Soldier's Heart Part 13 of 15
Jan. 8th, 2011 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 13
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 headache had come on him suddenly during lunch, with little warning save for the halo which had seemed to outline everything about him. In all honesty, he had found the effect on Watson rather endearing, even as he knew what it preceded. The few bites he had managed to eat had settled heavily in his stomach until he was certain he could not force another morsel down his throat, and had never been so thankful for Watson’s understanding as he retreated to the quiet and dark of the bedroom.
When the nausea had grown too much he had stumbled, half blinded by the flashing lights before his eyes, into the water closet, and had spent a miserable ten minutes hovered over the toilette before Watson found him. When he had been placed back in the bed, the warm hands of his friend guiding him and keeping him safe, bringing with them the blessed relief of morphine, he had known the worst of the ordeal was over.
Sleep had overtaken him easily with the lessening of the pain, and when he blinked his eyes open cautiously, he could not tell how much time had passed. His head still ached slightly, a warning of further pain to come if he was not careful, and so when he sat up, gingerly, the covers pooling in his lap, he did not hurry to find out how much of the day had been lost.
It was completely dark outside, rain still lashing ferociously against the windows, but a sliver of light could be made out from behind the nearly closed door of the bedroom which had been Watson’s. He swung his legs carefully off the bed, the carpet keeping any chill from his feet, and stood, wobbling slightly as he fought to find his balance.
He made his way unsteadily to the door, not daring to open it as he called out, hesitantly, “Watson?”
There was the sound of rustling, papers being hastily set aside, (Watson had been writing again) before the light suddenly dimmed and Holmes opened the door.
Watson was standing by the writing desk, having just dimmed the lamp there, and was looking at Holmes with a clinical eye as he made his way into the room.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his moderated voice the only pleasant reminder of all the other times Holmes had been so afflicted.
“Better,” Holmes assured, managing to smile as he made his way fully into the room, sitting heavily on the rumpled bed. “Have you been up here all day?”
“Mostly,” was the easy answer as Watson sat beside him, dipping the mattress slightly as he closed his fingers around Holmes’ wrist gently. “You were quite sick earlier and I wanted to make certain I was near should you need me again. I’m glad the morphine worked,” he added, moving his hand from Holmes’ wrist to lay gently across the still pale forehead. “You look done in, old boy. Head still tender, I take it?”
“Yes,” Holmes admitted with a put upon sigh.
The headaches were one of the few ailments he had sought Watson’s help for in the past. Even after he had married and moved out, a simple telegram had always brought him back quickly to tend to his friend, for both men knew how helpless the detective became under the crushing pain.
The first time, some four months after they had begun living together, Watson had been confused as to why Holmes had not simply self administered the morphine, knowing full well he had access to it and was not otherwise averse to using it in the doctor’s presence. It was only after the grudging explanation that Holmes could not see properly to administer the dosage that Watson had realized exactly how debilitating the headaches were, and had taken the responsibility more seriously than almost any other Holmes asked of him.
Now, with so many years behind them, they fell easily into the habits they had established, Holmes allowing Watson to check him over quickly before accepting whatever judgment the doctor pronounced.
“I think the worst has past,” Watson finally murmured. “I would like you to drink some water, if you feel able to keep it down, and then to try and get some more rest. You look positively worn, Holmes,” he added, smiling gently.
“All this fresh air,” Holmes sniffed, his own lips turning up at the teasing. “And what of you? I have no idea of the time, but you don’t look set to turn in yet.”
“It’s just gone seven, and I’ll be heading down to dinner shortly. I was just finishing writing up the last bit of that adventure with the pig and the poisoned corn. I doubt I’ll ever send it in to print, but it does bring a smile to my face when I think on it.”
Holmes laughed softly, his hand going automatically to his temple as he did so, but he waved away Watson’s concern as he said, “That was, indeed, an exercise in futility. One of the few cases where no one was to blame save mother nature and simple human misunderstanding. I’d appreciate you leaving out the part where I fell face first into the mud,” he added.
Both men smiled fondly at the memory, though at the time the detective had been as upset as a wet cat, and had sputtered and cursed the entire way home.
“But Holmes,” Watson laughed, unable to control his mirth, “that was the climax of the whole case!”
Holmes shoved playfully at Watson’s arm, earning another chuckle, and ducked his head in remembered chagrin.
“Well, write what you will, but just remember who it was that pushed me down in that mud to begin with,” he relented, earning another laugh and a good natured pat to his thigh in silent apology.
“The story is nearly done, anyway,” Watson sighed, his contentment at the accomplishment apparent in his relaxed bearing. “It was actually a marvelous day to write, I must say. Do you feel up to dinner, or would you like to lay down some more?”
The abrupt change in subject came as no surprise, and Holmes merely shook his head as he said, “Neither. I am not so tired now, but dinner holds no appeal to me. I would, however, like a bath.”
“That can be arranged,” Watson agreed.
He stood, waited until Holmes joined him, and then led him back into their bedroom, turning the lamps on to a dim glow as he did so. He deposited the other man gently but firmly back on the bed before ringing for one of the servants. Holmes watched him appreciatively when the summons was answered by a young maid and the bath was ordered to be sent up, feeling himself blush at the remembrance of the previous day’s activities.
Watson, when he turned from closing the door, smiled at Holmes’ expression and made his way back to the bed, leaning down and kissing him chastely on the lips.
“None of that tonight,” he murmured when he pulled away, smiling mischievously. “Not until that headache is gone and I’ve had a bit more time to recover from the game. Goodness, I feel like an old man today!” he exclaimed, stretching carefully and wincing.
“Well, you certainly don’t look it,” Holmes assured him, and felt his blush deepen as he took in Watson’s lithe form, dressed comfortably in shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat.
“Later,” Watson reminded him, but did lean down for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate, but still ended quickly. “I prefer to have you whole and well when we make love again.”
Holmes found himself smiling shyly at that, unable to control the reaction as he thought once more what he would like their next session to involve. There would be time, he reminded himself, and felt something settle and relax inside him, some tension that he had not been aware of. A spark of humor turned his grin into something closer to a leer as he pondered what Watson’s reaction to his suggestion would be.
“I don’t know if I should be amused or alarmed by that expression,” Watson said as he started to button his waistcoat, preparing to head down to his dinner. “You look like the cat who got the cream.”
Holmes’ smile broadened, and at Watson’s rolled eyes, could not help the laugh that escaped. Once more his hand went to his temple, and the doctor’s expression turned more serious.
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he asked solicitously, moving about the room as he retrieved collar and cuffs.
“I’m all right, mother hen,” Holmes assured him. “You know how these blasted headaches linger after the fact. Once I have my bath I’ll rest a bit more, and maybe join you for a cigar in the library.”
“We’ll see how you feel,” Watson cautioned, straightening his collar and departing briefly for the other room, returning a moment later with his jacket in hand. “I don’t want you moving about too much, you know how that can sometimes bring the full headache back. I may just retire early and forego the brandy and cigar myself tonight.”
“You don’t -” Holmes began to protest.
Watson’s hand over his mouth stopped him, and he licked the offending appendage in rebuke. Watson scowled and quickly removed his hand, shaking it out reproachfully and giving it a distasteful stare before turning his frown on Holmes.
“You,” he said, bending down to kiss the other man’s forehead. “Are impossible. I’m heading down now, and I’ll see you after dinner. Enjoy your bath, and if you need anything -”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Holmes grumbled, easing himself back onto the bed and swinging his feet up onto the disarrayed covers. “I have only to ring and you, Mrs. Everman, and the rest of the bloody household will be at my beck and call. Go!” he ordered, pointing imperiously to the door. “Your dinner will be getting cold.”
“Doubtful,” Watson scoffed, though he grinned at Holmes’ ill humor and started toward the door. “Take it easy!” was his parting order.
Holmes continued to stare at the door for a few minutes after he had left before laying back down completely, closing his eyes as he waited for his bath to be brought in.
It wouldn’t hurt, after all, to rest for just a bit.
***
The hot water eased the tension from his shoulders and neck. Steam wafted around his face, damp and thick in the warm room, and as he breathed it in he could feel the last of his pain slowly start to dissipate.
He closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the rim of the tub, sinking down until the water lapped at his chin while his knees, bent to accommodate the confines of the bathtub, jutted out of the water.
There had been a hot spring in France, nearly two years after his flight had begun. He had been incapacitated for three days by the pain in his head, the morphine he had taken doing little to ease the endless agony. The child he had enlisted for aid in procuring food and shelter had lead him, half blind and wincing at every step and sound, to the spring hidden within the forest his family lived near.
The water had been nearly hot enough to burn, his skin instantly turning red when he submerged himself, and the metallic tang in the air had at once filled his mouth and lingered on his tongue.
After fifteen minutes he had begun to grow faint, and so had levered himself out of the small basin the water bubbled from and laid down, completely defenseless, amongst the leaves and moss. It had been late April, and in some parts of the town piles of snow still lingered. But as he had breathed steadily of the rich earth and mineral laden air, his breath puffing before him in misty clouds, he had felt only comfort as his body slowly cooled.
The pain in his head had lessened to a more manageable level when his helper had returned for him, and he was able to make his way back to his hidden burrow and administer another dose of the morphine with the child’s aid. He had slept for two days after that, and when he woke, his headache had departed.
He had spent three months in that village earning a living as a musician for the local theater before he had had to flee again. But he had never forgotten that spring, or the somewhat miraculous power it had held in reducing his headache.
He breathed deep, partly expecting to smell once more that metallic, almost sulfurous tang, and was started back to awareness of his surroundings when only the hint of copper from the tub met his nose.
