(no subject)

[mustbetruth]

Warning: Adult times of an NC17 nature.

1 | 2

Holmes: The trip back from London is long and a little stressful, as Holmes feels the need to look as casually as possible for anyone who may be following them, or anyone who may attempt to murder them on the way back to their home. Interviewing the maid had been largely unhelpful, and Holmes could have acquired any number of enemies throughout his line of work. He isn't sure what he can do until more information presents itself -- and he's certain that some will because someone who tries to kill him with a snake is obviously an independent thinker and unlikely to give up. They return to London without incident, however, and they aren't followed. He's certain that their actions are being monitored, but the informant is not on the train with them.

It's just as well. Holmes struggles with being on edge and alert while also being rather charmingly in love with Watson. He'll have to get better at wrangling his emotions in, and he's a little alarmed that he's having such trouble as it is -- but he's reluctant to stop indulging himself in the happiness that's brewing between them. He's due some happiness in that regard, isn't he?

Baker St. is a welcome sight after everything, though an unpleasant thought occurs to him as he steps into their rooms. Frowning thoughtfully, he pauses just inside the door and holds an arm out, stopping Watson's progress.

"I ought to check the room," he murmurs, scanning it slowly with his eyes as he speaks.

Watson: It was good to be home. Home, after so long. London, reassuring and noisy and thick. The Continent had been exciting, exotic, thrilling, and the company had been better, but it was good to be home, at last. The horror of their near-death experience was all very harrowing, but it was in the past, and no further threat had so far presented itself.

He'd been very eager to ascend those last seventeen steps and return to their familiar sitting room, but Watson stopped short at Holmes's words. He couldn't deny the wisdom of this suggestion, although he would have preferred to simply collapse down into his favourite chair and be content.

He nodded. "Go on, then."

Holmes: Though he's eager to complete the search and simply be at home, he forces himself to go slowly, to be sure that he searches thoroughly. If he misses something, they may not be so lucky this time. After a careful search, he sees only the signs of Mrs. Hudson's influence in the room, and he stops at each window to look for anything suspicious outside. Before he can call his search complete, he slips into his room and investigates there as well. It wouldn't do for a snake to come slithering out during the evening, after all.

"All clear," he announces as he steps out of his room and flashes Watson a smile. "I'll have to check your room, but that can wait for now."

He flops down on their sofa, sighing contentedly. "It feels an age since we've been here."

Watson: atson was about to collapse down into his chair before he decided the one thing they were missing was a cosy fire. He knelt down at the hearth and began to build a fire, helping himself to a scoop of coal from the coal scuttle and some discarded paper to be kindling, and then a match.

It wasn't long before he had a fire crackling away in the fireplace, and he rose from the floor to turn towards Holmes, smiling. He decided to join him there on the sofa rather than his own chair, as comfortable as it was.

Surprisingly content, Watson settled himself next to Holmes. "Well," he said. "We are home again, and now we may attempt to settle ourselves back into our lives after a pleasant trip, barring one or two minor mishaps."

Holmes: He shifts closer to Watson almost immediately, pressing himself close against him, and he catches him in a tender kiss. He can't help it; one of his favorite things to do lately is to have this first kiss, fresh from a day where they weren't allowed much contact.

"It was an eventful trip," he murmurs, smiling as he draws out of the kiss. "We should have expected that our vacation would unfold like that. We attract adventure, my dear."

Watson: Watson leaned into that kiss gladly, putting his arms loosely around Holmes. He was ridiculously pleased about it; for all his persistent reluctance, there was nothing to dislike about being kissed like that. "We do," he agreed softly. "But I cannot say that there wasn't a trifling amount of adventure I could have gone without, if you don't mind my saying. Still, at least it ended well."

He kissed Holmes again, and settled himself against him. "You've said very little about it, actually. Are you keeping anything from me? Anything I ought to know?"

Holmes: "I wish I was," he says lightly, though he means it. "I know very little about whoever planted that snake, except that they didn't follow us back on the train. Undoubtedly they know we've returned to London and will be seeking yet another creative way to take care of us."

Hardly the happy conversation he'd like to have with his lover in his arms, but it's possibly a necessary one. He doesn't mind revealing he knows nothing; if he had information, however, he doesn't know if he would tell Watson. He'd be safer.

"Better that they come at us here, however. We stand a chance of finding out who they are here, better than we did in Italy."

Watson: "Mm. I suppose we will have to be very careful," Watson said quietly. "But we do have allies here, at least. I admit I'm glad to see Mrs. Hudson has been well in our absence, and that no one has thought to target her."

He settled his head against Holmes's shoulder, comfortable despite the dark turn of his thoughts. It was hard to think of all the things that could go wrong, all the reasons to not pursue this, not when he was so comfortable and content lying on the sofa witih Holmes.

He hoped they had allies. He hoped Lestrade had not thought better of his silence.

Holmes: "Yes, that is very fortunate," he says mildly, though that is a point of concern. Will she become a target now that they're home? He's never been more grateful for not being too close to their housekeeper. Not that he isn't extraordinarily fond of her, but if they aren't too close, perhaps their pursuers wouldn't think of using her.

