A shudder went through Holmes, clung trembling to his tongue and finally spilled free in a sinful moan. “Much like your clothes, I’ve little objection to wearing it,” he said, and after a last fleeting touch of their lips he turned about, stretched out across the table as knowledgeable as any foreign courtesan of the lust that ripped through Watson like a shot.
At the push of Watson’s slick hand between his legs, he rose up on his elbows, let free with another sound of wicked hunger. His asshole, feeling so small and delicate against the tips of Watson’s fingers, at first easily gave way but then clamped tight. The heat of Holmes’s body holding so fast drove another spike of lust into Watson’s gut and he bent low over Holmes’s back to press coaxing, open-mouthed kisses to the tension quivering in his muscles.
“No, no,” Holmes said quickly as he withdrew. “What are you doing? Push deeper into me, there is a gland located approximately–”
“Shut up, Holmes,” Watson said, his heart fit to burst and his arm shaking only a little as he added a bit more petroleum jelly to his fingers. “If you’ll recall, I am a doctor. I know very well how to bugger a man.”
“My hopes are that you know very well indeed,” Holmes said, the last of his words trailing off as flimsy as a silken ribbon in the breeze. He rocked forward with the push of Watson’s fingers into him and then back, the hot flush of his sac pressing snugly against the curl of Watson’s hand as he fisted his cock. “Good Christ in heaven, that will do.”
Freezing with his fingers crooked firmly against Holmes’s prostate and far more than simply distracted with the way the small touch made Holmes gasp and shake, Watson said, “What?”
“Now please,” Holmes repeated. “As I’m about to make a conspicuous stain upon your carpets, it would be best if you were to fuck me now. Right now, Watson, this very instant.”
Watson meant to say something–he’s absolutely certain he did–but no words pushed free from the tight clench of his throat. Bracing a hand on the small of Holmes’s back, he pressed the tip of his cock to soft, slippery flesh. He sucked in a breath so sharp it scored his throat as Holmes’s body opened, the lamplight casting terrible tantalising shadows that hid what he could feel so acutely from view.
Holmes breathed a curse and twisted; thanks be to God not another plea for slowness or an attempt to ease the pressure of Watson’s cock filling him, but as if he simply couldn’t remain still, his hips bucking shallowly and his hands flittering at the edge of the table, gripping, skidding, gripping again.
“Exquisite,” he said, voice in tatters, and if Watson had regained the ability to speak, he would have agreed most fervently, but as it was every single fibre of his being was focused intently on the thick, gritty pleasure of Holmes surrounding him, the heat and the thrill of feeling inner muscles clench and tremble and cling as he withdrew.
When Holmes voiced no protests at the next hard shove inside him, Watson gave in to the visceral urge to fuck. The crude wet noise of it burned like a branding iron against his skin, and the sound of Holmes’s voice, shattered and wanting, echoed in perverse counterpoint to his laboured groaning breaths.
He caught the rhythmic jerk of Holmes’s arm through the narrow slit his vision had become and reached down, found Holmes tugging roughly and almost frantically at his cock. Watson held on to his wrist, not to stop or guide but just to feel the flex of muscle and tendon, the shift of bone as he sought out his peak.
Only seconds later he found it and Watson had to let go, instead gripping his hips in both hands to haul him rudely back into every hard thrust. His moans ratcheted up in volume, became an endless wavering sound and then cut off abruptly as his body went loose and pliant, his insides clenching weakly in the shivering aftershocks.
“Finish,” he rasped, reaching back to grasp at Watson’s thigh. “Finish in me now, while I’m sensitive enough to feel the spill of it.”
Like a puppet on a string, Watson came, nearly blinded by the intensity of it, his lungs burning as if he’d inhaled the magnesium flare. He held onto Holmes too tightly, knew there would be tattletale bruises formed in less than an hour, but loosening his grip was as far from his reach in that moment as the sun from the earth.
He slumped heavily against Holmes’s back as he waited for control of his body to be returned to him. Holmes let out a grunt, boorishly elbowed him in the gut to shove him off, then graciously softened the blow to his ego by thumping to the floor at his side.
Arms flopped carelessly above his head and chest still heaving, Holmes said, “Were that but truly la petite mort, consider how much more eagerly we would run to its final embrace.”
Watson scrubbed a hand over his face and back through his damp hair. “Leave off that embrace for a time longer, if you please, and come into mine.”
Holmes sat up far more quickly than Watson could’ve currently managed and scooted closer, picking up Watson’s arm to wrap himself in it. They rested quietly for a moment, heartbeats gradually returning to a more civilised pace, and then Holmes said, “Although my regret is minimal, my humble apologies for derailing your plans for our evening.”
About to wave that away as the truly inconsequential thing it was in light of recent events, Watson paused. “My forgiveness is conditional.”
“And what condition is that?” Holmes asked, curiosity and humour lacing his roughened voice.
“The next time you have a disinclination to leave my bed,” Watson said, kissing the smooth curve of Holmes’s shoulder again, simply because he could, “don’t bother. Pull me down into it instead.”
Holmes made a quietly contented sound. “As you like, Watson. As you like.”