He blinked his eyes owlishly, gazing about the room in bemusement and thankful Watson had not been there to notice his lapse. He sat up a bit straighter in order to prevent another such slip, and stayed submerged in the water until it began to cool. When he pulled himself from the comfort of the tub, drying himself off mechanically, he found himself smiling.
He had not thought of that hot spring for a while, and he wondered almost absently if Watson might be interested in it, and if he could perhaps persuade him to join him in a journey back there.
The thought stilled his hands, the towel forgotten as he gazed blindly at the bed. He had never contemplated any of the places he had stayed in the past three years as anything more than temporary refuge. The fact that he was able to do so now, safely removed from the dangers which had hunted him by time and distance, seemed significant somehow.
Perhaps Watson and his brother had been correct after all, and this retreat was more beneficial than he had thought. After he donned his nightshirt and summoned the servants to remove the bath he contemplated the odd limbo his life had fallen into. He watched as the giant tub was slowly drained and then taken away, barely sparing the servants a glance as he settled once more comfortably into the bed, covers pulled up to his chin.
His eyes closed of their own volition, his body exhausted from the pain and lethargy of the headache, and he found himself drifting.
Maybe, he thought, as sleep pulled at his heavy limbs, he was starting to heal after all.
***
He woke briefly when Watson entered the room, watching him through sleep hooded eyes as he went about removing his clothes and dressing for bed, turning the gas down until the room was completely dark and silent.
When he slipped under the covers, feet slightly chilled, Holmes wrapped his arm around him, drawing him close as he inhaled the scent of tobacco and the soap Watson used.
“All right?” Watson murmured, shifting them both into more comfortable positions.
“Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, mouthing at Watson’s neck, nearly asleep again.
His friend chuckled, long fingers carding through thick hair easing him back into sleep, and that night there were no dreams, only the impression that he was safe and warm and loved.
***
The next morning dawned grey and overcast, though the rain and wind had died down to allow the men a proper walk. Gladstone, having been restricted in his activities the past two days, ran ahead of them, sniffing happily at the moist plants and grass, scurrying after bugs and getting thoroughly filthy.
Holmes had eaten heartily that morning, a fact he could tell Watson was grateful for as they had both tucked into their food hungrily. He had woken thankfully pain free, his headache only a memory and his stomach returned to its normal state. He had even smiled as Mrs. Everman filled his plate up and ordered him to eat every bite. He had not succeeded, but had given it his best try.
Now, with the weak spring sun warming them despite the abundance of clouds, the two men roamed freely, enjoying each other’s company and holding hands, knowing none were around to observe them.
The silence was comfortable between them, each content to allow their thoughts free reign. They followed the path they had traveled the first day on horseback, and when they reached the pond they paused. They looked at the green water, the pond’s bottom mud churned up with the recent rain, and neither man could prevent their thoughts from going back to that afternoon not so long ago, when their world had changed.
Holmes turned to regard his friend, his profile strong and familiar, and moved. He pushed Watson gently backwards until he rested against the nearest tree, the doctor’s eyes amused and trusting. When Holmes kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, he enjoyed every moment of it, and kissed back just as enthusiastically, until both were out of breath.
“Holmes,” Watson breathed against his mouth, his eyes dark with sudden longing. “What do you want?”
Holmes swallowed, eyes closed as he slowly unbuttoned Watson’s trousers in reply, reaching into his small clothes to remove his manhood and stroke it very gently with his long, delicate fingers.
“You,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing him again, tongue tasting and exploring greedily before he slowly pulled back. He watched as Watson blinked, cheeks flushed, and slowly sank to his knees. “You in my mouth,” he elaborated.
Watson’s eyes widened, though he made no move to protest, and Holmes smiled as he finally allowed himself to explore the new territory before him. His lips closed carefully around his lover’s member, the salty tang of his essence only increasing Holmes’ own desire. He closed his eyes as he concentrated, trying to remember what Watson had done to him that had sent sparks through his head.
He was rewarded by Watson’s deep moan, a shudder running through the doctor’s frame and a muttered curse as Holmes took him deeper, his hand still wrapped around the base of his flesh. He did not know how long he knelt there, his knees thoroughly soaked, before an insistent tugging on his hair alerted him to Watson’s imminent release. He did not pull away, but continued to move tongue and fingers until the thick, milky fluid filled his mouth. He drank it down, swallowing around Watson’s member until it began to grow soft, and only then did he release him.
“Good Lord, Holmes,” Watson panted, pulling him back to his feet to kiss him passionately, tasting himself from Holmes’ mouth, his hands cupping Holmes’ face tenderly. After a moment he asked, shakily, “Shall I reciprocate?”
“Y-Yes,” Holmes whispered, his own desire suddenly flaring until it was almost painful, his trousers suddenly too tight.
When Watson released him and sank to his own knees, favoring his bad leg, Holmes found he could not keep his eyes open, and braced his arms against the rough bark of the tree which had supported his lover only a moment before.
He cried out as warm lips wrapped around him, and it took an embarrassingly short time before his own release overcame him. His knees shook with the force of it, and Watson’s hands about his waist steadied him easily as he slowly came back to himself.
“By God,” Holmes gasped, finally opening his eyes in time to watch Watson gently tuck him away, doing up his buttons expertly. “This was my favorite spot as a child, but I think I love it even more now!”
Watson laughed in surprise, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet to wrap his arms around Holmes and kiss him again.
“I think it may be mine as well,” he murmured before stealing Holmes’ breath away again.
It was some time before either man felt able to begin the long walk back, and when they did so, hand in hand, faces flushed and lips swollen and red, it was with matching grins of happiness.
***
That night, as they lay curled around each other, the sweat of their activities still cooling on their flushed bodies, Holmes brought up the suggestion which had been on his mind since that first, marvelous realization of his love and utter devotion for Watson.
The lamps were off, and only shadows filled the room as they panted, Holmes’ head resting comfortably on Watson’s chest, listening to his heart slow and his breathing calm. Watson continued to lay half propped on several pillows, though Holmes knew it was only a matter of time before he adjusted them both accordingly for sleep.
“Watson,” he began, turning his head slightly so that only the top of his hair could be seen when the doctor looked down.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson murmured, voice already starting to turn thick with exhaustion, his fingers running absently along Holmes’ back.
“You know I love you,” Holmes began, then winced. That had not sounded right, even to his own ears, and by the sudden tension filling his lover, not by Watson’s either. “No, no, let me continue. You know how horrible I am at this, so please, just let have my say and then you can - well, then you can let me know what you think,” he hastened to add, trying to soothe even while his own body tensed despite his will.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, the caution in his tone matching the tightness in his muscles. The steady fingers did not cease their movement on the detective’s back, however, and the simple movement gave Holmes the encouragement to continue.
“You know that in matters of physical expressions of love I have - well, my experience is very limited,” Holmes continued, despite his internal grimace at how clumsy his speech sounded.
“Yes, I know,” Watson soothed, bending his neck to place an awkward kiss to the top of his head.
He said no more, though, waiting for Holmes to continue, as patient with him in this aspect of their lives as he tended to be in all others. Holmes felt his muscles relax slightly in response to Watson’s own easing, though he did not look up to meet the other’s gaze.
“I know there are - that is to say, we spoke briefly of this the other day. You said I had only to ask, and - and I am. Asking, that is. I am asking.”
It took Watson’s brain a moment to catch up with Holmes’ tentative words, his sluggish thoughts taking a minute to process which conversation Holmes was referencing and what, exactly, he was asking for.
“Oh,” he gasped, surprised, and felt his heart speed up at the sudden realization.
Holmes tensed in his arms, and automatically he pulled him closer, pulled him up until he was no longer resting against his chest but was face to face with him, kneeling above him with his arms on either side of Watson’s shoulders against the headboard. Despite the fact he was quite spent, Watson felt his body stir in interest at the position and quickly had to suppress the urge to kiss Holmes breathless again.
“We do not have to,” he whispered, reaching up to stroke Holmes’ cheek, amazed to see his hand tremble slightly. “You know I love you, too, and there is no need -”
“I want to,” Holmes insisted, his voice firm despite the fact he kept it low.
In the complete dark of the room there was no way to gauge his expression, but Watson could picture the stubborn set of his lips, the drawn eyebrows, and the serious furrow of his brow. Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he surged forward, kissing Holmes deeply, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce embrace.
Holmes reciprocated, the two of them holding each other as emotions too strong to be voiced surged between them. Only after their hearts had begun to calm did they shift, Holmes sinking down once more so his head could rest on Watson’s chest, the doctor adjusting the pillows behind him so he was laying down.
“If you feel you are ready, truly feel it, and not just want to think you are, then -” he paused, breathing deeply of Holmes’ scent, the smell of sex still heavy in the hair and their own musk lingering on their skin. “Tomorrow night,” Watson whispered gently into the shell of Holmes’ ear.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, already halfway to sleep, his breath evening out into little puffs against Watson’s shoulder. “Sleep now, so tomorrow comes quicker,” Holmes mumbled.
He pressed a lazy kiss to Watson’s slick flesh, snuggling down further as Watson clumsily pulled the blankets tighter about them. With the exertions of the day finally taking their toll, both men drifted off to slumber, wrapped around each other like two bodies trying to become one.
***
They were both slightly shy and awkward the next morning, though neither would have been able to explain why if asked. They traded gentle touches and lingering glances through their ablutions, but their actions were nearly chaste.
When they sat down for breakfast, Mrs. Everman took one look at them and smiled fondly, patting their shoulders and humming to herself.
“So good to see young love,” she sighed happily as she left them to eat, paying no mind to the blushes this pronouncement induced.
If not for having such proper table manners, Watson would have buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment, and had to laugh as Holmes had no such reticence.