He knows so little about them, about their nature, that he can't rule out the prospect that they would possibly use Mrs. Hudson, somehow. He hopes that's too drastic -- that that wouldn't happen, but he has a very dark feeling about it all.

A very dark feeling that keeps getting clouded over with a very good feeling, as Watson is snuggled so comfortably against him, his hesitancy gone.

"I do think we have allies. We'll have to ask Lestrade out to dinner, or to a drink," he murmurs thoughtfully, his nose wrinkling slightly. "At least of all the inspectors to walk in on us, it was Lestrade. I don't mind his company."

Watson: "Not a bad idea," Watson said quietly. It had dawned on him, rather suddenly, that he was extraordinarily comfortable. The vacation really had done a world of good. He was far more comfortable sprawled like this with Holmes than he had before. The illegality was still troubling, but it was easier, somehow, to let go of that fact. "I rather hope dinner with us won't make him terribly uneasy, after so much awkwardness."

He took Holmes's hand in his, considering the moment. Part of him wanted very much to add a couple glasses of brandy to the moment, while part of him had no desire to move, at all, ever. "What is our next task, then, our plan of attack, if you will?"

Holmes: "I'm not sure." He kisses Watson's hair lightly, his eyes on their joined hands. It's comforting that Watson now is so at ease; he feels less like he's corrupting someone now, which had always dampened the mood at bit. "We may need to wait for them to take action again. The trail was too difficult to follow in Italy."

Even if he did know what to do, he doesn't know if telling Watson would be the best idea. He'll mention it to Mycroft -- Mycroft's name isn't well known, but people who plant snakes may very well be knowledgeable about Mycroft's influence -- and undoubtedly they'll find out what they can. He'll have to pay closer attention to Baker st. and who comes and goes.

"Hopefully if we take dinner out somewhere, it will ease some of the awkwardness. I'm not sure when we'll be able to have Lestrade over here again without it being extremely uncomfortable." He smirks, kissing Watson's hair again.

Watson: "I take it that we won't be having too many visits from him in the near future, then," Watson said. It sounded to him like things would be very awkward between the three of them, although awkward was still a very great deal better than the way things could have turned out.

It wasn't any easier to think of that now, with the distance of some time.

"Well. I will be as alert as I can to anything out of the ordinary," Watson said, doubtfully. "I shall be doubly vigilant for snakes, although I rather doubt that's his only weapon of choice."

Holmes: "No, I don't think we'll encounter deadly snakes again, but with that as a starting point, it's hard to know what to anticipate next. At least it would be difficult to get a lion into our rooms." He smiles into Watson's hair and inhales subtly, breathing in his scent.

"I do think it would be prudent to work through the awkwardness with Lestrade. It would be better to cement a friendship with him then to let ourselves drift apart." He squeezes Watson's hand, then lifts it to his lips so that he can kiss it gently.

Watson: "I will be careful of peculiar, lion-shaped packages, then." Watson shifted, watching Holmes kiss his hand with a small smile on his face. "As well as snake-shaped packages, or venomous-spider-shaped packages."

He shut his eyes, thinking of Lestrade, thinking of trying to face him again. It wasn't encouraging, but then, they hadn't come to an immediate police welcome. He had to wonder if Lestrade had thought the pair of them had fled for good. He wasn't particularly looking forward to facing him again, but they couldn't put it off forever, not if there was going to be a return to criminal investigation.

And of course there would be that.

"Holmes," he murmured, "are we supposed to discuss this with him? Or are we simply going to say nothing and hope for the best?"

Holmes: "I didn't plan to discuss this with him over dinner in public," he drawls, linking his fingers with Watson's as he lowers their hands again. "I think that all depends on Lestrade, really, and what we can salvage of our relationship. A public meeting, an offering of friendship, will be starting that off on the right foot. I don't doubt that he could see it for what it is -- two worried men who are courting the man with their lives in his hands. How he handles that will determine how we proceed."

The fact that he's willing to go on a social outing with Lestrade is proof enough that he's very worried about this. They seem to have two threads to their lives hanging over their heads, which is incredibly unfair for a pair of lovers as comfortable with each other as they are.

"Maybe we could get him to join us some evening," he adds suggestively, his lips twitching in a smirk.

Watson: After a moment to consider this proposition, Watson began to laugh. He clapped his hand to his face and laughed helplessly, unable to form words. He was unable to avoid imagining this situation, unable to avoid seeing Lestrade naked.

"Maybe," he said, when he was able to speak, "I don't want to share. He's not bad looking in his way, I suppose, but I don't feel any desire to give up any part of you, now that I have you."

To say so, something so possessive, took him slightly aback, and his felt his cheeks grow slightly hot.

Holmes: Watson's merriment is catching, as always, though the mental image of the three of them is amusing... and perhaps a little alluring. But only in fantasy. He agrees with Watson's surprising and extremely satisfactory notion that they belong to each other, and no one else.

