Sherlock Holmes - Sensitive
Title: Sensitive
Word Count: 2042
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None that I can see.
Warnings: Nothing besides the rating.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, for the prompt - OR I could imagine Holmes having a rather...uncommon errogenous zone, like his eyelids, and getting really worked up when Watson caresses them. Like really worked up. Maybe more than he was even aware of himself...
Might have veered off a little sideways, but there is definitely eyelid kink to be had.
<><><>
The first time the doctor had noticed his friend's peculiar sensitivity, he had been cleaning a cut on the detective's eyebrow. At first, he had thought the gasp had been one of pain, but Holmes had been quiet so far and was not in need of sympathy. He continued to clean the cut, but again brushed his fingertip against his friend's eyelid, and again there was a little gasp and now a slight flush to his cheeks. Very strange, but then those were two words he often considered in connection with Holmes, so he thought nothing more of it.
It wasn't until, more than a month later, he found Holmes passed out on the settee under the influence of God only knew what that he had occasion to touch his friend's eyes again. He had intended to check his pupils in the hopes of finding out more about his condition, and if he should be worried (he could see that he was still breathing, thankfully, but that didn't mean he was all right) but he had no sooner touched Holmes' closed eyelid with his still-gloved hand than the other man sat up abruptly, eyes wide open and looking wildly about him, an iron grip of delicate fingers closed around Watson's wrist. He stared for a few seconds, eyes out of focus, and drew in a few harsh breaths before easing his hold.
Not completely devoid of any deductive ability himself, Watson began to draw some conclusions of his own about the two incidents. The first reaction could easily have been to the pain, and the second to the surprise and whatever foreign substances had been coursing through his system at the time. But the reactions were similar, and if nothing else, Watson had a lot of confidence in his memory, and he was certain that they had both been directly after he had touched Holmes' eyelid. Perhaps they were particularly sensitive? It would hardly be the strangest thing about the man. Still, as he had heard the detective say countless times before, he needed more data to form a conclusion. Upon assuring himself that it was simple medical curiosity, he decided to investigate the matter further. Irrationally, he found himself thinking that Holmes would be proud of him for his efforts thus far.
It was two weeks after the previous incident on the settee that Watson stumbled, partly because of the cold affecting his leg, and partly because he was just a little inebriated, into the sitting room of 221b to find Holmes once again unconscious, draped across the furniture. The doctor determined that he was asleep, as opposed to passed out or dead, as there was a book which had fallen open, face-down on his chest, with a hand still grasping it lightly, and he was snoring softly. Not that Watson would ever tell the great Sherlock Holmes that he snored, because that would surely be an insult beyond measure. Only common people snored, no doubt. Watson snorted at the thought. It was entirely possible that he was a touch more inebriated than he had initially believed.
His mind flitted back to thoughts of Holmes and his eyelids. They were nice eyelids, certainly. Well, as much as eyelids could be, Watson thought. But more importantly, he had wanted to find out more about the apparent unusual sensitivity linked to them. While the good doctor had been thinking, he had unconsciously made his way over to the settee, and was leaning in rather close to his friend. Deciding that now was as good a time as any (if not perhaps better since Holmes was infinitely easier to deal with when he was asleep), Watson pulled one glove off and gently brushed a finger over Holmes' right eyelid. The other man let out a tiny gasp, but remained very much asleep. Intrigued, Watson pulled his other glove off and sat down on the floor, sore leg forgotten, and leaned over to look into his friend's sleeping face.
Tracing his fingertips over the almost translucent skin which covered Holmes' eyes, Watson watched again for any kind of reaction. He was not disappointed when he noticed a little colour coming to the detective's cheeks, and when he pressed a finger against his throat, the pulse there was a little quicker than usual. He continued to trace lightly, almost hypnotised by reactions he was eliciting. Determined to get as much from this little experiment as he could, Watson took hold of Holmes' head with one hand, fingers threading into his hair so he could continue to stroke with his thumb. He leaned in so close that he could feel Holmes' breath on his cheek.