“That woman -” he grumbled into his hands, shaking his head.
“- saw you in nappies and is happy to see you happy,” Watson finished for him, grinning at his friend’s mortification. “Honestly, Holmes, you have to admit. This is as close as we’ll come to a honeymoon, and it’s bound to show.”
The words had barely left his mouth before he found himself stunned by their implication. He watched Holmes carefully to see if he was as shaken by their meaning as himself, but his friend only shook his head again and proceeded to dig into his meal with single minded determination as his blush slowly faded.
It took Watson a few minutes more to regain his equilibrium and to follow suit, but he could not keep the thought from repeating itself in his mind.
He watched as Holmes quickly finished his meal, though he lingered over his own, sipping his tea and savoring the perfectly cooked kippers, allowing his thoughts to process fully.
“Holmes, would you mind terribly if I took Gladstone for a walk?” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend, but wishing for time to himself to collect his thoughts and settle his suddenly agitated mind. “Alone?”
For one second he feared he had hurt his friend horribly, but Holmes’ startled expression vanished as he looked up, taking in Watson’s appearance and seeming to read, as he ever had, his troubled thoughts and the reason for the request. His features gentled into understanding and compassion, and he reached across the table to squeeze Watson’s hand.
“Take all the time you need,” he said softly, his knowing gaze doing more to calm Watson’s uncertainty than his words. The doctor smiled thankfully, squeezing back, and watched as Holmes stood. “Now, I am going to wander off and find something to keep myself occupied. If you hear any loud explosions, pay them no mind.”
For one moment Watson feared for those who worked at the estate, and how they might react should his friend actually follow through on his warning. Then he remembered that those he was surrounded by had known Holmes for a great many years, and would be accustomed to his habits by now.
Feeling suddenly restless he went in search of Gladstone, finding the dog lazily snoring in front of the empty fireplace in the study. Within a few short moments the two of them were out in the brilliant sunlight, Watson adjusting his hat to keep the worst of the glare from his eyes.
He had no destination in mind, and chose a path at random, allowing the aging bulldog to roam where he would. It was a beautiful day, and the peace of the landscape about him helped settle the last of his nerves, and granted him the calm to let his thoughts order themselves.
For all intents and purposes, he realized, he was married to Holmes. The two of them shared a home, finances, and business. They spent most of their time together, either in work or play, and now, with the final steps taken to make their love physical, they shared a bed as well.
He had never thought to be married again, and certainly not so soon after Mary’s death. Only a year had passed, after all, since he had laid her to rest, thinking himself as alone in the world as when he returned from Afghanistan.
Then, as now, Holmes had entered his life and turned his perceptions around. Only this time, he knew full well what he had entered into when he agreed to move back in to Baker Street. In essence, their courtship had started well over ten years ago, and despite the trials that had separated and nearly destroyed them, their bond was stronger than ever.
But…
Watson sighed, sinking down onto a conveniently placed bench, resting his head in his hands.
He loved Holmes, more than he had ever loved another, even Mary, God rest her. And the thought of what the night would bring sent a thrill through his blood the likes of which he had not experienced since his wedding day.
He stopped the thought before it could even begin, fiercely reining in his emotions and wrestling control back to the here and now. Just as he would not sully Mary’s memory with wishes of what may have been, he was not going to tarnish what he had with Holmes by thinking of past lovers.
That Holmes was still technically a virgin meant he would have to proceed gently and cautiously, though the detective would not appreciate him thinking so. The man had always thought himself above the inconveniences of the flesh, but Watson had made his trade in them, and knew the danger that was presented. Should he fail to take adequate precautions, or proceed too hastily, he could harm his friend terribly, and he would rather cut his own hand off than do so.
No, the past week had very much been as a honeymoon for the two of them, and Holmes would just have to indulge his romanticism for a little while longer. Though the laws of England prevented any such event being recognized legally, for the two of them, their affection was just as binding. Watson knew, as surely as he knew anything in his life, that he belonged, totally and completely, to Sherlock Holmes, and the other man belonged to him.
Smiling, suddenly at ease with himself and the situation, he stood, gathering Gladstone to his side and heading back to the house. He may have only been gone for a few hours, but he dreaded to think of what Holmes had been up to in that time.
As though in answer to his thoughts, a loud explosion startled him into a crouch, Gladstone howling beside him. Smoke rose faintly in the distance, though from where exactly he could not tell. Shaking his head, he stood once more and made his way more quickly.
It would not do, after all, to have Mrs. Everman kill his husband.
***
The explosion, it turned out, had actually been Mrs. Everman’s doing, though Holmes had certainly had a hand in it. The two of them had been attempting to find a way to cook a goose faster than the usual several hours. Holmes, in his infinite idiocy, had decided that adding a bit of gun powder to the fire might speed up the process, and for some reason Watson could not fathom, Mrs. Everman had agreed.
Watson still couldn’t understand the particulars of that, but both Holmes and Mrs. Everman, despite being a bit soot covered, were laughing nearly hysterically when he arrived and was explained all this by Mrs. Everman’s nephew.
He was relieved that they had at least decided to experiment outside, over the cooking pit he remembered Holmes had mentioned all those years ago when they had been imprisoned for disturbing the peace. It was still a sore topic between them, Watson leaving Holmes to fend for himself in the prison yard after Mary had bailed him out, and they rarely ever spoke of it, but the memory remained of Holmes’ description of Mycroft’s estate, and the open pit where he had suggested cooking a lamb.
Now, it seemed they had deemed the pit their testing ground, rather than risk the kitchen. A bit of common sense that Watson attributed to Mrs. Everman. Quite a crowd had gathered around the still smoking ruins of what he supposed was left of both goose and spit, though no one seemed alarmed by the sight.
Watson was reminded once more that he was among people who not only knew, but accepted whole heartedly, his friend’s eccentricities. He could not help but smile as he finally left the young man who had filled him in on the goings on and made his way over to where Holmes was sitting, a good three yards from the pit, smoking peacefully on his pipe.
“Ah, Watson!” he called when he noticed his lover making his way towards him. “You missed a grand spectacle!”
“Yes, so Henry was saying!” Watson greeted, shaking his head as he eyed the ruins once more.
“Oh, it was a brilliant idea!” Mrs. Everman chimed in, laughing as she patted the stray wisps of hair which had escaped her bun. She had a spot of ash on her nose and chin, but seemed otherwise undaunted. “In theory it made perfectly good sense, but I suppose we’ll have to stick to cooking the Christmas dinner the old way.”
Watson, who had been attempting to maintain some of his composure, lost it completely, joining in with the laughter as he regarded her.
“Mrs. Everman,” he sighed, moving forward to embrace her in a quick hug, knowing it was bad decorum, but not caring a wit. “You really shouldn’t encourage him.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she laughed, hugging him back. “It was just a bit of fun, and trust me, Doctor, more often than not, our Mr. Holmes’ ideas have spared me quite a few hours of labor over the years. No, no, we’ll have to try something different next time.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, pursing his lips around the stem of his pipe as he pondered the charred carcass. “I think the error was in the amount of powder used. Perhaps if we used a weaker strength, or even a different composition, the results would be more in line with what we are looking for.”
Before Watson could open his mouth to protest, Mrs. Everman turned her attention back to Holmes and said firmly, “Well, we’ll have to wait for another day, Mr. Holmes. That was the only goose that was about to go off and I’ll not have us wasting another. Closer to Christmas, perhaps, when they’re a bit more abundant, and that will give you time to find the correct strength of the powder.”
Watson stared at her in something close to wonder, amazed at her deft handling of his friend’s curiosity, and even more so at Holmes’ willingness to go along with the restrictions placed upon him.
“Perhaps Mycroft will have some ideas,” he murmured thoughtfully, standing and brushing at his shirt. “Did you have a good walk, old boy?” he asked, turning his attention back to Watson, the goose apparently forgotten for the moment.
Despite the banality of the question, Watson understood the query hidden beneath the simple words and smiled fondly at Holmes, making his way over to help brush off a bit more of the soot which had accumulated in his hair.
“It was a wonderful walk,” he said softly, and knew by Holmes’ expression that he understood perfectly.
The milling crowd, sensing no more excitement, began to disperse, heading back to their duties with wide grins and another tale to tell those who had been unfortunate enough to have missed the event. Watson was dimly aware of their departure, but most of his attention was on Holmes.
“Did you want to go inside? I think a change of clothes might be in order, and then perhaps a game of chess?” he asked.
Holmes grinned, allowing Watson to take his elbow, escorting him back to their rooms for a quick wash. He could feel the other’s eyes on him as he stripped away his blackened shirt, and smiled as he quickly wiped the ash from his skin, knowing Watson was admiring the view as he had the other morning. When the other man handed him his shirt, though, he was startled at the hand gently placed on his arm before he could don it, and looked up to see Watson’s gaze on him, an expression he could not quite decipher on his face.
“I love you,” Watson whispered softly, moving forward to kiss him deeply, hands going around the slender waist as he did so.
Holmes wrapped his own arms around Watson’s shoulders and returned the kiss eagerly, the two of them mindless of the time as they lost themselves in lips and tongues and taste. When they pulled back enough to stare into each other‘s eyes, breathless and with swollen lips, both were grinning disgustingly sappy smiles.
“Not that I object, dearest, but what brought this on?” Holmes asked softly, the use of the endearment startling and new, but feeling appropriate.
“I just realized, rather belatedly, that I am going to make the most delicious love to my husband tonight,” Watson murmured, ducking his head in a sudden bout of shyness so his forehead rested against Holmes’ shoulder. “And although we will have no wedding rings or ceremony, it took me rather by surprise when I realized I was once again a kept man.”
