Soldier's Heart Part 11 of 15
Jan. 8th, 2011 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 11
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Author's notes: Thanks always forenkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
The weather was the warmest it had been that spring, with the sun shining brightly and not a cloud in sight.
“Wonderful weather!” Mrs. Everman crowed as she set down blankets and arranged a picnic basket to her liking. “You just sit down here, Mr. Holmes. We can have a lovely view and won’t be in the way. You’ve never been to a match before, so you’ll be in for a right treat!”
Holmes’ only reply was to sigh deeply and do as instructed, sitting down cross-legged as he watched the group of men, Watson among them, huddle together on the other side of the wide field around Mrs. Everman’s husband. Years before, when such things had held interest for his grandparents, the open space had been used for polo. Now, however, it was mostly decorative field where deer grazed.
There were twenty six men, Holmes noticed absently, watching the group as they conferred on something or other. Servants, Mrs. Everman’s sons, and if he was not mistaken, a few of the neighboring servants as well. He could not imagine the last time the estate had seen so many people gathered together at one time.
It was unnatural and set his teeth on edge.
“How long does a game usually last?” he asked, almost plaintively, and was answered by a gentle pat to his hand.
“Don’t you worry, dear. Once the game starts, trust me, you’ll not be paying attention to the time,” she answered, chuckling.
“Mrs. Everman, you know me,” Holmes sighed, looking away from the gathered group, who were making a lot of noise by yelling and hollering, supposedly in preparation for the start of the match. “I am a boxer and a fencer. Such organized games as these have never held interest for me, nor do I think they will start now.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, grinning cheekily over at him as she shifted and settled less than gracefully on the blankets. “You’ve never had your doctor to keep your interest before.”
“Mrs. Everman!”
Holmes buried his face in his hand, flushing at her boldness. He had long since given up having any dignity where she was concerned, however. She had, after all, changed his nappies and nursed him through more sickness than he cared to recall. The class boundaries which should have divided them had worn very thin over the years, and she was more a doting aunt to him now than merely a housekeeper.
“Oh, hush, you,” she teased, patting his hand. “Trust an old woman, dear. The rules and plays won’t matter a wit once they start. You just keep your eyes on your lovely man and enjoy.”
“Lord,” Holmes breathed, feeling his blush creep down to his neck.
“Here they go!” she shouted excitedly, bringing his head up as the men divided themselves into two teams.
Though no uniforms were worn, the men were differentiated by the colors of their shirts. Watson’s team wore black, while the opposite wore red. Holmes wondered briefly where Watson had got the shirt, but the first clash of bodies was violent enough that he started, and all other concerns were quickly lost.
“Don’t you worry now,” Mrs. Everman soothed, reading his expression as easily as she would any of her sons‘. “He’ll be fine. You just enjoy the view, and follow your doctor.”
Holmes found himself wishing he had never agreed to be a spectator, and for a moment he wondered if this was how Watson had often felt, watching him from the sidelines of the boxing ring. Only, he realized as another clash of bodies had him wincing, Watson had always seemed to enjoy watching him box, and if the violence of the game was anything to go by, it was no wonder he had not been put off by a bit of blood after a match.
The game continued, though he had no desire to learn the rules and Mrs. Everman was silent beside him when not cheering. He kept his attention focused on Watson, who seemed to be grinning fiercely in between the moments of frantic movement.
Holmes was no innocent when it came to violence, though he preferred to limit his own activities to the pursuit of criminals and the boxing ring. Rugby, as he was quickly learning, was a sport based off quick runs and powerful collisions. Time after time he watched as the players fought over the ball, running and grappling until they were all dripping with sweat and mud.
He doubted he had ever seen Watson so happy save for the times he was helping Holmes capture some despot.
A touch to his arm startled him, and he jerked away from the intrusion of his personal space. For a moment he stared at Mrs. Everman with wide, anxious eyes before ducking his head in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he murmured, flinching again as yelling erupted from the field, his gaze only darting quickly over the group of men shouting to ascertain Watson’s welfare before turning back to the woman beside him.
She regarded him solemnly for a moment with too knowing eyes before she cleared her throat and determinedly turned her attention away, staring intently across the field.
“He’s a good player, your doctor,” she finally said, watching as the two teams separated once more, the altercation straightened out and devolving into good hearted cat calls and jeers. “Not afraid to get dirty or rough himself up a bit.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Holmes agreed. He coughed into his hand, forcing himself to return his attention to the game, to watch his friend enjoying himself and be glad for him. “He used to play for University, and a bit while he was in the Army.”
“Hmmmm,” was the only answer he received for several minutes, another flurry of movement and running following more cheers and whooping. “His leg will be playing bloody buggers tomorrow, that’s for certain,” she finally said.
Holmes could not help the laugh that escaped, staring at the elderly woman in amused shock as she blinked over at him innocently.
“Teddy’s the same way,” she added, pointing a crooked finger towards one of the mud-covered men in red. “Tore his leg up in a fight a few years ago, hasn’t been able to hobble about without a stick since. But mention the word rugby…” She laughed softly, shaking her head.