"A very good point," he says warmly, clearly pleased, and he cups Watson's face to draw him into a warm kiss that's distinctly possessive, to go along with the topic of conversation. "I feel the same, now that I have you."

Watson: How had this happened? This was still just a little bit unbelievable, and the idea that he had just spontaneously declared himself devoted to Holmes, to a man, was a little awing. But he was nevertheless so comfortable here, like this, so at home.

"Well then," he declared, "I suppose he will be out of luck if he thinks he has much of a chance of worming his way between us. It's his loss, but my gain."

He kissed him gently, and settled himself against Holmes's shoulder comfortably.

Holmes: How is it possible to let these threats to their safety dampen his spirits when Watson is so determined to make him happy? He's smiling now and can't bring himself to stop, and he has too much sudden energy to stay still much longer. He and Watson belong to each other. Watson's hesitance really seems to have vanished over their vacation, and Holmes can't regret it, even with the snake.

"Quite right, my dear." He leans in for another kiss before he begins to extract himself from Watson's side. "I could use some brandy, now that we're getting settled. Would you care for some?"

Once he's standing, he sheds his jacket. He's starting to really enjoy inviting the kind of casual atmosphere that permits him to go around jacket-less.

Watson: "Brandy would be wonderful," Watson said, resettling himself on the sofa after Holmes's departure. Taking Holmes's cue, he stripped himself of his own jacket, and tossed it rather haphazardly over the back of the sofa; he also went ahead and loosened his collar. They were home, they were (for the moment) safe, and there was no reason to not be comfortable.

He was in love. He, John H. Watson, was completely and helplessly in love with Sherlock Holmes, another man, and fighting that had proved impossible. It couldn't really be wrong, could it? As he watched Holmes now, it was hard to think of much else than his deep happiness.

"What a very considerate lover you are," he murmured, soft but faintly teasing.

Holmes: Now that they're home, he's noticing the change in Watson's attitude toward their relationship much more than he had in Italy; the progress had seemed natural then, and here he's comparing Watson to the one that had agreed to go on a vacation with him what feels like a very long ago. He can see it all over Watson now -- the love and the acceptance of the love -- and Holmes is happy to turn his head to pour the brandy and hide his ridiculous smile.

"It is my primary goal in life to accommodate those around me," he says dryly, pouring out two glasses of brandy, and he carries them back to Watson.

"I find it very easy to accommodate you," he says more softly and smiles warmly, easing himself back onto the sofa. "Maybe because I find the results so rewarding." He smiles playfully and looses his own collar.

Watson: After shifting just enough to let Holmes take a place beside him again, Watson settled back with his brandy. It was easy to just let go and let the moment wash over him. "I see," he said quietly. "You aim to spoil me. Well, so be it. If you must, I will put with such behaviour."

He leaned to give Holmes a kiss on the side of his throat, and leaned back to settle against him. He sipped his brandy thoughtfully.

Holmes: "I absolutely must," he says, sliding his hand along Watson's thigh to squeeze it lightly. "I enjoy spoiling you far too much to stop." He smiles flirtatiously, genuinely feeling almost shy, and he sips from his brandy. They've come a long way; to hear Watson joking so easily with him is remarkably exhilarating.

"You have a very handsome smile -- I can't resist bringing it to the surface."

Watson: Watson bit back a small inhalation of breath, and closed his eyes. "I don't need spoiling," he protested. "I can smile without you doting on me. Besides, I doubt that fetching me one glass of brandy is spoiling me. Surely I do the same for you often enough?"

He rested his hand on top of Holmes's on his thigh, sliding his fingertips in between Holmes's. "I think I might like to aim for something a little more equall, if it's all the same to you."

Holmes: "You are free to spoil me in return," he returns, grinning at the reaction he got out of Watson, only faintly worrying that Watson might feel too... coddled, too womanly as the result of what had been simply teasing banter. He leans in and kisses Watson's cheek softly.

"What do you suggest we aim for?" he murmurs softly and raises his brandy to his lips. "What sort of something equal?"

Watson: Watson hesitated on what he wanted to say for some moments, sipping his brandy, not sure if the heat in his face was the alcohol or his own salacious thoughts. Very possibly it was a combination of both.

"Well," he said at last, "I believe you've had the advantage of me in the bedroom, and you said something about my being able to have the advantage of you, at some point?" He look another slow mouthful of brandy. "That might be a good place to start."

Holmes: He hadn't dared to hope that Watson would be ready for sex again so soon after their unexpected encounter, so his eyebrows raise in extremely pleased surprise at the suggestion. He takes another sip of his brandy to get a hold on his emotions, and he squeezes Watson's thigh again lightly.

"I think that makes perfect sense." Holmes is already breathing unevenly. Taking the submissive role is usually a very different experience for him than taking the dominant one, far more intense. He's tingling in a pleasantly anticipatory way at the thought. "Shall we see to that this evening?"

Watson: "If you're quite certain," Watson said, smiling at Holmes faintly. He was aware on a deep level of how Holmes's breathing had changed, feeling it because he was leaning against him. He liked that. That was something he had always enjoyed in his sexual encounters in the past: not necessarily power over a partner, but affecting them in so profound a matter. "Tonight sounds quite acceptable to me. A sort of celebratory homecoming?"