“Ahh,” Holmes sighed, moving his left hand to rest gently on the back of Watson‘s head, his fingers twining through his hair. “Yes, I was rather startled myself when I realized we had been married for some time. I hope it was not too much of a shock for you?”
“No,“ Watson assured, his voice steady as he looked back up, meeting Holmes‘ gaze with something like wonder. “It was actually quite a marvelous realization.”
They kissed again, though after only a short time broke apart once more, both knowing it would be too easy to lose themselves in the moment. Neither man wished their upcoming encounter to be rushed or interrupted.
“Chess?” Holmes asked, clearing his throat at the huskiness of his voice.
“Yes,” Watson agreed, stepping back slowly, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on Holmes’ chest before he moved, picking up the discarded shirt from the floor and offering it.
Holmes finished dressing, splashed a bit more water on his face, and then adjusted himself as discreetly as he could. Watson grinned despite himself and the several deep breaths he took to calm his own ardor.
“Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the door.
Neither man commented on the other’s slow, stiff gait as they made their way out of the room and to the study. By the time tea was poured and the chessboard set up, they were each in better possession of themselves, and able to concentrate fully on the game.
Holmes won 4 of 5, but Watson’s victory was, as he put it, “Utterly brilliant!”
***
The rest of the day passed lazily, the two men enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. Holmes played his violin for several hours outside in the garden to Watson and a small crowd of the regular household, his cheeks flushed with exertion and the joy music always instilled in him.
Mrs. Everman requested several songs, and only when stomachs began to rumble did she tear herself away to see to the preparations of dinner, pulling two of the servants with her despite their laughing protests.
After, the two men enjoyed a leisurely walk, the fading sunlight softening the edges of the world and casting long shadows before them as they strolled aimlessly. Holmes spoke of the hot spring he had visited on his travels, and Watson regaled him with tales of lavish Indian baths he had enjoyed.
They lingered over their wine at the table after supper, each gaze they shared a bit more knowing and the touches lasting longer, until they were nearly holding hands and Watson felt it was time to move matters to the bedroom. He finished his wine, watched as Holmes finished his, and then, with a calmness he did not necessarily feel, took his hand and led him to their room.
Once more the quilt was pulled back enticingly, nightshirts arranged on top and a fire filling the room with warmth and flickering light. They did not bother turning on the lamps, hesitating at the foot of the bed as they kissed.
“We don’t have to do this,” Watson offered as he pulled back, running his fingers slowly through Holmes’ hair. “Some men do not enjoy this, and you know I am happy with what we have.”
“I know,” Holmes assured softly. He took a step back, disentangling Watson’s fingers as he did so, holding both hands in his own as he stared into Watson’s eyes with a seriousness usually reserved for those moments when danger was imminent. His voice, when he spoke again, contained a hint of steel, his expression earnest. “I am not a woman, Watson. Despite the fact I am a virgin, I know the mechanics of what we are about to do, and I am fully aware that some discomfort is inevitable. But please believe me when I say I want this - that I want you - and I trust you implicitly.”
He waited for Watson’s nod of understanding, for his lover to squeeze the hands still holding his, before he continued.
“Now, get what you may need and kindly ravage me!”
Watson burst out laughing, his surprise overriding any lingering nervousness.
“Very well,” he murmured, pulling Holmes close to kiss him, slowly, using his tongue to trace a path from Holmes’ lips to his jaw, where he mouthed the sensitive skin, moving down to his neck to graze the skin with his teeth. Holmes moaned, and he found himself smiling. “I think we are wearing entirely too many clothes. Get undressed, and I’ll get what we will need.”
He did not ask again if Holmes was sure about this course of action. He knew his friend better than nearly anyone, he liked to think, and once Holmes had determined to do something there was very little that would change his mind. Now all that was to be done was to make certain he was as tender, as caring, and as loving as he could be.
As he searched his bag for the small vial he kept for delicate patients he could hear the sound of Holmes undressing, the slide of cloth against skin and the rustle of the duvet as he settled on the bed. With a smile of triumph Watson stood, the dark brown bottle held in his hand as he turned, and froze at the sight before him.
He had seen Holmes naked several times before now, but none of them had prepared him for the lithe figure that sprawled on the bed. The firelight cast a golden glow upon Holmes’ skin, shadows outlining the perfect form of his muscles, his manhood half-erect in the thick patch of pubic hair that it nestled in. He watched Watson with open desire, his pale face tinged with color.
“You look gorgeous,” Watson breathed, moving slowly over to the bed and placing the small vial on the bedside table.
Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt, removing collar and cuffs with the ease of long practice. As first waistcoat, then shirt, were dropped carelessly to the floor, it was as though the very last of the barriers between himself and the man he was about to love were banished. Holmes watched as he casually removed his shoes and socks, then pulled his trousers down without fanfare. He licked his lips unconsciously as Watson undid his smallclothes and finally stood completely naked before him.
His own manhood stood erect, and Watson watched as Holmes gazed upon it with both want and speculation. Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, straddling Holmes’ thighs and leaning down to kiss him tenderly.
“This position is the most intimate, but may be more uncomfortable,” he whispered, pulling back enough to look into Holmes’ eyes. “It may be easier for you on your side or stomach.”
“Face to face,” Holmes answered immediately, smiling at Watson’s fond eye-roll. “You know I never simply take the easy route, old boy.”
“Of course you don’t,” Watson laughed, running a hand almost reverently down Holmes stomach. He followed the movement with his mouth, sliding down the other’s body to kiss and lick his way to Holmes’ now fully erect member.
When he took him into his mouth he was answered by a loud, nearly obscene groan, smiling at the need which filled the small, panted breaths above him. Releasing him only long enough to retrieve the bottle from the bedside table, he could feel the other’s eyes on him, watching as he coated his fingers with the rose scented oil.
“Roses, Watson?” Holmes asked, laughter and want leaving his voice shaky.
“Trust me, Holmes, it wasn’t planned. If you’re still curious later I’ll tell you what it’s used for,” he answered, and returned to what he had been doing before Holmes could answer.
He continued to suck and lick his lover’s manhood even as he moved his oil coated hand to the most intimate part of his friend’s body, circling the small, puckered hole before slowly inserting a finger.
They had done this once before, in the bath the other day. As had happened then, Holmes’ body seemed to accept the intrusion easily, Holmes groaning as he pressed down against Watson’s hand, his breath hitching.
It was very little effort after that to slowly work him open, distracting him from any discomfort by placing tender, delicate kisses over various parts of his body, working his way from knee to shoulder and back again, alternating using his mouth and his hand on the turgid member which glistened with Watson’s saliva.
By the time he had worked three fingers deep into Holmes’ body, scissoring them and pressing gently against the small gland inside his passage, Holmes was panting and nearly incoherent with desire.
Watson levered himself up, bracing his weight on his arms as he positioned himself, and at Holmes’ silent nod slid into his lover’s body for the first time, his own need throbbing and aching with want.
Holmes tensed beneath him and he halted, moving to cup Holmes’ cheek with a trembling hand.
“Look at me,” he whispered, needing to see Holmes’ expression, to know he wasn’t hurting him. “If you want to stop, we stop.”
His body protested the very thought, but he knew that if Holmes so much as uttered a word of protest they would abandon the attempt immediately. But Holmes covered the hand on his cheek with his own and shook his head, sweat beading his forehead and dampening his hair.
“Just - a moment,” he asked, voice hoarse and broken, his breathing ragged as his body adjusted around Watson’s manhood.
Slowly the internal muscles relaxed, and as they did so Watson was able to press forward the final little bit, until he was fully buried. For a long moment they lay completely flushed, panting and shaking before Holmes experimentally squeezed around him, and he could not help the small thrust of his hips.
“God,” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes as he shifted, moving his hips as Watson thrust once more, slowly and carefully.
“All right?” Watson gasped, moving slightly to better brace himself, removing his hand from Holmes’ cheek so that he could look down on him as he moved, watching Holmes’ expression as it morphed from discomfort to ecstasy.
“Watson,” Holmes whimpered, eyes slitting open to stare at him in a lust filled fog. “God, Watson.”
“It’s all right,” Watson soothed, bending down to kiss him, changing his angle slightly and earning a throaty groan. “Holmes,” he whispered brokenly, his hips stuttering as the tight heat around him convulsed, Holmes arching his back as he gasped and clutched at Watson’s arm, his other hand moving to his flushed, leaking manhood and stroking it desperately.
“Going to - God, Watson!”
Watson did not falter, his own rhythm becoming erratic as the tingle in his spine signaled his own imminent release.
“Let me see you,” he breathed, watching in wonder as Holmes gasped, his head thrown back as he moaned, body stiffening as his little death swept over him, his essence warm and slick between them.
“Holmes!” Watson called, burying himself as deeply as he could and stilling, eyes closed tightly against the almost agony of his pleasure, knowing his release was filling Holmes tight passage, claiming him as no one had ever claimed him before or would again. He was Watson’s, and the animalistic part of his brain roared its victory as he slowly sank down, resting his weight against the heaving chest, feeling Holmes’ heart beating rapidly against his own.
“All right?” he managed to whisper, looking up at Holmes’ silent nod, the other’s eyes closed as he panted for breath, lips red and swollen, expression one of complete contentment.
When they disentangled a few minutes later there was a moment of discomfort, but Watson made certain there was no blood mixed in with the oil and his own release, and then held Holmes securely in his arms.
“Thank you,” Holmes whispered into his shoulder, unable to suppress the shudders which shook his body.
Watson knew they were a reaction to the overwhelming emotions and sensations he was experiencing and held him tighter, pulling the blanket securely around them. They would have to clean themselves soon, but Holmes was in no hurry, and Watson had no issue with holding him for as long as he desired.