“They all seem very…enthusiastic,” Holmes allowed, grimacing as one player was flipped bodily over another. To his relief, Watson was well away from the tackle.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, casting another look his way. “There’s something to be said about a man covered in mud and sweat at the end of the day. Getting filthy is easy enough, but getting clean? That’s the fun part.”
She cackled at Holmes’ horrified expression, patting his leg soothingly.
“Oh, go on, dear,” she soothed, still laughing. “Any fool can see how in love you are with him. Nothing wrong with love, no matter what the bloody laws say. In my day, it didn’t matter a wit who you warmed your bed with, so long as you were careful.”
Blood rushed to his face until he was certain it would surely drip out his gaping mouth, and for one of the few times in his life he found himself utterly speechless.
“The game’s almost over now,” Mrs. Everman said calmly, as though she had not just completely shocked one of the masters of the estate. “I’ll get myself off and make sure there’s a bath waiting for your man when he drags himself away and starts to feel his years.”
She paused after gaining her feet, turning a look so fond and understanding towards Holmes that he had to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat.
“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, bending to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Now you eat the sandwich I prepared for you and the apple in that basket. The game may be near finished, but they’ll be lollygagging about for a bit. Once they’ve calmed, you bring your man into the house and force him into that bath, otherwise his leg will be no good to him tomorrow. I’ll have another herbal for him tonight, after supper.”
Instructions given, she turned and made her way steadily back to the house, her small, stout frame swaying gently as she did so, a General on her way to prepare for an upcoming skirmish.
Feeling as though he had only just come out the other side of a small force of nature, Holmes set about following her instructions, digging into the basket to retrieve his lunch as he watched the game finish, both teams yelling and screaming until he wondered that any of them would have a voice left by the end of it.
Only when the men had calmed down sufficiently to shake hands and start to depart did he stand, waiting patiently for Watson to make his way over to him, grinning fit to split his face as blood slowly trickled down his cheek from a cut above his left eye.
It was a strange role reversal to Holmes, and not one he thought he would ever like to repeat.
***
They made their way back to the house, Watson dripping sweat, mud and blood the entire way, chatting happily about various points of the game, seemingly unaware that Holmes didn’t understand a word.
He was energetic, filled with an enthusiasm that Holmes had not seen in his friend in far too long, and a sudden fierce guilt seized him.
Watson was a social person, someone who thrived on being around others and participating in various activities. He had his club which he frequented, associates whom he shared tea and lunches with, and couples who had been friends to him and his wife.
And Holmes had dragged him back into a life of solitary pursuits, spending his evenings with a man who could happily remain barricaded in his room for weeks and not feel the least bit of longing for another’s companionship.
So long as he had his Watson there to keep him company.
“You’re awfully quiet, old boy,” Watson said suddenly, startling Holmes out of his thoughts as they reached the steps to the house.
They were going in through the garden, so as not to track mud in and leave more of a mess than could be helped. Holmes held the door open for Watson as he motioned him in, following him as he contemplated a response.
“Are you all right?” Watson asked, the sudden worry creasing his brow a sharp contrast to his sheer exhilaration just moments before.
“Fine, mother hen,” Holmes answered immediately, managing a smile as he gently pushed Watson towards the stairs. “Just listening to you talk.”
At Watson’s skeptical frown, Holmes elaborated. “I have no idea what you were talking about, of course, but it was nice to listen to nonetheless.”
Watson’s laugh was deep and surprised, and he was smiling again as he ascended the steps.
“I shan’t bore you anymore, then,” he said, looking over his shoulder to grin. “Although I must say I’m rather baffled you managed to last the entire game without figuring out the rules.”
“I wasn’t watching the game,” Holmes said, and bumped into Watson’s back as he stopped, turning around with his mouth open to question the statement and unconcealed hurt in his eyes. “I was watching you.”
The words died on Watson’s lips unspoken, his expression softening as he studied Holmes’ face, his lips turning up fondly.
“In that case, I shall forgive you,” he said softly, pausing a moment more to place a quick kiss to the other’s forehead before turning back around and resuming his walk up the steps. “Still, perhaps next time you may wish to pay a bit more attention to the actual rules. I don’t suppose it was very entertaining just watching me running around.”
Holmes bit his tongue on the automatic response attempting to escape, pursing his lips as he struggled to find a diplomatic answer to the statement. It was, after all, not his strong point.
“No offense, Watson, but I don’t really think rugby’s my sport,” he settled on saying, keeping his expression neutral as Watson cast an inquisitive look over his shoulder.
“Really?” he asked, surprised. “I would have thought it to be the type of sport you thrived on. You can’t imagine how surprised I was to learn you had never attended a match in your life. Perhaps the next time we can go see a true team play,” he added cheerily, smiling at the thought.
Holmes forced his lips to turn up, though his shoulders tensed and his stomach clenched at the thought of having to sit through another few hours of such torture.
“We’ll see, old boy,” he said.
He could not remember a time when he was so grateful to reach his rooms, and firmly pushed Watson toward the tub which had been filled with steaming water that smelled faintly medicinal.
“Not to belabor the point, Watson, but you truly are a horrific sight. Please waste no time stripping out of those disgusting clothes,” Holmes declared, already starting to help with the removal of the dirty garments.