He reached to lay his hand on Holmes's thigh, thinking as he sometimes did of just how different it was to touch a man in this way. The shape, the feel of a masculine leg, how strangely comfortable it was to sit like this, supported by a firm male body: these things were still new, and he was beginning to really appreciate them.

"Unless, of course," he murmured, "you're too tired by our long journey for such activities."

Holmes: "I would have to be on the verge of death to be too tired for such activities with you," he murmurs hotly near to Watson's ear before he traces the shell of his ear with his tongue and places a delicate kiss just behind his ear. He's definitely affected by Watson's suggestion and his overall demeanor; his confidence is part of what makes submitting so intense for Holmes, as he doesn't often give up control. When he does, it's almost exotic to him.

"There would be no better way to celebrate our first night home, my love. I am at your full disposal." He kisses softly, teasingly down the side of Watson's neck, and he doesn't have any idea if it's coming across to Watson, but Holmes feels as if he's submitting. The light kisses and touches -- he's not making any overtly bold moves, and it's... exciting. He trusts Watson not to do anything Holmes wouldn't approve of, but he also isn't sure how Watson will handle it. They've only had sex once, and it went by rather quickly (in retrospect, not in actual time, thank you). He's turning himself over to the unknown, and it's thrilling.

Watson: Watson shivered, closing his eyes. He was savouring the moment, trying to memorise it, Holmes's tone of voice and the delicate tracing of tongue and lips, the words my love, so surprisingly there, so perfect.

He turned, shifting his brandy glass to the other hand so that he could cup Holmes's face with his fingers, and he kissed Holmes, hotly and deeply, lingering. It was strange to imagine this, to imaging fucking Holmes, in the comfort of their own home.

"You're very eager," he observed, just above a whisper. There was a smile on his face, and in his voice. "Aren't you?" He sighed, kissing him again. "Where should I do this, then? Whose bedroom?"

Holmes: At Watson's words, Holmes flushes, frantically trying to sort out what Watson's angle is. The way he phrases it -- Where shall I do this? -- has a rather erotically possessive overtone. He feels very virginal underneath Watson's smile, and it's rather tantalizing the way Watson can make him feel. Entirely unpredictable. That's why he's in love with him, isn't it? The kisses are perfect, and he returns them eagerly, carefully clutching his brandy and counting the moments to when he can discard it.

"I am, yes," he returns breathlessly, and though he's almost ashamed of how he's acting, he's mostly enjoying the role. But then he has to think about something beyond the way Watson will look and sound -- let alone feel -- when he's sodding Holmes, and he blinks, considering. His room is closer, more convenient, but this is Watson's show tonight. Would his room not be more appropriate?

"Your room," he says, deciding, and he presses close for another heated kiss.

Watson: Nodding slightly, Watson gladly gave in to taking another kiss. "I suppose we must make sure we remain at least somewhat presentable in order to climb the stairs."

It would be strange, to get up and move and to have to begin the whole process of getting into the heat of the moment again. It would be strange, to enact such sordid acts upon Holmes and to have full permission to do so. It was unnerving, for a different reason than it had been in the hotel room in Rome, but he thought he could do this.

Watson slid his hand over Holmes's front, almost contemplatively. "Now?" he asked. "Or would you prefer to finish your drink first? Shall we call for a light supper?"

Holmes: There's a dilemma. Should he go now and reveal how increasingly desperate he is? Should he play it calm and say no, after his drink? He takes a shaky breath, his eyes closing briefly at Watson's hand on his chest. The roles have certainly bee reversed, and while that's frightening for Holmes on some levels, mostly he's enjoying the sense of danger and uncertainty.

He's already glad he opted for Watson's room. The climb up the stairs will inevitably be filled with restrained sexual tension, and perhaps when they get up there he'll be able to initiate the removal of clothes in some alluringly submissive way. Drop to his knees? Sprawl on the bed? He suppresses a shiver of lust at both prospects.

"What would you think of me if I begged now?" he asks, voice strained, and he takes a sip of his brandy. There. Stalling seems a good route to take between desperate and falsely relaxed.

Watson: Watson swallowed hard. This was suddenly moving very quickly in very unusual ways, and he wasn't sure what to think, how to react. The tone that was creeping into Holmes's voice was overwhelming, and wonderful, and incredible. He was used to Holmes having the upper hand, in all their life, but to think of Holmes begging... it was both strangely alluring and somewhat disturbing. It made him hungry, whatever else.

He kissed him, hard, tasting brandy. "I don't think you need to beg," he said, rather hoarse, when he had the breath for it. "If anything, you might need me to rein myself in. But if you wish to beg...." He swallowed again, his mouth feeling very dry. "I don't think I could do anything but comply."

His brandy was in the way. It was becoming a problem. He drained the last of it in one gulp, and leaned over Holmes to set the empty glass aside, and then drew back to fall upon Holmes's throat with several kisses.