***
Part 14
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 headache had come on him suddenly during lunch, with little warning save for the halo which had seemed to outline everything about him. In all honesty, he had found the effect on Watson rather endearing, even as he knew what it preceded. The few bites he had managed to eat had settled heavily in his stomach until he was certain he could not force another morsel down his throat, and had never been so thankful for Watson’s understanding as he retreated to the quiet and dark of the bedroom.
When the nausea had grown too much he had stumbled, half blinded by the flashing lights before his eyes, into the water closet, and had spent a miserable ten minutes hovered over the toilette before Watson found him. When he had been placed back in the bed, the warm hands of his friend guiding him and keeping him safe, bringing with them the blessed relief of morphine, he had known the worst of the ordeal was over.
Sleep had overtaken him easily with the lessening of the pain, and when he blinked his eyes open cautiously, he could not tell how much time had passed. His head still ached slightly, a warning of further pain to come if he was not careful, and so when he sat up, gingerly, the covers pooling in his lap, he did not hurry to find out how much of the day had been lost.
It was completely dark outside, rain still lashing ferociously against the windows, but a sliver of light could be made out from behind the nearly closed door of the bedroom which had been Watson’s. He swung his legs carefully off the bed, the carpet keeping any chill from his feet, and stood, wobbling slightly as he fought to find his balance.
He made his way unsteadily to the door, not daring to open it as he called out, hesitantly, “Watson?”
There was the sound of rustling, papers being hastily set aside, (Watson had been writing again) before the light suddenly dimmed and Holmes opened the door.
Watson was standing by the writing desk, having just dimmed the lamp there, and was looking at Holmes with a clinical eye as he made his way into the room.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his moderated voice the only pleasant reminder of all the other times Holmes had been so afflicted.
“Better,” Holmes assured, managing to smile as he made his way fully into the room, sitting heavily on the rumpled bed. “Have you been up here all day?”
“Mostly,” was the easy answer as Watson sat beside him, dipping the mattress slightly as he closed his fingers around Holmes’ wrist gently. “You were quite sick earlier and I wanted to make certain I was near should you need me again. I’m glad the morphine worked,” he added, moving his hand from Holmes’ wrist to lay gently across the still pale forehead. “You look done in, old boy. Head still tender, I take it?”
“Yes,” Holmes admitted with a put upon sigh.
The headaches were one of the few ailments he had sought Watson’s help for in the past. Even after he had married and moved out, a simple telegram had always brought him back quickly to tend to his friend, for both men knew how helpless the detective became under the crushing pain.
The first time, some four months after they had begun living together, Watson had been confused as to why Holmes had not simply self administered the morphine, knowing full well he had access to it and was not otherwise averse to using it in the doctor’s presence. It was only after the grudging explanation that Holmes could not see properly to administer the dosage that Watson had realized exactly how debilitating the headaches were, and had taken the responsibility more seriously than almost any other Holmes asked of him.
Now, with so many years behind them, they fell easily into the habits they had established, Holmes allowing Watson to check him over quickly before accepting whatever judgment the doctor pronounced.
“I think the worst has past,” Watson finally murmured. “I would like you to drink some water, if you feel able to keep it down, and then to try and get some more rest. You look positively worn, Holmes,” he added, smiling gently.
“All this fresh air,” Holmes sniffed, his own lips turning up at the teasing. “And what of you? I have no idea of the time, but you don’t look set to turn in yet.”
“It’s just gone seven, and I’ll be heading down to dinner shortly. I was just finishing writing up the last bit of that adventure with the pig and the poisoned corn. I doubt I’ll ever send it in to print, but it does bring a smile to my face when I think on it.”
Holmes laughed softly, his hand going automatically to his temple as he did so, but he waved away Watson’s concern as he said, “That was, indeed, an exercise in futility. One of the few cases where no one was to blame save mother nature and simple human misunderstanding. I’d appreciate you leaving out the part where I fell face first into the mud,” he added.
Both men smiled fondly at the memory, though at the time the detective had been as upset as a wet cat, and had sputtered and cursed the entire way home.
“But Holmes,” Watson laughed, unable to control his mirth, “that was the climax of the whole case!”
Holmes shoved playfully at Watson’s arm, earning another chuckle, and ducked his head in remembered chagrin.
“Well, write what you will, but just remember who it was that pushed me down in that mud to begin with,” he relented, earning another laugh and a good natured pat to his thigh in silent apology.
“The story is nearly done, anyway,” Watson sighed, his contentment at the accomplishment apparent in his relaxed bearing. “It was actually a marvelous day to write, I must say. Do you feel up to dinner, or would you like to lay down some more?”
The abrupt change in subject came as no surprise, and Holmes merely shook his head as he said, “Neither. I am not so tired now, but dinner holds no appeal to me. I would, however, like a bath.”
“That can be arranged,” Watson agreed.
He stood, waited until Holmes joined him, and then led him back into their bedroom, turning the lamps on to a dim glow as he did so. He deposited the other man gently but firmly back on the bed before ringing for one of the servants. Holmes watched him appreciatively when the summons was answered by a young maid and the bath was ordered to be sent up, feeling himself blush at the remembrance of the previous day’s activities.
Watson, when he turned from closing the door, smiled at Holmes’ expression and made his way back to the bed, leaning down and kissing him chastely on the lips.
“None of that tonight,” he murmured when he pulled away, smiling mischievously. “Not until that headache is gone and I’ve had a bit more time to recover from the game. Goodness, I feel like an old man today!” he exclaimed, stretching carefully and wincing.
“Well, you certainly don’t look it,” Holmes assured him, and felt his blush deepen as he took in Watson’s lithe form, dressed comfortably in shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat.
“Later,” Watson reminded him, but did lean down for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate, but still ended quickly. “I prefer to have you whole and well when we make love again.”
Holmes found himself smiling shyly at that, unable to control the reaction as he thought once more what he would like their next session to involve. There would be time, he reminded himself, and felt something settle and relax inside him, some tension that he had not been aware of. A spark of humor turned his grin into something closer to a leer as he pondered what Watson’s reaction to his suggestion would be.
“I don’t know if I should be amused or alarmed by that expression,” Watson said as he started to button his waistcoat, preparing to head down to his dinner. “You look like the cat who got the cream.”
Holmes’ smile broadened, and at Watson’s rolled eyes, could not help the laugh that escaped. Once more his hand went to his temple, and the doctor’s expression turned more serious.
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he asked solicitously, moving about the room as he retrieved collar and cuffs.
“I’m all right, mother hen,” Holmes assured him. “You know how these blasted headaches linger after the fact. Once I have my bath I’ll rest a bit more, and maybe join you for a cigar in the library.”
“We’ll see how you feel,” Watson cautioned, straightening his collar and departing briefly for the other room, returning a moment later with his jacket in hand. “I don’t want you moving about too much, you know how that can sometimes bring the full headache back. I may just retire early and forego the brandy and cigar myself tonight.”
“You don’t -” Holmes began to protest.
Watson’s hand over his mouth stopped him, and he licked the offending appendage in rebuke. Watson scowled and quickly removed his hand, shaking it out reproachfully and giving it a distasteful stare before turning his frown on Holmes.
“You,” he said, bending down to kiss the other man’s forehead. “Are impossible. I’m heading down now, and I’ll see you after dinner. Enjoy your bath, and if you need anything -”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Holmes grumbled, easing himself back onto the bed and swinging his feet up onto the disarrayed covers. “I have only to ring and you, Mrs. Everman, and the rest of the bloody household will be at my beck and call. Go!” he ordered, pointing imperiously to the door. “Your dinner will be getting cold.”
“Doubtful,” Watson scoffed, though he grinned at Holmes’ ill humor and started toward the door. “Take it easy!” was his parting order.
Holmes continued to stare at the door for a few minutes after he had left before laying back down completely, closing his eyes as he waited for his bath to be brought in.
It wouldn’t hurt, after all, to rest for just a bit.
***
The hot water eased the tension from his shoulders and neck. Steam wafted around his face, damp and thick in the warm room, and as he breathed it in he could feel the last of his pain slowly start to dissipate.
He closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the rim of the tub, sinking down until the water lapped at his chin while his knees, bent to accommodate the confines of the bathtub, jutted out of the water.
There had been a hot spring in France, nearly two years after his flight had begun. He had been incapacitated for three days by the pain in his head, the morphine he had taken doing little to ease the endless agony. The child he had enlisted for aid in procuring food and shelter had lead him, half blind and wincing at every step and sound, to the spring hidden within the forest his family lived near.
The water had been nearly hot enough to burn, his skin instantly turning red when he submerged himself, and the metallic tang in the air had at once filled his mouth and lingered on his tongue.
After fifteen minutes he had begun to grow faint, and so had levered himself out of the small basin the water bubbled from and laid down, completely defenseless, amongst the leaves and moss. It had been late April, and in some parts of the town piles of snow still lingered. But as he had breathed steadily of the rich earth and mineral laden air, his breath puffing before him in misty clouds, he had felt only comfort as his body slowly cooled.
The pain in his head had lessened to a more manageable level when his helper had returned for him, and he was able to make his way back to his hidden burrow and administer another dose of the morphine with the child’s aid. He had slept for two days after that, and when he woke, his headache had departed.
He had spent three months in that village earning a living as a musician for the local theater before he had had to flee again. But he had never forgotten that spring, or the somewhat miraculous power it had held in reducing his headache.
He breathed deep, partly expecting to smell once more that metallic, almost sulfurous tang, and was started back to awareness of his surroundings when only the hint of copper from the tub met his nose.