As the shirt and trousers were removed, Holmes found himself cataloging the damage, fighting to keep his expression neutral as Watson’s small clothes were peeled off and his lover stood before him, half hard and covered in mud and sweat. Bruises were starting to form on Watson’s ribs and arms, and a spectacular welt had been raised along his back. His thighs had not been spared, either, and it was only with a supreme effort that Holmes managed to keep from betraying the growing horror he felt at the evidence of his friend’s enthusiasm.
“You’ll be stiff as a board tomorrow,” was all he said, softly, running gentle, probing fingers over the worst of the bruises.
He froze as Watson’s hands closed over his, stilling their movements.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, trying to meet his eyes.
“You look like you’ve gone nine rounds with a hulking brute,” Holmes observed. He cleared his throat, finally looking up to smile reassuringly at his friend. “I suggest you get in that water while it’s still hot.”
“What’s wrong?” Watson asked, not moving or releasing the other’s hands. “It’s just a few bruises, Holmes. You’ve seen worse after a round of fisticuffs. Hell, you’ve had worse after a match!”
“Yes, I know,” Holmes assured, still smiling. “Which is why I suggest getting into the water. Your leg won’t be any good if you don’t rest it a bit now.”
He tried to pull away, but Watson’s grip was like an iron clamp, firm around his wrists.
“That smile may fool everyone else, but I know you,” Watson said softly.
He knew what his appearance looked like. He had been through enough matches in his time to realize how much of a mess he must be. The cut above his eye had finally stopped bleeding, though he could feel a trail of dried blood down his cheek to his neck, and his eye was beginning to swell slightly. He was filthy, covered in mud that was starting to dry and itch, and he could smell the sweat on himself, heavy and slightly pungent.
He wasn’t going to allow his friend to escape, however, no matter his own discomfort.
“What’s wrong, Holmes? You’re upset, I can tell,” he coaxed.
Huffing in exasperation, and, admittedly, a bit of annoyance at the doctor’s persistence, Holmes started to move forward, using his captured hands to push Watson toward the bath.
“You need to get cleaned up and into something decent. Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but really, Watson, you’re simply cov -”
“Holmes!”
It was a tone only used when Watson was truly annoyed with him, one Holmes secretly thought of as his military voice. It always sent a shiver down his back, even as it warned him to tread very carefully.
He did not stop pushing, however, until Watson’s legs bumped against the hot metal of the tub. Then he looked up through his lashes and asked, very softly, “Will you please get in, Watson? I cannot bear to see you like this.”
It was a shameless play on Watson’s empathy and caring nature, though nonetheless true. The sight of his lover, bruised, bloody and dirty, was causing his insides to squirm and clench, and he feared his bowels might betray him if he did not get control of himself. He could already feel mild cramps starting.
“Please?” he asked again.
After a moment’s contemplation Watson nodded, slowly, and released the other’s hands. Then he turned and climbed somewhat clumsily into the water, stiffness already starting to set into his muscles.
“Now that that’s accomplished, talk,” he ordered, picking up the flannel which had been placed conveniently on the side of the tub and looking around the floor for the soap. “You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s upset you so.”
Holmes rolled his eyes as he sat carelessly, legs crossed and elbow propped on his knee, chin in hand. He kept away from the muddy mess of clothing and handed Watson the soap, waiting until a good lather had been worked up on the flannel and it was being rubbed over the doctor’s arms and chest.
“I did not like the game,” Holmes finally murmured, his eyes set on watching the movement of the flannel, skin slowly becoming pink again under the doctor’s ministrations.
The tub had been placed near the bed, far enough that any splashes would not endanger the linen, but close enough that Holmes could have sat on it and spoken normally if he chose. He did not, however, wish to put more distance between them, and so remained seated. He felt ashamed at his admission, especially after seeing how much enjoyment Watson derived from the sport.
“Go on,” Watson prompted, after the silence stretched between them. It was not uncomfortable, but neither was it normal for Holmes to leave a thought unfinished.
“You know I do not shy away from violence,” Holmes continued softly, continuing to watch Watson lather his body. “But seeing you out there - I am used to sports where there is only one opponent, who can be analyzed for weaknesses and overcome with a bit of effort. The thought of you surrounded by others - of putting yourself in danger - it does not sit well with me.”
He paused, moving to take the soggy flannel from suddenly limp hands, not daring to meet Watson’s gaze as he dipped the cloth back into the now murky water to rinse off the soap Watson had missed.
The doctor’s chest, covered in fine, sparse hairs, was dotted with beads of moisture, his pectorals sharply defined and his stomach flat and muscular as Holmes worked the cloth down the toned body.
“I realized, though,” he continued, subdued, moving back up to gently wipe down a strong forearm to the slim wrist, carefully washing between each finger. “That you love the game, and you have not been this happy in some time. So I will not tell you I do not want you to play another match should the chance arrive. Nor will I tell you to be careful, because I did watch you, and know you are not foolish or careless. But I will say that I do not like to watch you put yourself through such rigors, and ask that you please do not ask me to watch you do so again.” He paused, resting the flannel on Watson’s shoulder, finally looking up into eyes so blue he wondered how he had ever thought a clear sky colorful. “Please, Watson,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly. "I'm not like you, old boy. I can't - seeing you out there, with all those - I just can't bear to watch it again."