Holmes: Holmes can hardly breathe for all the tension between them, though the kiss has something to do with it too, he's sure. It isn't entirely common for Holmes to shut off his brain; he usually always thinks one step ahead at least and then compares the expected results with the actual results, but just now, Holmes's mind can't really think beyond the mere suggestion that he might need to rein Watson in. His thoughts are rather scrambled, and he quickly finishes off his brandy and sets it aside, hoping to restore a little sanity to himself.

"I don't think you need to rein yourself in," he returns breathlessly, tilting his chin to allow Watson access as he slides his hand into Watson's hair. "I'd much rather you unleashed yourself entirely." He tugs Watson -- not too gently -- away from his neck and into a hard kiss, thinking only belatedly that he isn't in control just now, but he can't quite regret the kiss.

"Now, please," he gasps as he pulls away, and he isn't ashamed to sound so eager either. He senses he isn't the only one feeling a little desperate here. He slides his hand heavily down Watson's chest, just to the side of his buttons. "I couldn't wait any longer. Especially if we must remain decent."

Watson: This was overwhelming, incredibly so. Watson almost didn't know how to react to seeing Holmes like this, simply because it was so different to how things usually were. Holmes was very nearly begging, he wanted this, and... well, he certainly couldn't think less of Holmes for wanting to be sodded, not like this. He was feeling, in fact, rather overwhelmed about the idea that Holmes wanted him, of all people, to take him.

And he certainly didn't think less of Holmes, not for this. Far from it.

He leaned in to give Holmes a last, hungry kiss, before drawing back again. If he wanted to make it upstairs at all, he would have to let Holmes go now, as reluctant as he was. He smoothed his hands over Holmes's front, trying to reassure himself that very soon, he would have Holmes entirely at his disposal. Soon.

"Let's not waste time, then," Watson sad, his voice hoarse, and hungry.

Holmes: He remembers, again, that Watson is a military men; that kind of training never leaves you, and Holmes briefly entertains that he can see some of that training in Watson now. People are allowed their fantasies; military men have always been his, and he's imagined from time to time what Watson would look like in his uniform, and what he might order Holmes to do while wearing it. And while not wearing it, or anything else for that matter. That their second time would be entering this kind of territory is... wonderful, and surprising.

"Very well." He tears himself away from Watson and crosses the room to tear open his bag before he takes a breath and slows his movements. It's possible some of his eagerness is related to the fact that they're about to have sex at all, and that Watson is starting it himself. He's certainly surprised by it but he isn't about to shy away from it. Recovering the all important bottle, he turns to Watson, his heart racing thrillingly with anticipation.

"Lead the way," he says, his eyes dark with lust. "I follow your direction tonight."

Watson: Watson took the bottle, looking at it with a mixture of interest and faint worry; he was hoping he was up to this.

"I give the orders, tonight?" He gave Holmes a hungry sort of smile. "How novel." He glanced at his discarded jacket, and decided abruptly it wasn't worth gathering up. He moved to the door, feeling eager and impatient, moreso with every passing moment. "Well, I hope you don't plan on keeping me waiting."

Holmes: "Not at all," he says smoothly, nearly purring, as the distance between himself and Watson allows him to regain some of his composure. It won't be long until he's gasping again, he's sure, and that thought is a little unsettling to him; submission is not normal for him, but he can tell that Watson is uncertain about whether or not he wants to submit all the time either. It's all too easy to give Watson something he might need, particularly when it comes in such a delicious package as this game.

"And yes, you are giving the orders tonight. I reserve the right to disobey." He gives Watson a playful smile that's between dangerous and lustful before he starts up the stairs, grateful for a chance to turn his back on Watson. The sheer sexuality between them is incredible; thank God they tumbled into bed when they did because clearly they need to have sex, and they need to have it often.

Watson: Following, Watson had to smile, a dark and hungry sort of smile. There was something almost reassuring about hearing Holmes claim the right to disobedience; it was more characteristic of him, and he wasn't sure he liked the idea of dominating so much if it meant seeing Holmes in... in some other, submissive persona. That wouldn't have been Holmes, but this? This was.

He came up behind Holmes at the top of the stairs, and put his hand on his back. "You always disobey anything you don't feel entirely committed to," he murmured. "At least, this has been the case as far as I've known you. Are you planning on changing your mind on me now?"

Watson doubted it, and he certainly hoped not, not at this stage. He reached around Holmes to reach the doorknob, drawing close. He had taken a girl like this before, a particularly imaginative and adventurous young woman with concerns of pregnancy he had known years before, and that had been good, but this... this had every promise of being quite different. He was feeling distinctly eager.

Holmes: Seductive Watson never fails to give him a thrill, and he leans into Watson, taking full advantage of their bodies being so close. He can't begin to guess what will happen beyond this door; while he's in charge, he usually runs through several scenarios, but he's resisting the impulse to imagine the possibilities, for once. He'd like to be surprised, and he'd like to see where Watson will lead him.

"If I'm inclined to disobey, it's because I sense a better outcome from a different path." He steps into Watson's room and turns to face him, smiling darkly. "If I disobey you at such a critical moment as this, rest assured my commitment to you isn't wavering. In fact, I may be indulging myself in it."