He blinked his eyes owlishly, gazing about the room in bemusement and thankful Watson had not been there to notice his lapse. He sat up a bit straighter in order to prevent another such slip, and stayed submerged in the water until it began to cool. When he pulled himself from the comfort of the tub, drying himself off mechanically, he found himself smiling.
He had not thought of that hot spring for a while, and he wondered almost absently if Watson might be interested in it, and if he could perhaps persuade him to join him in a journey back there.
The thought stilled his hands, the towel forgotten as he gazed blindly at the bed. He had never contemplated any of the places he had stayed in the past three years as anything more than temporary refuge. The fact that he was able to do so now, safely removed from the dangers which had hunted him by time and distance, seemed significant somehow.
Perhaps Watson and his brother had been correct after all, and this retreat was more beneficial than he had thought. After he donned his nightshirt and summoned the servants to remove the bath he contemplated the odd limbo his life had fallen into. He watched as the giant tub was slowly drained and then taken away, barely sparing the servants a glance as he settled once more comfortably into the bed, covers pulled up to his chin.
His eyes closed of their own volition, his body exhausted from the pain and lethargy of the headache, and he found himself drifting.
Maybe, he thought, as sleep pulled at his heavy limbs, he was starting to heal after all.
***
He woke briefly when Watson entered the room, watching him through sleep hooded eyes as he went about removing his clothes and dressing for bed, turning the gas down until the room was completely dark and silent.
When he slipped under the covers, feet slightly chilled, Holmes wrapped his arm around him, drawing him close as he inhaled the scent of tobacco and the soap Watson used.
“All right?” Watson murmured, shifting them both into more comfortable positions.
“Hmmm,” Holmes agreed, mouthing at Watson’s neck, nearly asleep again.
His friend chuckled, long fingers carding through thick hair easing him back into sleep, and that night there were no dreams, only the impression that he was safe and warm and loved.
***
The next morning dawned grey and overcast, though the rain and wind had died down to allow the men a proper walk. Gladstone, having been restricted in his activities the past two days, ran ahead of them, sniffing happily at the moist plants and grass, scurrying after bugs and getting thoroughly filthy.
Holmes had eaten heartily that morning, a fact he could tell Watson was grateful for as they had both tucked into their food hungrily. He had woken thankfully pain free, his headache only a memory and his stomach returned to its normal state. He had even smiled as Mrs. Everman filled his plate up and ordered him to eat every bite. He had not succeeded, but had given it his best try.
Now, with the weak spring sun warming them despite the abundance of clouds, the two men roamed freely, enjoying each other’s company and holding hands, knowing none were around to observe them.
The silence was comfortable between them, each content to allow their thoughts free reign. They followed the path they had traveled the first day on horseback, and when they reached the pond they paused. They looked at the green water, the pond’s bottom mud churned up with the recent rain, and neither man could prevent their thoughts from going back to that afternoon not so long ago, when their world had changed.
Holmes turned to regard his friend, his profile strong and familiar, and moved. He pushed Watson gently backwards until he rested against the nearest tree, the doctor’s eyes amused and trusting. When Holmes kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, he enjoyed every moment of it, and kissed back just as enthusiastically, until both were out of breath.
“Holmes,” Watson breathed against his mouth, his eyes dark with sudden longing. “What do you want?”
Holmes swallowed, eyes closed as he slowly unbuttoned Watson’s trousers in reply, reaching into his small clothes to remove his manhood and stroke it very gently with his long, delicate fingers.
“You,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing him again, tongue tasting and exploring greedily before he slowly pulled back. He watched as Watson blinked, cheeks flushed, and slowly sank to his knees. “You in my mouth,” he elaborated.
Watson’s eyes widened, though he made no move to protest, and Holmes smiled as he finally allowed himself to explore the new territory before him. His lips closed carefully around his lover’s member, the salty tang of his essence only increasing Holmes’ own desire. He closed his eyes as he concentrated, trying to remember what Watson had done to him that had sent sparks through his head.
He was rewarded by Watson’s deep moan, a shudder running through the doctor’s frame and a muttered curse as Holmes took him deeper, his hand still wrapped around the base of his flesh. He did not know how long he knelt there, his knees thoroughly soaked, before an insistent tugging on his hair alerted him to Watson’s imminent release. He did not pull away, but continued to move tongue and fingers until the thick, milky fluid filled his mouth. He drank it down, swallowing around Watson’s member until it began to grow soft, and only then did he release him.
“Good Lord, Holmes,” Watson panted, pulling him back to his feet to kiss him passionately, tasting himself from Holmes’ mouth, his hands cupping Holmes’ face tenderly. After a moment he asked, shakily, “Shall I reciprocate?”
“Y-Yes,” Holmes whispered, his own desire suddenly flaring until it was almost painful, his trousers suddenly too tight.
When Watson released him and sank to his own knees, favoring his bad leg, Holmes found he could not keep his eyes open, and braced his arms against the rough bark of the tree which had supported his lover only a moment before.
He cried out as warm lips wrapped around him, and it took an embarrassingly short time before his own release overcame him. His knees shook with the force of it, and Watson’s hands about his waist steadied him easily as he slowly came back to himself.
“By God,” Holmes gasped, finally opening his eyes in time to watch Watson gently tuck him away, doing up his buttons expertly. “This was my favorite spot as a child, but I think I love it even more now!”
Watson laughed in surprise, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet to wrap his arms around Holmes and kiss him again.
“I think it may be mine as well,” he murmured before stealing Holmes’ breath away again.
It was some time before either man felt able to begin the long walk back, and when they did so, hand in hand, faces flushed and lips swollen and red, it was with matching grins of happiness.
***
That night, as they lay curled around each other, the sweat of their activities still cooling on their flushed bodies, Holmes brought up the suggestion which had been on his mind since that first, marvelous realization of his love and utter devotion for Watson.
The lamps were off, and only shadows filled the room as they panted, Holmes’ head resting comfortably on Watson’s chest, listening to his heart slow and his breathing calm. Watson continued to lay half propped on several pillows, though Holmes knew it was only a matter of time before he adjusted them both accordingly for sleep.
“Watson,” he began, turning his head slightly so that only the top of his hair could be seen when the doctor looked down.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson murmured, voice already starting to turn thick with exhaustion, his fingers running absently along Holmes’ back.
“You know I love you,” Holmes began, then winced. That had not sounded right, even to his own ears, and by the sudden tension filling his lover, not by Watson’s either. “No, no, let me continue. You know how horrible I am at this, so please, just let have my say and then you can - well, then you can let me know what you think,” he hastened to add, trying to soothe even while his own body tensed despite his will.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, the caution in his tone matching the tightness in his muscles. The steady fingers did not cease their movement on the detective’s back, however, and the simple movement gave Holmes the encouragement to continue.
“You know that in matters of physical expressions of love I have - well, my experience is very limited,” Holmes continued, despite his internal grimace at how clumsy his speech sounded.
“Yes, I know,” Watson soothed, bending his neck to place an awkward kiss to the top of his head.
He said no more, though, waiting for Holmes to continue, as patient with him in this aspect of their lives as he tended to be in all others. Holmes felt his muscles relax slightly in response to Watson’s own easing, though he did not look up to meet the other’s gaze.
“I know there are - that is to say, we spoke briefly of this the other day. You said I had only to ask, and - and I am. Asking, that is. I am asking.”
It took Watson’s brain a moment to catch up with Holmes’ tentative words, his sluggish thoughts taking a minute to process which conversation Holmes was referencing and what, exactly, he was asking for.
“Oh,” he gasped, surprised, and felt his heart speed up at the sudden realization.
Holmes tensed in his arms, and automatically he pulled him closer, pulled him up until he was no longer resting against his chest but was face to face with him, kneeling above him with his arms on either side of Watson’s shoulders against the headboard. Despite the fact he was quite spent, Watson felt his body stir in interest at the position and quickly had to suppress the urge to kiss Holmes breathless again.
“We do not have to,” he whispered, reaching up to stroke Holmes’ cheek, amazed to see his hand tremble slightly. “You know I love you, too, and there is no need -”
“I want to,” Holmes insisted, his voice firm despite the fact he kept it low.
In the complete dark of the room there was no way to gauge his expression, but Watson could picture the stubborn set of his lips, the drawn eyebrows, and the serious furrow of his brow. Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he surged forward, kissing Holmes deeply, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce embrace.
Holmes reciprocated, the two of them holding each other as emotions too strong to be voiced surged between them. Only after their hearts had begun to calm did they shift, Holmes sinking down once more so his head could rest on Watson’s chest, the doctor adjusting the pillows behind him so he was laying down.
“If you feel you are ready, truly feel it, and not just want to think you are, then -” he paused, breathing deeply of Holmes’ scent, the smell of sex still heavy in the hair and their own musk lingering on their skin. “Tomorrow night,” Watson whispered gently into the shell of Holmes’ ear.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, already halfway to sleep, his breath evening out into little puffs against Watson’s shoulder. “Sleep now, so tomorrow comes quicker,” Holmes mumbled.
He pressed a lazy kiss to Watson’s slick flesh, snuggling down further as Watson clumsily pulled the blankets tighter about them. With the exertions of the day finally taking their toll, both men drifted off to slumber, wrapped around each other like two bodies trying to become one.
***
They were both slightly shy and awkward the next morning, though neither would have been able to explain why if asked. They traded gentle touches and lingering glances through their ablutions, but their actions were nearly chaste.
When they sat down for breakfast, Mrs. Everman took one look at them and smiled fondly, patting their shoulders and humming to herself.
“So good to see young love,” she sighed happily as she left them to eat, paying no mind to the blushes this pronouncement induced.
If not for having such proper table manners, Watson would have buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment, and had to laugh as Holmes had no such reticence.
“That woman -” he grumbled into his hands, shaking his head.