Watson finally moved, cupping Holmes’ cheek with his hand, moving slowly so as not to slosh the water and kissing him gently, close mouthed and chaste, on the lips. Then he sat back and regarded Holmes solemnly.
"Now you understand how the boxing makes me feel sometimes? When the match doesn't go quite all your way and you end up getting hurt?"
It was not an answer to Holmes’ question, though he supposed he had not worded it as such. So he nodded mutely, casting his mind back to all the times Watson had cared for broken ribs or sutured cuts, and winced slightly as he recalled the worried frowns and brief admonishments.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked hesitantly, doubting that was truly what Watson wanted, but needing to offer the suggestion.
"No. But I would like you to be a bit more careful.” Now it was Watson’s turn to sigh, smiling ruefully as Holmes resumed his ministrations with the washing, moving the cloth slowly. “It can be damnably hard sometimes to watch you get trounced, Holmes. Thankfully, it’s a rare enough occurrence I don’t have to think about it too often.”
Holmes returned his smile, feeling the tension drain out of him, exhaustion taking its place. His stomach began to settle, and he found himself better able to appreciate his situation.
“I must admit, even if I did not care for the rest of the game, you were a sight to behold,” he admitted, letting his gaze wander purposely. The water was too murky to make out any details below his stomach, but Watson had been half hard when he had entered the bath, and Holmes knew well the effects of adrenaline. He allowed his hand to drift below the surface, heart quickening as Watson’s eyes darkened and he arched as fingers carefully closed around his slowly hardening manhood.
“Oh, really?” Watson asked huskily, his lips quirking in what could only be called a predatory smile.
“Yes,” Holmes breathed, and dropped the flannel in favor of running his other hand along Watson’s shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, this one much less chaste. “A very, very stunning sight to behold.”
Watson captured his lips in a messy, open mouthed kiss, his tongue dancing with Holmes’ as wet hands gripped still clothed arms.
“You need to get undressed,” Watson growled against his mouth before kissing him again, already moving to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt, never breaking contact as he did so.
Holmes groaned as wandering hands traveled over newly exposed flesh, leaving trails of wetness which had his opened shirt clinging to his skin. With his attention diverted between kissing Watson and trying to remove his clothes, it was some time before he was actually naked, still kneeling beside the tub, Watson humming contentedly against his mouth.
“Now I think you should join me,” Watson suggested, finally moving back enough for Holmes to regard him with dilated eyes and flushed cheeks.
“That water is disgusting,” Holmes protested softly, though there was no bite to his words, and Watson merely pressed himself against the back of the tub in order to make room for him.
Frowning, eying the water dubiously, Holmes ran his hand over Watson’s shoulder, down to his left nipple, where he twisted the nub gently, earning a loud groan for his effort.
“Holmes. Water. Now,” Watson gasped, voice filled with a desperate need that would have been frightening in its intensity if Holmes hadn’t been feeling a similar demand.
His manhood was fully erect, and when he slipped into the tub of water still hot enough to turn flesh pink he hissed at the sensation. He found himself straddling Watson’s thighs, their members pressed together and hidden beneath the water as Watson claimed his mouth in another passionate kiss, hands running over Holmes’ back and scraping his nails over the flesh of his shoulders.
Holmes arched into the touch, gasping for air as he rested his head against Watson’s shoulder, his heart racing as he moved his hips in short thrusts, rubbing their bodies together.
The water eased any friction, making them slippery and allowing their members to slide without resistance in the creases of their hips. He could already feel his release building, his back tingling, and when he moaned, low and hoarse into Watson’s mouth, he was met with an equally loud response.
“That’s it, God, Holmes, yes, just like that,” Watson urged, closing his eyes as he threw his head back, careless of the water he was dripping onto the carpet or that was being splashed over the side of the tub. He thrust his hips in time with Holmes’, hands moving down to clutch at the other’s backside, gripping tightly and kneading the muscular globes. Their breaths were coming in harsh, short pants, need overwhelming them as they moved.
Daring, he allowed a finger to rest against Holmes’ entrance, pushing gently but not breaching him. He was met with no resistance and, in fact, could feel Holmes’ shudder as he slowly applied pressure. Gently, he worked the digit inside the tight passage, the water easing the way until his finger was completely inside. Internal muscles clenched tightly around him, sending desire so strong to his aching manhood his breath caught in his throat and he could feel his body straining for completion.
“Yes,” Holmes hissed, drawing the word out as he pushed his hips back, seeking more of the strange fullness inside him, stiffening as his release washed over him, stilling his movements as emotions and sensations overwhelmed him.
Watson ran his free hand through Holmes’ hair, wet strands clumping together as he gentled his lover through the rest of his little death. Only when Holmes was panting heavily into his neck, forehead and wet hair brushing his chin, did he ease his finger out, wrapping the hand around his straining erection and stroking himself to his own release.
His climax took with it the last of his excited energy from the game and left only a calm, peaceful lassitude that deadened his limbs and had him sinking deeper into the tub.
“I think,” Holmes panted, moving his head enough to kiss the hollow in Watson’s neck, “that a nap would be in order.”
Watson laughed breathlessly, still cradling the back of Holmes’ head against his chest, closing his eyes as he allowed his own to loll lazily against the rim.