“Watson.”
The doctor jumped, thinking he had woken his friend. He remained very still for a long moment, waiting for the eyes he had just been examining so closely to open, but they didn't. Watson realised, with a little surge of...something...that Holmes had mumbled his name in his sleep. That was an interesting bit of information. More than casually interested now, and faced with the possibility of learning some deep truths about his friend and companion, Watson raised himself on to his knees so he could lean further over, to more easily continue what he was doing. First things first, he carefully extracted the book from Holmes' tenuous grasp and set it on the floor - he refused to be held responsible for any harm which befell the volume.
Settling in to place again, Watson resumed his earlier investigations, brushing in what he imagined was a soothing manner with his thumb and watching Holmes' face closely. The snoring had stopped, and an odd look of deep concentration had settled over the detective's features. Watson didn't bother to fight the urge to smooth his friend's brow with his unoccupied hand, and he felt a smile quirk his lips as Holmes' features relaxed again. He brought the second hand down to trace lightly over the dark smudges under the other man's eyes before moving it to the other eyelid. Somewhere along the line his other thumb had stopped moving, and now rested lightly against Holmes' eyebrow. He smoothed along the dark hair there, stopping to examine the faint scar left by the injury that had started his investigation. He continued to stroke absently as he took the opportunity to really look at Holmes, as he never had before.
It was strange, looking at his friend's face without the usually over-bright, clever eyes staring back at him. With the distraction of Holmes' eye taken away, his face took on a eerie sort of beauty. Pale skin contrasted sharply with dark hair, thick eyelashes laying peacefully for once against high, sharp cheekbones which created dramatic planes and emphasised the premature ageing which looked more like a warm kind of wisdom beyond his years than the effects of completely ignoring his health, often to the point of collapse. He could accuse Holmes of cold-hearted brutality as often as he liked, and on most days the detective would heartily agree and even revel in the description, but his face, relaxed in sleep, betrayed a softness which didn't often show but underpinned his need to help people, his ability to show compassion towards the varied plights of men and women of every class. He would argue, if he was aware of this line of thought, that he merely went where the best puzzles were, but Watson knew better. He sighed deeply as he considered the man before him, and then belatedly remembered that he had been performing an investigation.
Getting back to work, this time with a renewed purpose, Watson watched as Holmes' face flushed and his breathing quickened in response to a combination of gentle tapping and stroking over what the doctor had now decided were the most unusually sensitive eyelids in existence. He had a fleeting thought about writing a monograph on the subject, but decided it would be better to leave that sort of thing to Holmes. A breathy little “mmph” sound, which Holmes made without waking or even opening his mouth was Watson's first clue that he wasn't getting just any reaction. When Holmes started wriggling, at first minutely and then in a way that was impossible to ignore (and, Watson realised later, impossible to sleep through), the doctor couldn't stop himself from looking down his friend's body, where his incredibly well-cut trousers did nothing to hide his predicament.
“Oh God,” Watson swallowed with a mixture of fascination and terror. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him that he shouldn't be seeing Holmes like this, but it was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears and another voice with a different opinion.
At that moment, Holmes and his impeccable sense of timing spoke up, “Oh God, Watson, please, don't stop. Oh, please...anything...just keep going.” he rambled on until Watson threaded both hands through his hair, leaving his thumbs free to stroke at his friend's eyelids. It didn't calm him so much as it rendered him insensible, and he was reduced to whimpers and little breathy noises in short order.
“Please, Watson...I need...I...need,” the detective panted, apparently not entirely sure what it was that he needed. Watson looked over his shoulder to see that his friend was thrusting his hips hopelessly into the air. Not unaffected himself, it took him only a few seconds to reach a decision about what he should do. It was amazing how good a haze of alcohol and lust was for pure logical reasoning.