“- saw you in nappies and is happy to see you happy,” Watson finished for him, grinning at his friend’s mortification. “Honestly, Holmes, you have to admit. This is as close as we’ll come to a honeymoon, and it’s bound to show.”
The words had barely left his mouth before he found himself stunned by their implication. He watched Holmes carefully to see if he was as shaken by their meaning as himself, but his friend only shook his head again and proceeded to dig into his meal with single minded determination as his blush slowly faded.
It took Watson a few minutes more to regain his equilibrium and to follow suit, but he could not keep the thought from repeating itself in his mind.
He watched as Holmes quickly finished his meal, though he lingered over his own, sipping his tea and savoring the perfectly cooked kippers, allowing his thoughts to process fully.
“Holmes, would you mind terribly if I took Gladstone for a walk?” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend, but wishing for time to himself to collect his thoughts and settle his suddenly agitated mind. “Alone?”
For one second he feared he had hurt his friend horribly, but Holmes’ startled expression vanished as he looked up, taking in Watson’s appearance and seeming to read, as he ever had, his troubled thoughts and the reason for the request. His features gentled into understanding and compassion, and he reached across the table to squeeze Watson’s hand.
“Take all the time you need,” he said softly, his knowing gaze doing more to calm Watson’s uncertainty than his words. The doctor smiled thankfully, squeezing back, and watched as Holmes stood. “Now, I am going to wander off and find something to keep myself occupied. If you hear any loud explosions, pay them no mind.”
For one moment Watson feared for those who worked at the estate, and how they might react should his friend actually follow through on his warning. Then he remembered that those he was surrounded by had known Holmes for a great many years, and would be accustomed to his habits by now.
Feeling suddenly restless he went in search of Gladstone, finding the dog lazily snoring in front of the empty fireplace in the study. Within a few short moments the two of them were out in the brilliant sunlight, Watson adjusting his hat to keep the worst of the glare from his eyes.
He had no destination in mind, and chose a path at random, allowing the aging bulldog to roam where he would. It was a beautiful day, and the peace of the landscape about him helped settle the last of his nerves, and granted him the calm to let his thoughts order themselves.
For all intents and purposes, he realized, he was married to Holmes. The two of them shared a home, finances, and business. They spent most of their time together, either in work or play, and now, with the final steps taken to make their love physical, they shared a bed as well.
He had never thought to be married again, and certainly not so soon after Mary’s death. Only a year had passed, after all, since he had laid her to rest, thinking himself as alone in the world as when he returned from Afghanistan.
Then, as now, Holmes had entered his life and turned his perceptions around. Only this time, he knew full well what he had entered into when he agreed to move back in to Baker Street. In essence, their courtship had started well over ten years ago, and despite the trials that had separated and nearly destroyed them, their bond was stronger than ever.
But…
Watson sighed, sinking down onto a conveniently placed bench, resting his head in his hands.
He loved Holmes, more than he had ever loved another, even Mary, God rest her. And the thought of what the night would bring sent a thrill through his blood the likes of which he had not experienced since his wedding day.
He stopped the thought before it could even begin, fiercely reining in his emotions and wrestling control back to the here and now. Just as he would not sully Mary’s memory with wishes of what may have been, he was not going to tarnish what he had with Holmes by thinking of past lovers.
That Holmes was still technically a virgin meant he would have to proceed gently and cautiously, though the detective would not appreciate him thinking so. The man had always thought himself above the inconveniences of the flesh, but Watson had made his trade in them, and knew the danger that was presented. Should he fail to take adequate precautions, or proceed too hastily, he could harm his friend terribly, and he would rather cut his own hand off than do so.
No, the past week had very much been as a honeymoon for the two of them, and Holmes would just have to indulge his romanticism for a little while longer. Though the laws of England prevented any such event being recognized legally, for the two of them, their affection was just as binding. Watson knew, as surely as he knew anything in his life, that he belonged, totally and completely, to Sherlock Holmes, and the other man belonged to him.
Smiling, suddenly at ease with himself and the situation, he stood, gathering Gladstone to his side and heading back to the house. He may have only been gone for a few hours, but he dreaded to think of what Holmes had been up to in that time.
As though in answer to his thoughts, a loud explosion startled him into a crouch, Gladstone howling beside him. Smoke rose faintly in the distance, though from where exactly he could not tell. Shaking his head, he stood once more and made his way more quickly.
It would not do, after all, to have Mrs. Everman kill his husband.
***
The explosion, it turned out, had actually been Mrs. Everman’s doing, though Holmes had certainly had a hand in it. The two of them had been attempting to find a way to cook a goose faster than the usual several hours. Holmes, in his infinite idiocy, had decided that adding a bit of gun powder to the fire might speed up the process, and for some reason Watson could not fathom, Mrs. Everman had agreed.
Watson still couldn’t understand the particulars of that, but both Holmes and Mrs. Everman, despite being a bit soot covered, were laughing nearly hysterically when he arrived and was explained all this by Mrs. Everman’s nephew.
He was relieved that they had at least decided to experiment outside, over the cooking pit he remembered Holmes had mentioned all those years ago when they had been imprisoned for disturbing the peace. It was still a sore topic between them, Watson leaving Holmes to fend for himself in the prison yard after Mary had bailed him out, and they rarely ever spoke of it, but the memory remained of Holmes’ description of Mycroft’s estate, and the open pit where he had suggested cooking a lamb.
Now, it seemed they had deemed the pit their testing ground, rather than risk the kitchen. A bit of common sense that Watson attributed to Mrs. Everman. Quite a crowd had gathered around the still smoking ruins of what he supposed was left of both goose and spit, though no one seemed alarmed by the sight.
Watson was reminded once more that he was among people who not only knew, but accepted whole heartedly, his friend’s eccentricities. He could not help but smile as he finally left the young man who had filled him in on the goings on and made his way over to where Holmes was sitting, a good three yards from the pit, smoking peacefully on his pipe.
“Ah, Watson!” he called when he noticed his lover making his way towards him. “You missed a grand spectacle!”
“Yes, so Henry was saying!” Watson greeted, shaking his head as he eyed the ruins once more.
“Oh, it was a brilliant idea!” Mrs. Everman chimed in, laughing as she patted the stray wisps of hair which had escaped her bun. She had a spot of ash on her nose and chin, but seemed otherwise undaunted. “In theory it made perfectly good sense, but I suppose we’ll have to stick to cooking the Christmas dinner the old way.”
Watson, who had been attempting to maintain some of his composure, lost it completely, joining in with the laughter as he regarded her.
“Mrs. Everman,” he sighed, moving forward to embrace her in a quick hug, knowing it was bad decorum, but not caring a wit. “You really shouldn’t encourage him.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she laughed, hugging him back. “It was just a bit of fun, and trust me, Doctor, more often than not, our Mr. Holmes’ ideas have spared me quite a few hours of labor over the years. No, no, we’ll have to try something different next time.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes murmured, pursing his lips around the stem of his pipe as he pondered the charred carcass. “I think the error was in the amount of powder used. Perhaps if we used a weaker strength, or even a different composition, the results would be more in line with what we are looking for.”
Before Watson could open his mouth to protest, Mrs. Everman turned her attention back to Holmes and said firmly, “Well, we’ll have to wait for another day, Mr. Holmes. That was the only goose that was about to go off and I’ll not have us wasting another. Closer to Christmas, perhaps, when they’re a bit more abundant, and that will give you time to find the correct strength of the powder.”
Watson stared at her in something close to wonder, amazed at her deft handling of his friend’s curiosity, and even more so at Holmes’ willingness to go along with the restrictions placed upon him.
“Perhaps Mycroft will have some ideas,” he murmured thoughtfully, standing and brushing at his shirt. “Did you have a good walk, old boy?” he asked, turning his attention back to Watson, the goose apparently forgotten for the moment.
Despite the banality of the question, Watson understood the query hidden beneath the simple words and smiled fondly at Holmes, making his way over to help brush off a bit more of the soot which had accumulated in his hair.
“It was a wonderful walk,” he said softly, and knew by Holmes’ expression that he understood perfectly.
The milling crowd, sensing no more excitement, began to disperse, heading back to their duties with wide grins and another tale to tell those who had been unfortunate enough to have missed the event. Watson was dimly aware of their departure, but most of his attention was on Holmes.
“Did you want to go inside? I think a change of clothes might be in order, and then perhaps a game of chess?” he asked.
Holmes grinned, allowing Watson to take his elbow, escorting him back to their rooms for a quick wash. He could feel the other’s eyes on him as he stripped away his blackened shirt, and smiled as he quickly wiped the ash from his skin, knowing Watson was admiring the view as he had the other morning. When the other man handed him his shirt, though, he was startled at the hand gently placed on his arm before he could don it, and looked up to see Watson’s gaze on him, an expression he could not quite decipher on his face.
“I love you,” Watson whispered softly, moving forward to kiss him deeply, hands going around the slender waist as he did so.
Holmes wrapped his own arms around Watson’s shoulders and returned the kiss eagerly, the two of them mindless of the time as they lost themselves in lips and tongues and taste. When they pulled back enough to stare into each other‘s eyes, breathless and with swollen lips, both were grinning disgustingly sappy smiles.
“Not that I object, dearest, but what brought this on?” Holmes asked softly, the use of the endearment startling and new, but feeling appropriate.
“I just realized, rather belatedly, that I am going to make the most delicious love to my husband tonight,” Watson murmured, ducking his head in a sudden bout of shyness so his forehead rested against Holmes’ shoulder. “And although we will have no wedding rings or ceremony, it took me rather by surprise when I realized I was once again a kept man.”