“Excellent idea, old cock.”
***
Part 12
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .The weather was the warmest it had been that spring, with the sun shining brightly and not a cloud in sight.
“Wonderful weather!” Mrs. Everman crowed as she set down blankets and arranged a picnic basket to her liking. “You just sit down here, Mr. Holmes. We can have a lovely view and won’t be in the way. You’ve never been to a match before, so you’ll be in for a right treat!”
Holmes’ only reply was to sigh deeply and do as instructed, sitting down cross-legged as he watched the group of men, Watson among them, huddle together on the other side of the wide field around Mrs. Everman’s husband. Years before, when such things had held interest for his grandparents, the open space had been used for polo. Now, however, it was mostly decorative field where deer grazed.
There were twenty six men, Holmes noticed absently, watching the group as they conferred on something or other. Servants, Mrs. Everman’s sons, and if he was not mistaken, a few of the neighboring servants as well. He could not imagine the last time the estate had seen so many people gathered together at one time.
It was unnatural and set his teeth on edge.
“How long does a game usually last?” he asked, almost plaintively, and was answered by a gentle pat to his hand.
“Don’t you worry, dear. Once the game starts, trust me, you’ll not be paying attention to the time,” she answered, chuckling.
“Mrs. Everman, you know me,” Holmes sighed, looking away from the gathered group, who were making a lot of noise by yelling and hollering, supposedly in preparation for the start of the match. “I am a boxer and a fencer. Such organized games as these have never held interest for me, nor do I think they will start now.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, grinning cheekily over at him as she shifted and settled less than gracefully on the blankets. “You’ve never had your doctor to keep your interest before.”
“Mrs. Everman!”
Holmes buried his face in his hand, flushing at her boldness. He had long since given up having any dignity where she was concerned, however. She had, after all, changed his nappies and nursed him through more sickness than he cared to recall. The class boundaries which should have divided them had worn very thin over the years, and she was more a doting aunt to him now than merely a housekeeper.
“Oh, hush, you,” she teased, patting his hand. “Trust an old woman, dear. The rules and plays won’t matter a wit once they start. You just keep your eyes on your lovely man and enjoy.”
“Lord,” Holmes breathed, feeling his blush creep down to his neck.
“Here they go!” she shouted excitedly, bringing his head up as the men divided themselves into two teams.
Though no uniforms were worn, the men were differentiated by the colors of their shirts. Watson’s team wore black, while the opposite wore red. Holmes wondered briefly where Watson had got the shirt, but the first clash of bodies was violent enough that he started, and all other concerns were quickly lost.
“Don’t you worry now,” Mrs. Everman soothed, reading his expression as easily as she would any of her sons‘. “He’ll be fine. You just enjoy the view, and follow your doctor.”
Holmes found himself wishing he had never agreed to be a spectator, and for a moment he wondered if this was how Watson had often felt, watching him from the sidelines of the boxing ring. Only, he realized as another clash of bodies had him wincing, Watson had always seemed to enjoy watching him box, and if the violence of the game was anything to go by, it was no wonder he had not been put off by a bit of blood after a match.
The game continued, though he had no desire to learn the rules and Mrs. Everman was silent beside him when not cheering. He kept his attention focused on Watson, who seemed to be grinning fiercely in between the moments of frantic movement.
Holmes was no innocent when it came to violence, though he preferred to limit his own activities to the pursuit of criminals and the boxing ring. Rugby, as he was quickly learning, was a sport based off quick runs and powerful collisions. Time after time he watched as the players fought over the ball, running and grappling until they were all dripping with sweat and mud.
He doubted he had ever seen Watson so happy save for the times he was helping Holmes capture some despot.
A touch to his arm startled him, and he jerked away from the intrusion of his personal space. For a moment he stared at Mrs. Everman with wide, anxious eyes before ducking his head in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he murmured, flinching again as yelling erupted from the field, his gaze only darting quickly over the group of men shouting to ascertain Watson’s welfare before turning back to the woman beside him.
She regarded him solemnly for a moment with too knowing eyes before she cleared her throat and determinedly turned her attention away, staring intently across the field.
“He’s a good player, your doctor,” she finally said, watching as the two teams separated once more, the altercation straightened out and devolving into good hearted cat calls and jeers. “Not afraid to get dirty or rough himself up a bit.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Holmes agreed. He coughed into his hand, forcing himself to return his attention to the game, to watch his friend enjoying himself and be glad for him. “He used to play for University, and a bit while he was in the Army.”
“Hmmmm,” was the only answer he received for several minutes, another flurry of movement and running following more cheers and whooping. “His leg will be playing bloody buggers tomorrow, that’s for certain,” she finally said.
Holmes could not help the laugh that escaped, staring at the elderly woman in amused shock as she blinked over at him innocently.
“Teddy’s the same way,” she added, pointing a crooked finger towards one of the mud-covered men in red. “Tore his leg up in a fight a few years ago, hasn’t been able to hobble about without a stick since. But mention the word rugby…” She laughed softly, shaking her head.
“They all seem very…enthusiastic,” Holmes allowed, grimacing as one player was flipped bodily over another. To his relief, Watson was well away from the tackle.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, casting another look his way. “There’s something to be said about a man covered in mud and sweat at the end of the day. Getting filthy is easy enough, but getting clean? That’s the fun part.”