In a movement as fluid as could be expected, given the circumstances, Watson heaved himself onto the settee, planting one knee firmly between Holmes' thighs, pressing against his groin, and the other on the other side of his leg. The effect was instantaneous. The detective let loose a groan which seemed to come from the very depths of his being. Watson felt himself grin broadly with satisfaction at being able to elicit such an enthusiastic reaction from the usually aloof man now writhing under him.
“Oh God yes, thank you,” please and thank you. Interesting that this was how one got some manners out of Holmes, Watson found himself thinking. He would have termed it absurd, but the word lost all meaning in relation to the great detective. He couldn't have stopped himself from kissing his friend even if he'd wanted to, at that moment.
Watson could feel the detective making all sorts of noises into his mouth and he knew he was by now returning the favour. He broke off from Holmes' lips to kiss the tip of his nose, and along his roughly stubbled jaw, and down his wonderfully pale neck, the tendons of which stood out with the strain he was under at present. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Watson allowed his arms to collapse and rested his elbows on either side of Holmes, laying himself along the other man's body and trying (not especially hard, mind) not to crush him. His mind offered him a brief flash of what they must look like, both mostly-clothed and rutting frantically together, but the doctor could not bring himself to care at present.
Holmes' orgasm seemed to come as a shock to even the detective himself. He cried out briefly, freezing for a moment and then relaxing so completely that Watson wondered for a second if he might have passed out. Forgetting about his own arousal for the moment, the doctor leaned down and brushed each eyelid with his lips, earning a sigh and a smile, and let himself relax into his friend.
After a few moments of stillness, Holmes' eyes opened, still a little glazed over. “I see you have discovered my weakness,” he smiled slowly, “you are honour bound to tell me yours.”
Watson wondered if that was actually how honour worked, but answered anyway, “Well,” he began, returning Holmes' smile, “I have always harboured a fascination with your mouth.”
“Really?” the detective started to reply, simultaneously executing a graceful movement which left Watson on his back on the settee and Holmes standing beside him, “well, we'll have to see about that, then.”
Word Count: 2042
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None that I can see.
Warnings: Nothing besides the rating.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, for the prompt - OR I could imagine Holmes having a rather...uncommon errogenous zone, like his eyelids, and getting really worked up when Watson caresses them. Like really worked up. Maybe more than he was even aware of himself...
Might have veered off a little sideways, but there is definitely eyelid kink to be had.
<><><>
The first time the doctor had noticed his friend's peculiar sensitivity, he had been cleaning a cut on the detective's eyebrow. At first, he had thought the gasp had been one of pain, but Holmes had been quiet so far and was not in need of sympathy. He continued to clean the cut, but again brushed his fingertip against his friend's eyelid, and again there was a little gasp and now a slight flush to his cheeks. Very strange, but then those were two words he often considered in connection with Holmes, so he thought nothing more of it.
It wasn't until, more than a month later, he found Holmes passed out on the settee under the influence of God only knew what that he had occasion to touch his friend's eyes again. He had intended to check his pupils in the hopes of finding out more about his condition, and if he should be worried (he could see that he was still breathing, thankfully, but that didn't mean he was all right) but he had no sooner touched Holmes' closed eyelid with his still-gloved hand than the other man sat up abruptly, eyes wide open and looking wildly about him, an iron grip of delicate fingers closed around Watson's wrist. He stared for a few seconds, eyes out of focus, and drew in a few harsh breaths before easing his hold.
Not completely devoid of any deductive ability himself, Watson began to draw some conclusions of his own about the two incidents. The first reaction could easily have been to the pain, and the second to the surprise and whatever foreign substances had been coursing through his system at the time. But the reactions were similar, and if nothing else, Watson had a lot of confidence in his memory, and he was certain that they had both been directly after he had touched Holmes' eyelid. Perhaps they were particularly sensitive? It would hardly be the strangest thing about the man. Still, as he had heard the detective say countless times before, he needed more data to form a conclusion. Upon assuring himself that it was simple medical curiosity, he decided to investigate the matter further. Irrationally, he found himself thinking that Holmes would be proud of him for his efforts thus far.