Reaching up, he undoes his collar and pulls it off, casually dropping it to the floor. His smile is dark, and inviting, and daring.

Watson: Watson shut the door behind him, and locked it without looking. He couldn't bear to take his eyes off Holmes for any length of time. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, somewhat distractedly. He lifted his gaze from Holmes's bare throat to his face, and with a smile, he stepped forward, sliding his hands around Holmes's waist while he descended upon him with a hard and hungry kiss.

He had Holmes more or less at his mercy, now. That was an overwhelming thought, and a wonderful one.

"For my own part," he murmured, "I plan on indulging myself in you as much as possible." With his mouth on Holmes's throat, he began to work at his buttons. He could hardly think far enough ahead to remember what he was planning on doing, but for now he felt like just drowning himself in Holmes's presence.

Holmes: He hopes this isn't just the fires of a beginning passion; he hopes that their sex will always be this predatory, this sexual. For a moment he simply lets himself be overwhelmed with the feeling of being devoured by Watson, not that he had much of a choice. When Watson sets to his throat like that, Holmes nearly moans; instead he gasps, and his mouth doesn't manage to close for an embarrassingly long couple of seconds.

Soon, though, he reaches between them to start on Watson's buttons. He may be submissive this time, but he isn't passive.

"Then by all means, indulge yourself," he says throatily, knowing it was a weak retort, but he can't think clearly enough to say anything else.

Watson: That was very much a nearly-perfect reaction, exactly what Watson had hoped so. He hardly knew what he was doing, had the general feeling that he was moving along completely blind, that he was drowning in Holmes. It was wonderfully, beautifully overwhelming.

Watson drew back enough to let Holmes work on his buttons, and he smoothed his own palms over Holmes's front before slipping his fingers under his shirt and over his bare skin. He pressed forward, hoping to guide them back towards his bed. He wanted a return, very soon, to the cosiness of their position on the couch downstairs. At least that way it would be easier to not think too hard about what they were doing, and whether he could go through with this.

If he didn't think too hard, then the chances he would lose his nerve was greatly decreased.

"You are incredible," Watson breathed, before dropping his head to kiss Holmes's shoulders as he worked his clothing free.

Holmes: Under certain circumstances, a comment like that would be easier to brush aside as if it didn't affect him too greatly; even in sexual situations, a comment like that can come off a little ridiculous. Just now, Holmes hears nothing but sincerity, and it goes straight to his vanity. Smiling quite involuntarily, he pushes aside Watson's shirt and greedily explores Watson's skin.

Watson's coming at him with such vigor and exuberance that he can hardly imagine what the final act will be like, though a part of him is beginning to suspect the pace is compensating for insecurity. Not that it matters; they're both enjoying themselves, regardless of any doubts. He follows Watson's lead and backs up against the bed, where he shuffles out of his shoes as best he can without disturbing Watson's rather wonderful progress.

"Are you speaking generally or more specifically?" he asks, his ability to cover up how pleased he is at a compliment pulling through for him at the last minute. He slides his hand into Watson's hair and pulls him up for a kiss, hungry and thorough.

Watson: After leaning into that kiss, Watson was short of the breath necessary for words, but he let himself recover while trailing his mouth, rather more gently, along Holmes's collarbone. "In every way," he said, when he could. "In all ways." He gave a rough sort of chuckle and added, "Don't let it go to your head."

He was feeling distinctly hungry, and when he was in this mood it was easy to settle down into this savouring of Holmes's body, without thinking much about the ultimate goal. He was a decided hedonist, at times, and that part of him won out easily against the part of him still unsure if he was being immorally sinful. This was good.

Watson kissed him again, letting his fingers wander down to Holmes's flies, his touch gently curious and as insatiable as his kisses.

Holmes: He's all too eager to kiss Watson, and he rather shamelessly presses his crotch against Watson's hand, making a small noise of impatience. Watson is toying with him, and while Holmes is sure that's because he's enjoying himself, which is good, Holmes is quickly losing his patience.

"Too late," he murmurs with a breathless chuckle of his own as he pulls out of the kiss. He shrugs out of his shirt and settles on the bed, as invitingly as possible, as he waits for Watson to join him. He decides to start to undo his flies himself, giving Watson a decidedly inviting look.

"At least we're well matched. You, too, are incredible -- extraordinary, even," he says huskily. The way Watson looks standing before him now -- his shirt undone, hard through his trousers, desire darkening every inch of him -- Holmes's breath nearly catches just from looking at him.

Watson: If there was one thing that really brought the fact home that he was about to tumble into bed with another man (again), it was the feel of an erect cock against his hand, even through a layer of cloth. And yet, as strange and alien as that was, there was something irresistable about it, about holding in the palm of his hand proof that he was pleasing his partner, than Holmes wanted Watson as badly as Watson wanted him, that their sin (if sin it was, and he doubted that more all the time) was a wholly shared one.