She cackled at Holmes’ horrified expression, patting his leg soothingly.
“Oh, go on, dear,” she soothed, still laughing. “Any fool can see how in love you are with him. Nothing wrong with love, no matter what the bloody laws say. In my day, it didn’t matter a wit who you warmed your bed with, so long as you were careful.”
Blood rushed to his face until he was certain it would surely drip out his gaping mouth, and for one of the few times in his life he found himself utterly speechless.
“The game’s almost over now,” Mrs. Everman said calmly, as though she had not just completely shocked one of the masters of the estate. “I’ll get myself off and make sure there’s a bath waiting for your man when he drags himself away and starts to feel his years.”
She paused after gaining her feet, turning a look so fond and understanding towards Holmes that he had to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat.
“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, bending to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Now you eat the sandwich I prepared for you and the apple in that basket. The game may be near finished, but they’ll be lollygagging about for a bit. Once they’ve calmed, you bring your man into the house and force him into that bath, otherwise his leg will be no good to him tomorrow. I’ll have another herbal for him tonight, after supper.”
Instructions given, she turned and made her way steadily back to the house, her small, stout frame swaying gently as she did so, a General on her way to prepare for an upcoming skirmish.
Feeling as though he had only just come out the other side of a small force of nature, Holmes set about following her instructions, digging into the basket to retrieve his lunch as he watched the game finish, both teams yelling and screaming until he wondered that any of them would have a voice left by the end of it.
Only when the men had calmed down sufficiently to shake hands and start to depart did he stand, waiting patiently for Watson to make his way over to him, grinning fit to split his face as blood slowly trickled down his cheek from a cut above his left eye.
It was a strange role reversal to Holmes, and not one he thought he would ever like to repeat.
***
They made their way back to the house, Watson dripping sweat, mud and blood the entire way, chatting happily about various points of the game, seemingly unaware that Holmes didn’t understand a word.
He was energetic, filled with an enthusiasm that Holmes had not seen in his friend in far too long, and a sudden fierce guilt seized him.
Watson was a social person, someone who thrived on being around others and participating in various activities. He had his club which he frequented, associates whom he shared tea and lunches with, and couples who had been friends to him and his wife.
And Holmes had dragged him back into a life of solitary pursuits, spending his evenings with a man who could happily remain barricaded in his room for weeks and not feel the least bit of longing for another’s companionship.
So long as he had his Watson there to keep him company.
“You’re awfully quiet, old boy,” Watson said suddenly, startling Holmes out of his thoughts as they reached the steps to the house.
They were going in through the garden, so as not to track mud in and leave more of a mess than could be helped. Holmes held the door open for Watson as he motioned him in, following him as he contemplated a response.
“Are you all right?” Watson asked, the sudden worry creasing his brow a sharp contrast to his sheer exhilaration just moments before.
“Fine, mother hen,” Holmes answered immediately, managing a smile as he gently pushed Watson towards the stairs. “Just listening to you talk.”
At Watson’s skeptical frown, Holmes elaborated. “I have no idea what you were talking about, of course, but it was nice to listen to nonetheless.”
Watson’s laugh was deep and surprised, and he was smiling again as he ascended the steps.
“I shan’t bore you anymore, then,” he said, looking over his shoulder to grin. “Although I must say I’m rather baffled you managed to last the entire game without figuring out the rules.”
“I wasn’t watching the game,” Holmes said, and bumped into Watson’s back as he stopped, turning around with his mouth open to question the statement and unconcealed hurt in his eyes. “I was watching you.”
The words died on Watson’s lips unspoken, his expression softening as he studied Holmes’ face, his lips turning up fondly.
“In that case, I shall forgive you,” he said softly, pausing a moment more to place a quick kiss to the other’s forehead before turning back around and resuming his walk up the steps. “Still, perhaps next time you may wish to pay a bit more attention to the actual rules. I don’t suppose it was very entertaining just watching me running around.”
Holmes bit his tongue on the automatic response attempting to escape, pursing his lips as he struggled to find a diplomatic answer to the statement. It was, after all, not his strong point.
“No offense, Watson, but I don’t really think rugby’s my sport,” he settled on saying, keeping his expression neutral as Watson cast an inquisitive look over his shoulder.
“Really?” he asked, surprised. “I would have thought it to be the type of sport you thrived on. You can’t imagine how surprised I was to learn you had never attended a match in your life. Perhaps the next time we can go see a true team play,” he added cheerily, smiling at the thought.
Holmes forced his lips to turn up, though his shoulders tensed and his stomach clenched at the thought of having to sit through another few hours of such torture.
“We’ll see, old boy,” he said.
He could not remember a time when he was so grateful to reach his rooms, and firmly pushed Watson toward the tub which had been filled with steaming water that smelled faintly medicinal.
“Not to belabor the point, Watson, but you truly are a horrific sight. Please waste no time stripping out of those disgusting clothes,” Holmes declared, already starting to help with the removal of the dirty garments.