“Ahh,” Holmes sighed, moving his left hand to rest gently on the back of Watson‘s head, his fingers twining through his hair. “Yes, I was rather startled myself when I realized we had been married for some time. I hope it was not too much of a shock for you?”
“No,“ Watson assured, his voice steady as he looked back up, meeting Holmes‘ gaze with something like wonder. “It was actually quite a marvelous realization.”
They kissed again, though after only a short time broke apart once more, both knowing it would be too easy to lose themselves in the moment. Neither man wished their upcoming encounter to be rushed or interrupted.
“Chess?” Holmes asked, clearing his throat at the huskiness of his voice.
“Yes,” Watson agreed, stepping back slowly, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on Holmes’ chest before he moved, picking up the discarded shirt from the floor and offering it.
Holmes finished dressing, splashed a bit more water on his face, and then adjusted himself as discreetly as he could. Watson grinned despite himself and the several deep breaths he took to calm his own ardor.
“Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the door.
Neither man commented on the other’s slow, stiff gait as they made their way out of the room and to the study. By the time tea was poured and the chessboard set up, they were each in better possession of themselves, and able to concentrate fully on the game.
Holmes won 4 of 5, but Watson’s victory was, as he put it, “Utterly brilliant!”
***
The rest of the day passed lazily, the two men enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. Holmes played his violin for several hours outside in the garden to Watson and a small crowd of the regular household, his cheeks flushed with exertion and the joy music always instilled in him.
Mrs. Everman requested several songs, and only when stomachs began to rumble did she tear herself away to see to the preparations of dinner, pulling two of the servants with her despite their laughing protests.
After, the two men enjoyed a leisurely walk, the fading sunlight softening the edges of the world and casting long shadows before them as they strolled aimlessly. Holmes spoke of the hot spring he had visited on his travels, and Watson regaled him with tales of lavish Indian baths he had enjoyed.
They lingered over their wine at the table after supper, each gaze they shared a bit more knowing and the touches lasting longer, until they were nearly holding hands and Watson felt it was time to move matters to the bedroom. He finished his wine, watched as Holmes finished his, and then, with a calmness he did not necessarily feel, took his hand and led him to their room.
Once more the quilt was pulled back enticingly, nightshirts arranged on top and a fire filling the room with warmth and flickering light. They did not bother turning on the lamps, hesitating at the foot of the bed as they kissed.
“We don’t have to do this,” Watson offered as he pulled back, running his fingers slowly through Holmes’ hair. “Some men do not enjoy this, and you know I am happy with what we have.”
“I know,” Holmes assured softly. He took a step back, disentangling Watson’s fingers as he did so, holding both hands in his own as he stared into Watson’s eyes with a seriousness usually reserved for those moments when danger was imminent. His voice, when he spoke again, contained a hint of steel, his expression earnest. “I am not a woman, Watson. Despite the fact I am a virgin, I know the mechanics of what we are about to do, and I am fully aware that some discomfort is inevitable. But please believe me when I say I want this - that I want you - and I trust you implicitly.”
He waited for Watson’s nod of understanding, for his lover to squeeze the hands still holding his, before he continued.
“Now, get what you may need and kindly ravage me!”
Watson burst out laughing, his surprise overriding any lingering nervousness.
“Very well,” he murmured, pulling Holmes close to kiss him, slowly, using his tongue to trace a path from Holmes’ lips to his jaw, where he mouthed the sensitive skin, moving down to his neck to graze the skin with his teeth. Holmes moaned, and he found himself smiling. “I think we are wearing entirely too many clothes. Get undressed, and I’ll get what we will need.”
He did not ask again if Holmes was sure about this course of action. He knew his friend better than nearly anyone, he liked to think, and once Holmes had determined to do something there was very little that would change his mind. Now all that was to be done was to make certain he was as tender, as caring, and as loving as he could be.
As he searched his bag for the small vial he kept for delicate patients he could hear the sound of Holmes undressing, the slide of cloth against skin and the rustle of the duvet as he settled on the bed. With a smile of triumph Watson stood, the dark brown bottle held in his hand as he turned, and froze at the sight before him.
He had seen Holmes naked several times before now, but none of them had prepared him for the lithe figure that sprawled on the bed. The firelight cast a golden glow upon Holmes’ skin, shadows outlining the perfect form of his muscles, his manhood half-erect in the thick patch of pubic hair that it nestled in. He watched Watson with open desire, his pale face tinged with color.
“You look gorgeous,” Watson breathed, moving slowly over to the bed and placing the small vial on the bedside table.
Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt, removing collar and cuffs with the ease of long practice. As first waistcoat, then shirt, were dropped carelessly to the floor, it was as though the very last of the barriers between himself and the man he was about to love were banished. Holmes watched as he casually removed his shoes and socks, then pulled his trousers down without fanfare. He licked his lips unconsciously as Watson undid his smallclothes and finally stood completely naked before him.
His own manhood stood erect, and Watson watched as Holmes gazed upon it with both want and speculation. Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, straddling Holmes’ thighs and leaning down to kiss him tenderly.
“This position is the most intimate, but may be more uncomfortable,” he whispered, pulling back enough to look into Holmes’ eyes. “It may be easier for you on your side or stomach.”
“Face to face,” Holmes answered immediately, smiling at Watson’s fond eye-roll. “You know I never simply take the easy route, old boy.”
“Of course you don’t,” Watson laughed, running a hand almost reverently down Holmes stomach. He followed the movement with his mouth, sliding down the other’s body to kiss and lick his way to Holmes’ now fully erect member.
When he took him into his mouth he was answered by a loud, nearly obscene groan, smiling at the need which filled the small, panted breaths above him. Releasing him only long enough to retrieve the bottle from the bedside table, he could feel the other’s eyes on him, watching as he coated his fingers with the rose scented oil.
“Roses, Watson?” Holmes asked, laughter and want leaving his voice shaky.
“Trust me, Holmes, it wasn’t planned. If you’re still curious later I’ll tell you what it’s used for,” he answered, and returned to what he had been doing before Holmes could answer.
He continued to suck and lick his lover’s manhood even as he moved his oil coated hand to the most intimate part of his friend’s body, circling the small, puckered hole before slowly inserting a finger.
They had done this once before, in the bath the other day. As had happened then, Holmes’ body seemed to accept the intrusion easily, Holmes groaning as he pressed down against Watson’s hand, his breath hitching.
It was very little effort after that to slowly work him open, distracting him from any discomfort by placing tender, delicate kisses over various parts of his body, working his way from knee to shoulder and back again, alternating using his mouth and his hand on the turgid member which glistened with Watson’s saliva.
By the time he had worked three fingers deep into Holmes’ body, scissoring them and pressing gently against the small gland inside his passage, Holmes was panting and nearly incoherent with desire.
Watson levered himself up, bracing his weight on his arms as he positioned himself, and at Holmes’ silent nod slid into his lover’s body for the first time, his own need throbbing and aching with want.
Holmes tensed beneath him and he halted, moving to cup Holmes’ cheek with a trembling hand.
“Look at me,” he whispered, needing to see Holmes’ expression, to know he wasn’t hurting him. “If you want to stop, we stop.”
His body protested the very thought, but he knew that if Holmes so much as uttered a word of protest they would abandon the attempt immediately. But Holmes covered the hand on his cheek with his own and shook his head, sweat beading his forehead and dampening his hair.
“Just - a moment,” he asked, voice hoarse and broken, his breathing ragged as his body adjusted around Watson’s manhood.
Slowly the internal muscles relaxed, and as they did so Watson was able to press forward the final little bit, until he was fully buried. For a long moment they lay completely flushed, panting and shaking before Holmes experimentally squeezed around him, and he could not help the small thrust of his hips.
“God,” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes as he shifted, moving his hips as Watson thrust once more, slowly and carefully.
“All right?” Watson gasped, moving slightly to better brace himself, removing his hand from Holmes’ cheek so that he could look down on him as he moved, watching Holmes’ expression as it morphed from discomfort to ecstasy.
“Watson,” Holmes whimpered, eyes slitting open to stare at him in a lust filled fog. “God, Watson.”
“It’s all right,” Watson soothed, bending down to kiss him, changing his angle slightly and earning a throaty groan. “Holmes,” he whispered brokenly, his hips stuttering as the tight heat around him convulsed, Holmes arching his back as he gasped and clutched at Watson’s arm, his other hand moving to his flushed, leaking manhood and stroking it desperately.
“Going to - God, Watson!”
Watson did not falter, his own rhythm becoming erratic as the tingle in his spine signaled his own imminent release.
“Let me see you,” he breathed, watching in wonder as Holmes gasped, his head thrown back as he moaned, body stiffening as his little death swept over him, his essence warm and slick between them.
“Holmes!” Watson called, burying himself as deeply as he could and stilling, eyes closed tightly against the almost agony of his pleasure, knowing his release was filling Holmes tight passage, claiming him as no one had ever claimed him before or would again. He was Watson’s, and the animalistic part of his brain roared its victory as he slowly sank down, resting his weight against the heaving chest, feeling Holmes’ heart beating rapidly against his own.
“All right?” he managed to whisper, looking up at Holmes’ silent nod, the other’s eyes closed as he panted for breath, lips red and swollen, expression one of complete contentment.
When they disentangled a few minutes later there was a moment of discomfort, but Watson made certain there was no blood mixed in with the oil and his own release, and then held Holmes securely in his arms.
“Thank you,” Holmes whispered into his shoulder, unable to suppress the shudders which shook his body.
Watson knew they were a reaction to the overwhelming emotions and sensations he was experiencing and held him tighter, pulling the blanket securely around them. They would have to clean themselves soon, but Holmes was in no hurry, and Watson had no issue with holding him for as long as he desired.
***
Part 14