It was two weeks after the previous incident on the settee that Watson stumbled, partly because of the cold affecting his leg, and partly because he was just a little inebriated, into the sitting room of 221b to find Holmes once again unconscious, draped across the furniture. The doctor determined that he was asleep, as opposed to passed out or dead, as there was a book which had fallen open, face-down on his chest, with a hand still grasping it lightly, and he was snoring softly. Not that Watson would ever tell the great Sherlock Holmes that he snored, because that would surely be an insult beyond measure. Only common people snored, no doubt. Watson snorted at the thought. It was entirely possible that he was a touch more inebriated than he had initially believed.
His mind flitted back to thoughts of Holmes and his eyelids. They were nice eyelids, certainly. Well, as much as eyelids could be, Watson thought. But more importantly, he had wanted to find out more about the apparent unusual sensitivity linked to them. While the good doctor had been thinking, he had unconsciously made his way over to the settee, and was leaning in rather close to his friend. Deciding that now was as good a time as any (if not perhaps better since Holmes was infinitely easier to deal with when he was asleep), Watson pulled one glove off and gently brushed a finger over Holmes' right eyelid. The other man let out a tiny gasp, but remained very much asleep. Intrigued, Watson pulled his other glove off and sat down on the floor, sore leg forgotten, and leaned over to look into his friend's sleeping face.
Tracing his fingertips over the almost translucent skin which covered Holmes' eyes, Watson watched again for any kind of reaction. He was not disappointed when he noticed a little colour coming to the detective's cheeks, and when he pressed a finger against his throat, the pulse there was a little quicker than usual. He continued to trace lightly, almost hypnotised by reactions he was eliciting. Determined to get as much from this little experiment as he could, Watson took hold of Holmes' head with one hand, fingers threading into his hair so he could continue to stroke with his thumb. He leaned in so close that he could feel Holmes' breath on his cheek.
“Watson.”
The doctor jumped, thinking he had woken his friend. He remained very still for a long moment, waiting for the eyes he had just been examining so closely to open, but they didn't. Watson realised, with a little surge of...something...that Holmes had mumbled his name in his sleep. That was an interesting bit of information. More than casually interested now, and faced with the possibility of learning some deep truths about his friend and companion, Watson raised himself on to his knees so he could lean further over, to more easily continue what he was doing. First things first, he carefully extracted the book from Holmes' tenuous grasp and set it on the floor - he refused to be held responsible for any harm which befell the volume.
Settling in to place again, Watson resumed his earlier investigations, brushing in what he imagined was a soothing manner with his thumb and watching Holmes' face closely. The snoring had stopped, and an odd look of deep concentration had settled over the detective's features. Watson didn't bother to fight the urge to smooth his friend's brow with his unoccupied hand, and he felt a smile quirk his lips as Holmes' features relaxed again. He brought the second hand down to trace lightly over the dark smudges under the other man's eyes before moving it to the other eyelid. Somewhere along the line his other thumb had stopped moving, and now rested lightly against Holmes' eyebrow. He smoothed along the dark hair there, stopping to examine the faint scar left by the injury that had started his investigation. He continued to stroke absently as he took the opportunity to really look at Holmes, as he never had before.
It was strange, looking at his friend's face without the usually over-bright, clever eyes staring back at him. With the distraction of Holmes' eye taken away, his face took on a eerie sort of beauty. Pale skin contrasted sharply with dark hair, thick eyelashes laying peacefully for once against high, sharp cheekbones which created dramatic planes and emphasised the premature ageing which looked more like a warm kind of wisdom beyond his years than the effects of completely ignoring his health, often to the point of collapse. He could accuse Holmes of cold-hearted brutality as often as he liked, and on most days the detective would heartily agree and even revel in the description, but his face, relaxed in sleep, betrayed a softness which didn't often show but underpinned his need to help people, his ability to show compassion towards the varied plights of men and women of every class. He would argue, if he was aware of this line of thought, that he merely went where the best puzzles were, but Watson knew better. He sighed deeply as he considered the man before him, and then belatedly remembered that he had been performing an investigation.