As the shirt and trousers were removed, Holmes found himself cataloging the damage, fighting to keep his expression neutral as Watson’s small clothes were peeled off and his lover stood before him, half hard and covered in mud and sweat. Bruises were starting to form on Watson’s ribs and arms, and a spectacular welt had been raised along his back. His thighs had not been spared, either, and it was only with a supreme effort that Holmes managed to keep from betraying the growing horror he felt at the evidence of his friend’s enthusiasm.
“You’ll be stiff as a board tomorrow,” was all he said, softly, running gentle, probing fingers over the worst of the bruises.
He froze as Watson’s hands closed over his, stilling their movements.
“Holmes?” Watson asked, trying to meet his eyes.
“You look like you’ve gone nine rounds with a hulking brute,” Holmes observed. He cleared his throat, finally looking up to smile reassuringly at his friend. “I suggest you get in that water while it’s still hot.”
“What’s wrong?” Watson asked, not moving or releasing the other’s hands. “It’s just a few bruises, Holmes. You’ve seen worse after a round of fisticuffs. Hell, you’ve had worse after a match!”
“Yes, I know,” Holmes assured, still smiling. “Which is why I suggest getting into the water. Your leg won’t be any good if you don’t rest it a bit now.”
He tried to pull away, but Watson’s grip was like an iron clamp, firm around his wrists.
“That smile may fool everyone else, but I know you,” Watson said softly.
He knew what his appearance looked like. He had been through enough matches in his time to realize how much of a mess he must be. The cut above his eye had finally stopped bleeding, though he could feel a trail of dried blood down his cheek to his neck, and his eye was beginning to swell slightly. He was filthy, covered in mud that was starting to dry and itch, and he could smell the sweat on himself, heavy and slightly pungent.
He wasn’t going to allow his friend to escape, however, no matter his own discomfort.
“What’s wrong, Holmes? You’re upset, I can tell,” he coaxed.
Huffing in exasperation, and, admittedly, a bit of annoyance at the doctor’s persistence, Holmes started to move forward, using his captured hands to push Watson toward the bath.
“You need to get cleaned up and into something decent. Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but really, Watson, you’re simply cov -”
“Holmes!”
It was a tone only used when Watson was truly annoyed with him, one Holmes secretly thought of as his military voice. It always sent a shiver down his back, even as it warned him to tread very carefully.
He did not stop pushing, however, until Watson’s legs bumped against the hot metal of the tub. Then he looked up through his lashes and asked, very softly, “Will you please get in, Watson? I cannot bear to see you like this.”
It was a shameless play on Watson’s empathy and caring nature, though nonetheless true. The sight of his lover, bruised, bloody and dirty, was causing his insides to squirm and clench, and he feared his bowels might betray him if he did not get control of himself. He could already feel mild cramps starting.
“Please?” he asked again.
After a moment’s contemplation Watson nodded, slowly, and released the other’s hands. Then he turned and climbed somewhat clumsily into the water, stiffness already starting to set into his muscles.
“Now that that’s accomplished, talk,” he ordered, picking up the flannel which had been placed conveniently on the side of the tub and looking around the floor for the soap. “You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s upset you so.”
Holmes rolled his eyes as he sat carelessly, legs crossed and elbow propped on his knee, chin in hand. He kept away from the muddy mess of clothing and handed Watson the soap, waiting until a good lather had been worked up on the flannel and it was being rubbed over the doctor’s arms and chest.
“I did not like the game,” Holmes finally murmured, his eyes set on watching the movement of the flannel, skin slowly becoming pink again under the doctor’s ministrations.
The tub had been placed near the bed, far enough that any splashes would not endanger the linen, but close enough that Holmes could have sat on it and spoken normally if he chose. He did not, however, wish to put more distance between them, and so remained seated. He felt ashamed at his admission, especially after seeing how much enjoyment Watson derived from the sport.
“Go on,” Watson prompted, after the silence stretched between them. It was not uncomfortable, but neither was it normal for Holmes to leave a thought unfinished.
“You know I do not shy away from violence,” Holmes continued softly, continuing to watch Watson lather his body. “But seeing you out there - I am used to sports where there is only one opponent, who can be analyzed for weaknesses and overcome with a bit of effort. The thought of you surrounded by others - of putting yourself in danger - it does not sit well with me.”
He paused, moving to take the soggy flannel from suddenly limp hands, not daring to meet Watson’s gaze as he dipped the cloth back into the now murky water to rinse off the soap Watson had missed.
The doctor’s chest, covered in fine, sparse hairs, was dotted with beads of moisture, his pectorals sharply defined and his stomach flat and muscular as Holmes worked the cloth down the toned body.
“I realized, though,” he continued, subdued, moving back up to gently wipe down a strong forearm to the slim wrist, carefully washing between each finger. “That you love the game, and you have not been this happy in some time. So I will not tell you I do not want you to play another match should the chance arrive. Nor will I tell you to be careful, because I did watch you, and know you are not foolish or careless. But I will say that I do not like to watch you put yourself through such rigors, and ask that you please do not ask me to watch you do so again.” He paused, resting the flannel on Watson’s shoulder, finally looking up into eyes so blue he wondered how he had ever thought a clear sky colorful. “Please, Watson,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly. "I'm not like you, old boy. I can't - seeing you out there, with all those - I just can't bear to watch it again."