Watson's smile was more than a little wicked. He slipped his hand into Holmes's trousers, even as he dropped forward onto the bed, kissing Holmes and feeling absolutely starved. He was feeling irrationally irritated about having to work out how they would get their clothes off during this mad rush of kisses and questing fingers. He did manage to shrug out of his shirt. His trousers were becoming a distinct hindrance.

"We complement each other perfectly," Watson murmured. "How lucky." Feeling wild, feeling daring, he closed his teeth lightly on Holmes's neck, while his hands were busy working into the top of Holmes's trousers in order to remove them. When it became necessary for a little cooperation on Holmes's part, Watson nudged him impatiently, even as he sighed against Holmes's throat.

Holmes: He's distinctly aware of how John Watson, army doctor, seems so very friendly and kindhearted during the day, and how that image contrasts so sharply with this dark-eyed, lustful creature that's tugging Holmes's trousers off and nibbling his neck with something akin to wild abandon. It's erotic to the extreme, and he isn't sure how he'll be able to look at Watson exchange pleasantries so warmly with their housekeeper anymore without picturing the erotic thing he becomes between the sheets. Thankfully, Holmes's has a phenomenal ability to keep a straight face.

He is a little lax in helping Watson get him out of his trousers, but it's Watson's own fault, as that light bite to his neck distracts Holmes thoroughly. He inhales sharply and clutches Watson's hair, holding him in place, and hopefully encouraging him to be a little more adventurous with his teeth.

"You're the most erotic creature I've ever seen," he murmurs, grinning somewhat madly, high on a rush of adrenaline and arousal. "And you're still wearing your trousers." He manages to snake a hand between them and cups Watson's cock, squeezing lightly. "You should do something about that."

Watson: Watson laughed breathily, strangely delighted. 'Erotic' was not a word he often heard applied to him, but he liked it now, liked the idea that he was satisfying and desirable, liked that even when he hadn't any idea what he was doing, he was still accomplishing his aim. "Far be it from me to argue with that idea," he said, still speaking with his mouth against Holmes's skin.

He drew back, rather reluctantly, and giving Holmes a smile that betrayed both his nervousness and his eagerness, stripped himself of his trousers. He was quite hard by this point, and that made the process rather trickier. He felt ridiculously exposed, too.

But with his trousers hastily disposed of, Watson descended upon Holmes again, both relieved and apprehensive about having Holmes naked underneath him. The inevitable outcome of the evening still hung over him, and he was nervous about that, but in the meantime it was easy just to let himself savour Holmes. For the moment, Watson wasn't capable of much other than a wild and desperate pawing, a clinging, a clutching while he returned his mouth and teeth to Holmes's throat. He wanted, badly, to see Holmes react to that again, and to know he was responsible.

Holmes: The nervousness in that smile brings Holmes down to earth a little in a good way; Watson endears himself to Holmes then, and through the haze of desire, Holmes sees a little more of the man who relaxes with him in front of the fire to drink brandy. He's eager to get his hands on Watson properly, and he wraps his arms around Watson when he returns to his throat. Holmes does react, oh yes, whenever Watson's teeth touch his skin.

"Yes," he hisses quietly, breathing against Watson's skin, and he slides his hand back into Watson's hair; the other one wanders decidedly lower, lightly squeezing Watson's arse. "Do you enjoy driving me wild?" he murmurs teasingly, chuckling because of course, but he's allowed to not make sense while Watson's mouth does such things to his neck. Gently he rocks his hips up against Watson's, moving enough against him to get their cocks to brush.

Watson: "Oh yes," Watson murmured, half a groan, "I do."

He would have been perfectly content to kiss and paw indefinitely, and not too long ago that had been enough, but, well, they were attempting to take their sex life to the next level, weren't they? He was working towards a goal tonight. He felt awkward but also decidedly hungry, decidedly eager, and wondering how to progress in that direction.

How had Holmes done it? Well, that was a rhetorical question; he wasn't in much danger of forgetting. He only hoped it wasn't unimaginative to progress in the same way, but he did have to work his way south in some manner, and that was a good one. Not having much experience in these matters, he wasn't sure how else to go about it. And as strange as it could be to have a cock in his mouth, it was not in the least unpleasant in his opinion (once again, so long as he didn't let himself think about it too much, and didn't allow words like "demeaning," "unnatural," and "shameful" to pass through his mind), and he really did love to drive Holmes wild. And that was a good way to do it.

Watson left Holmes's neck -- rather reluctantly -- and slid slowly downwards, running his fingers and mouth over the contours of Holmes's body. He was beginning to know Holmes's body as well as he knew his own, with the important difference that he loved it as he didn't his own. It made the experience intoxicating. Reaching Holmes's hips, he took the tip of Holmes's cock into his mouth.

Holmes: The pawing is lovely, truly, and particularly so that Watson is finding some confidence and daring now. They're learning each other's limits (and exploring their own), and Holmes is very happy to reap all the benefits of knowing each other's bodies so intently. He doesn't think it's any great loss, however, that Watson transfers his attentions to Holmes's cock. There's time to nibble at throats later. The time for sucking cock is now.

