Sherlock Holmes - The Effects of Proximity
Title: The Effects of Proximity
Word Count: 968
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None
Warnings: I suppose this is arguably non-con, but certainly not in the usual sense.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, I am de-annoning because of my insane need to archive. (And my complete lack of shame)
As did occasionally happen, the latest case of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had taken them out of London and into the countryside. Derbyshire, this time, but that was of little consequence.
What was of great consequence, as far as one Dr. Watson was concerned, was their accommodations. The tiny, narrow room housed a single tiny, narrow bed. The room was so small, in fact, that whilst Holmes had generously offered to yield the bed to his friend - and sleep on the floor - this was not actually physically possible, as the bed took up all of the floor space save enough at it's end to allow one to stand at the foot of it - the door, incidentally, opened into the hall for this reason.
The case had been solved within hours of their arrival, and that delay was mostly due to the suspect's absence - it had turned out, in a terribly stereotypical series of events, that the butler had indeed done it. It had almost not been worth their time coming here, and if the blasted woman who had summoned them had possessed the good sense to lay out the details of the case in full in her letter, then the whole thing would have been solved from the comfort of their sitting room. Alas, the world is not a perfect place, and now that it was too late to head home before morning, the issue of sleeping arrangements was one of some importance.
Holmes had stated that he would be happy to remain in the sitting room of the guest house they were staying in, however the woman who ran the establishment expressly forbade it (wisely, Watson thought) and Holmes seemed genuinely tired, and this was rare enough in itself to bear the discomfort of sharing a bed. Besides, Watson reasoned, it was a cold evening and the extra warmth could only be a good thing. He ignored the tiny voice that told him this was a Bad Idea.
Getting into their nightclothes proved the first of the evening's problems - there was simply not enough room for two fully grown men in the two square feet of space at the end of the bed. The solution, Holmes ingeniously decided, was that he would stand on the bed and change. This would have been fine had it not meant that Watson's line of sight was perfectly level with his friend's groin. He made every effort to look away, but Holmes' threadbare undergarments left little to the imagination, and his apparent inability to refrain from bouncing on the bed was incredibly distracting.
“You'll ruin the mattress if you keep doing that.” Watson scolded.
“That might bother me if it were my bed.” Holmes replied, unperturbed. Watson couldn't begrudge him the sentiment, he was annoyed enough with the arrangements, but someone had to be responsible and it was never going to be Holmes.
“It is our bed,” Watson felt a slight tingle at the 'our' in reference to the bed, “for the evening, which means it is half mine and I would like this to be as comfortable as possible, and hopefully not involve either one of us being impaled by broken piece of cane, if that is all right with you?”
Holmes stopped bouncing. He pouted a little, which was not at all helpful in making him less...distracting. It was going to be a long night.
<><><>
Despite being bone tired, Watson finds that sleep simply will not come. He has been hard since shortly before Holmes got into the narrow bed and proceeded to take up three quarters of it. The fact that the man who he has been too afraid to admit his attraction to since they met is lying practically on top of him does not help. And he is so warm, and fits so nicely against him, and is making wonderful little snuffling sounds as he tries to bury himself further into the pillow. The pillow which he has taken full possession of.
Watson is only slightly perturbed that the usually restless man is sleeping soundly, whilst he is unable to enjoy the same luxury.
Holmes shifts against him, and Watson's cock brushes against his thigh. The doctor gasps quietly at the sensation. He wonders if it would be so terrible if he...
No.
No, he will not abuse his friend's trust like that.
But Holmes would never have to know. And this may be the only chance he ever gets to be close to him like this. He shifts again so as to enjoy some further friction. It wouldn't hurt the other man at all, if he just sort of...rubbed against him.
It would be wrong, but it would be a victimless crime. And dammit, he needs to sleep.
He rocks against the detective again. And again. Biting his lip, he builds up a rhythm which quickly becomes frantic. He finds himself rutting wildly, swallowing back moans of pleasure as he speeds towards release. He cannot quite stifle the “Oh” as he finally comes, but it does not appear to disturb Holmes at all, who seems to sleep like the dead. Odd, Watson thinks, but doesn't worry himself over it. Everything about Holmes is odd.
He checks briefly that the mess is contained within his own nightclothes, and on finding that it is, allows himself to fall into a contented sleep.
He does not see Holmes open his eyes, does not hear him sigh, and does not feel the other man's efforts to quell his own need. He also does not see the blissful smile on his bedmate's face as he comes, satisfied in the knowledge that he can have something he has wanted for such a long time, provided he works gently.