Watson finally moved, cupping Holmes’ cheek with his hand, moving slowly so as not to slosh the water and kissing him gently, close mouthed and chaste, on the lips. Then he sat back and regarded Holmes solemnly.
"Now you understand how the boxing makes me feel sometimes? When the match doesn't go quite all your way and you end up getting hurt?"
It was not an answer to Holmes’ question, though he supposed he had not worded it as such. So he nodded mutely, casting his mind back to all the times Watson had cared for broken ribs or sutured cuts, and winced slightly as he recalled the worried frowns and brief admonishments.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked hesitantly, doubting that was truly what Watson wanted, but needing to offer the suggestion.
"No. But I would like you to be a bit more careful.” Now it was Watson’s turn to sigh, smiling ruefully as Holmes resumed his ministrations with the washing, moving the cloth slowly. “It can be damnably hard sometimes to watch you get trounced, Holmes. Thankfully, it’s a rare enough occurrence I don’t have to think about it too often.”
Holmes returned his smile, feeling the tension drain out of him, exhaustion taking its place. His stomach began to settle, and he found himself better able to appreciate his situation.
“I must admit, even if I did not care for the rest of the game, you were a sight to behold,” he admitted, letting his gaze wander purposely. The water was too murky to make out any details below his stomach, but Watson had been half hard when he had entered the bath, and Holmes knew well the effects of adrenaline. He allowed his hand to drift below the surface, heart quickening as Watson’s eyes darkened and he arched as fingers carefully closed around his slowly hardening manhood.
“Oh, really?” Watson asked huskily, his lips quirking in what could only be called a predatory smile.
“Yes,” Holmes breathed, and dropped the flannel in favor of running his other hand along Watson’s shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, this one much less chaste. “A very, very stunning sight to behold.”
Watson captured his lips in a messy, open mouthed kiss, his tongue dancing with Holmes’ as wet hands gripped still clothed arms.
“You need to get undressed,” Watson growled against his mouth before kissing him again, already moving to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt, never breaking contact as he did so.
Holmes groaned as wandering hands traveled over newly exposed flesh, leaving trails of wetness which had his opened shirt clinging to his skin. With his attention diverted between kissing Watson and trying to remove his clothes, it was some time before he was actually naked, still kneeling beside the tub, Watson humming contentedly against his mouth.
“Now I think you should join me,” Watson suggested, finally moving back enough for Holmes to regard him with dilated eyes and flushed cheeks.
“That water is disgusting,” Holmes protested softly, though there was no bite to his words, and Watson merely pressed himself against the back of the tub in order to make room for him.
Frowning, eying the water dubiously, Holmes ran his hand over Watson’s shoulder, down to his left nipple, where he twisted the nub gently, earning a loud groan for his effort.
“Holmes. Water. Now,” Watson gasped, voice filled with a desperate need that would have been frightening in its intensity if Holmes hadn’t been feeling a similar demand.
His manhood was fully erect, and when he slipped into the tub of water still hot enough to turn flesh pink he hissed at the sensation. He found himself straddling Watson’s thighs, their members pressed together and hidden beneath the water as Watson claimed his mouth in another passionate kiss, hands running over Holmes’ back and scraping his nails over the flesh of his shoulders.
Holmes arched into the touch, gasping for air as he rested his head against Watson’s shoulder, his heart racing as he moved his hips in short thrusts, rubbing their bodies together.
The water eased any friction, making them slippery and allowing their members to slide without resistance in the creases of their hips. He could already feel his release building, his back tingling, and when he moaned, low and hoarse into Watson’s mouth, he was met with an equally loud response.
“That’s it, God, Holmes, yes, just like that,” Watson urged, closing his eyes as he threw his head back, careless of the water he was dripping onto the carpet or that was being splashed over the side of the tub. He thrust his hips in time with Holmes’, hands moving down to clutch at the other’s backside, gripping tightly and kneading the muscular globes. Their breaths were coming in harsh, short pants, need overwhelming them as they moved.
Daring, he allowed a finger to rest against Holmes’ entrance, pushing gently but not breaching him. He was met with no resistance and, in fact, could feel Holmes’ shudder as he slowly applied pressure. Gently, he worked the digit inside the tight passage, the water easing the way until his finger was completely inside. Internal muscles clenched tightly around him, sending desire so strong to his aching manhood his breath caught in his throat and he could feel his body straining for completion.
“Yes,” Holmes hissed, drawing the word out as he pushed his hips back, seeking more of the strange fullness inside him, stiffening as his release washed over him, stilling his movements as emotions and sensations overwhelmed him.
Watson ran his free hand through Holmes’ hair, wet strands clumping together as he gentled his lover through the rest of his little death. Only when Holmes was panting heavily into his neck, forehead and wet hair brushing his chin, did he ease his finger out, wrapping the hand around his straining erection and stroking himself to his own release.
His climax took with it the last of his excited energy from the game and left only a calm, peaceful lassitude that deadened his limbs and had him sinking deeper into the tub.
“I think,” Holmes panted, moving his head enough to kiss the hollow in Watson’s neck, “that a nap would be in order.”
Watson laughed breathlessly, still cradling the back of Holmes’ head against his chest, closing his eyes as he allowed his own to loll lazily against the rim.
“Excellent idea, old cock.”
***
Part 12