Getting back to work, this time with a renewed purpose, Watson watched as Holmes' face flushed and his breathing quickened in response to a combination of gentle tapping and stroking over what the doctor had now decided were the most unusually sensitive eyelids in existence. He had a fleeting thought about writing a monograph on the subject, but decided it would be better to leave that sort of thing to Holmes. A breathy little “mmph” sound, which Holmes made without waking or even opening his mouth was Watson's first clue that he wasn't getting just any reaction. When Holmes started wriggling, at first minutely and then in a way that was impossible to ignore (and, Watson realised later, impossible to sleep through), the doctor couldn't stop himself from looking down his friend's body, where his incredibly well-cut trousers did nothing to hide his predicament.
“Oh God,” Watson swallowed with a mixture of fascination and terror. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him that he shouldn't be seeing Holmes like this, but it was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears and another voice with a different opinion.
At that moment, Holmes and his impeccable sense of timing spoke up, “Oh God, Watson, please, don't stop. Oh, please...anything...just keep going.” he rambled on until Watson threaded both hands through his hair, leaving his thumbs free to stroke at his friend's eyelids. It didn't calm him so much as it rendered him insensible, and he was reduced to whimpers and little breathy noises in short order.
“Please, Watson...I need...I...need,” the detective panted, apparently not entirely sure what it was that he needed. Watson looked over his shoulder to see that his friend was thrusting his hips hopelessly into the air. Not unaffected himself, it took him only a few seconds to reach a decision about what he should do. It was amazing how good a haze of alcohol and lust was for pure logical reasoning.
In a movement as fluid as could be expected, given the circumstances, Watson heaved himself onto the settee, planting one knee firmly between Holmes' thighs, pressing against his groin, and the other on the other side of his leg. The effect was instantaneous. The detective let loose a groan which seemed to come from the very depths of his being. Watson felt himself grin broadly with satisfaction at being able to elicit such an enthusiastic reaction from the usually aloof man now writhing under him.
“Oh God yes, thank you,” please and thank you. Interesting that this was how one got some manners out of Holmes, Watson found himself thinking. He would have termed it absurd, but the word lost all meaning in relation to the great detective. He couldn't have stopped himself from kissing his friend even if he'd wanted to, at that moment.
Watson could feel the detective making all sorts of noises into his mouth and he knew he was by now returning the favour. He broke off from Holmes' lips to kiss the tip of his nose, and along his roughly stubbled jaw, and down his wonderfully pale neck, the tendons of which stood out with the strain he was under at present. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Watson allowed his arms to collapse and rested his elbows on either side of Holmes, laying himself along the other man's body and trying (not especially hard, mind) not to crush him. His mind offered him a brief flash of what they must look like, both mostly-clothed and rutting frantically together, but the doctor could not bring himself to care at present.
Holmes' orgasm seemed to come as a shock to even the detective himself. He cried out briefly, freezing for a moment and then relaxing so completely that Watson wondered for a second if he might have passed out. Forgetting about his own arousal for the moment, the doctor leaned down and brushed each eyelid with his lips, earning a sigh and a smile, and let himself relax into his friend.
After a few moments of stillness, Holmes' eyes opened, still a little glazed over. “I see you have discovered my weakness,” he smiled slowly, “you are honour bound to tell me yours.”
Watson wondered if that was actually how honour worked, but answered anyway, “Well,” he began, returning Holmes' smile, “I have always harboured a fascination with your mouth.”
“Really?” the detective started to reply, simultaneously executing a graceful movement which left Watson on his back on the settee and Holmes standing beside him, “well, we'll have to see about that, then.”