Word Count: 968
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Spoilers: None
Warnings: I suppose this is arguably non-con, but certainly not in the usual sense.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes:Originally for the sherlockkink meme, I am de-annoning because of my insane need to archive. (And my complete lack of shame)
As did occasionally happen, the latest case of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had taken them out of London and into the countryside. Derbyshire, this time, but that was of little consequence.
What was of great consequence, as far as one Dr. Watson was concerned, was their accommodations. The tiny, narrow room housed a single tiny, narrow bed. The room was so small, in fact, that whilst Holmes had generously offered to yield the bed to his friend - and sleep on the floor - this was not actually physically possible, as the bed took up all of the floor space save enough at it's end to allow one to stand at the foot of it - the door, incidentally, opened into the hall for this reason.
The case had been solved within hours of their arrival, and that delay was mostly due to the suspect's absence - it had turned out, in a terribly stereotypical series of events, that the butler had indeed done it. It had almost not been worth their time coming here, and if the blasted woman who had summoned them had possessed the good sense to lay out the details of the case in full in her letter, then the whole thing would have been solved from the comfort of their sitting room. Alas, the world is not a perfect place, and now that it was too late to head home before morning, the issue of sleeping arrangements was one of some importance.
Holmes had stated that he would be happy to remain in the sitting room of the guest house they were staying in, however the woman who ran the establishment expressly forbade it (wisely, Watson thought) and Holmes seemed genuinely tired, and this was rare enough in itself to bear the discomfort of sharing a bed. Besides, Watson reasoned, it was a cold evening and the extra warmth could only be a good thing. He ignored the tiny voice that told him this was a Bad Idea.
Getting into their nightclothes proved the first of the evening's problems - there was simply not enough room for two fully grown men in the two square feet of space at the end of the bed. The solution, Holmes ingeniously decided, was that he would stand on the bed and change. This would have been fine had it not meant that Watson's line of sight was perfectly level with his friend's groin. He made every effort to look away, but Holmes' threadbare undergarments left little to the imagination, and his apparent inability to refrain from bouncing on the bed was incredibly distracting.
“You'll ruin the mattress if you keep doing that.” Watson scolded.
“That might bother me if it were my bed.” Holmes replied, unperturbed. Watson couldn't begrudge him the sentiment, he was annoyed enough with the arrangements, but someone had to be responsible and it was never going to be Holmes.
“It is our bed,” Watson felt a slight tingle at the 'our' in reference to the bed, “for the evening, which means it is half mine and I would like this to be as comfortable as possible, and hopefully not involve either one of us being impaled by broken piece of cane, if that is all right with you?”
Holmes stopped bouncing. He pouted a little, which was not at all helpful in making him less...distracting. It was going to be a long night.
<><><>
Despite being bone tired, Watson finds that sleep simply will not come. He has been hard since shortly before Holmes got into the narrow bed and proceeded to take up three quarters of it. The fact that the man who he has been too afraid to admit his attraction to since they met is lying practically on top of him does not help. And he is so warm, and fits so nicely against him, and is making wonderful little snuffling sounds as he tries to bury himself further into the pillow. The pillow which he has taken full possession of.
Watson is only slightly perturbed that the usually restless man is sleeping soundly, whilst he is unable to enjoy the same luxury.
Holmes shifts against him, and Watson's cock brushes against his thigh. The doctor gasps quietly at the sensation. He wonders if it would be so terrible if he...
No.
No, he will not abuse his friend's trust like that.
But Holmes would never have to know. And this may be the only chance he ever gets to be close to him like this. He shifts again so as to enjoy some further friction. It wouldn't hurt the other man at all, if he just sort of...rubbed against him.
It would be wrong, but it would be a victimless crime. And dammit, he needs to sleep.
He rocks against the detective again. And again. Biting his lip, he builds up a rhythm which quickly becomes frantic. He finds himself rutting wildly, swallowing back moans of pleasure as he speeds towards release. He cannot quite stifle the “Oh” as he finally comes, but it does not appear to disturb Holmes at all, who seems to sleep like the dead. Odd, Watson thinks, but doesn't worry himself over it. Everything about Holmes is odd.
He checks briefly that the mess is contained within his own nightclothes, and on finding that it is, allows himself to fall into a contented sleep.
He does not see Holmes open his eyes, does not hear him sigh, and does not feel the other man's efforts to quell his own need. He also does not see the blissful smile on his bedmate's face as he comes, satisfied in the knowledge that he can have something he has wanted for such a long time, provided he works gently.