Sometimes Holmes's vocalizations during sex are involuntary; the small groan he gives now is a choice, encouraging Watson in a task that Holmes assumes might still be... new and different to say the least. He wills his hips to stay still and slides a hand into Watson's hair, tugging very gently.

"You do an excellent job of it," he says breathlessly.

Watson: That was more than a little bit gratifying to hear, to know that the was succeeding at this, that following his own carnal urges was leading him down the right sort of path as far as satisfying Holmes went. Continuing his attentions to the cock in his mouth, he gripped Holmes's hips with his fingers, shifting slightly to find a better angle.

He couldn't let himself get too carried away with this part, Watson knew. It would have been easy, but there was a goal still in front of him, even if he was still faintly worried about it. Where had he left that bottle? He reached out a hand across the bed to recover it, and he gripped it tightly in his hand while he continued with his tongue over Holmes's cock.

He might have been stalling a little, but it was a wonderful way to stall.

Holmes: Of course he notices Watson finding the bottle, and of course he realizes Watson is stalling, but the stalling is rather wonderful. He looks forward to helping Watson perfect the art of this act, though perhaps not now. He's looking forward to this, but he's also undeniably a little nervous himself. He didn't do this often with Victor, and it does usually affect him in ways that sex doesn't normally.

Maybe he should have prepared Watson for that, except Holmes isn't sure he's entirely prepared. He's eager to get started because the sooner they get started, the sooner he can work to get a handle on himself.

"It seems an age since I've done this," he admits, and some of his own nerves creep in to his voice, which he regrets. Would that help or hinder Watson's own confidence? He draws in a shaky breath and strokes his fingers through Watson's hair, and then against his shoulder.

Watson: Watson drew back, looking up at Holmes in sudden concern. He couldn't have helped but to hear that nervousness, and it alarmed him. Besides the fact that it was a great deal of pressure, the thought suddenly occured to him that Holmes had only agreed to this out of a sense of reciprocity, some duty he felt to oblige Watson.

"We needn't," he said, in a breathelss whisper, "if you don't want to. Not just on my account."

He smoothed his hand over Holmes's thigh, trying to be reassuring. For all his nerves, he wanted this, but he didn't want this if Holmes didn't. He couldn't do it if that were the case.

Holmes: Blast. He props himself onto his elbows, looking down at Watson, and he worries now that he's frightened Watson away from doing this. He should have held onto his confident demeanor, not betrayed that this isn't something he does often. Thankfully, as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he knows how to resolve the situation.

"No, my darling, I want to. I want you, and I wouldn't say so if I didn't." Trying to explain that he doesn't often agree to do this would be too awkward for the moment, might imply that he thinks it's a lesser act, which isn't the case; maybe afterwards, maybe that might be the ideal time to go into trust and love and whatnot. He reaches out and cups Watson's face, brushing his thumb against his lower lip.

"Do I ever do anything I don't want to do?" he asks, his confident, teasing smile returning. "Occasionally I get nervous, but my commitment doesn't waver." His smirk grows and he pushes his thumb past Watson's lip, seeking entrance. "And now you've kept me waiting long enough," he says darkly.

Watson: Watson's smile, dark and reassurred, mirrored Holmes's own. It was true Holmes never did anything he didn't want to, although his reasoning for wanting to might be entirely obscure to Watson in the moment. It was hard to know what to say, so he kept his words to a minimum.

"No," he agreed, after toying briefly with Holmes's thumb between his teeth, "you don't." He bent his head to kiss Holmes's hipbone, awash in smells, strong masculine scents, so different from making love to a woman. He was still nervous, concerned that he would accidentally hurt Holmes, that he would do a poor job and leave him unsatisfied (Watson's own vanity, such as it was, would never permit him to leave a sexual partner unfulfilled to the best of his ability), but things seemed... somewhat more achievable. At one point in his life he had no idea of how satisfy a woman, and had been lucky enough to know a young lady who'd been inexplicably fond of him and had also been bohemian enough to not care for social mores, and had been patient enough to guide him past his awkwardness.

This was not so very different, in some ways.

With a breath to reassure himself, Watson let his hand slide down to slip a questing, stroking finger under Holmes's buttocks, while he attempted to open the jar with his other hand alone.

Holmes: Good. Crisis averted, and now Holmes is gifted with the sight of Watson starting to prepare him. Closing his eyes briefly, he inhales sharply and lays down again; he wills himself to relax as his thoughts drift to what's to come. He'll enjoy it, he has no doubts about that, and he's intensely curious and eager to see what Watson is like in this position, if only because Holmes knows that it will be wonderful to be the object of his affection in this way.

It's true that Holmes has a difficult time accepting the vulnerability of being sodded, and perhaps his thoughts are simply clouded from the times he and Victor engaged in this. Their relationship was comfortable and easy, but Holmes didn't feel himself as close to him as he did to Gideon or Watson. He didn't always enjoy the times he let Victor take him; with Gideon it had been different, better, because there had been a great deal of trust and love.

And that's what there is now with Watson, so of course it will be splendid. He takes a few deep breaths and reaches down to run his fingers through Watson's hair, to calm himself down.

Watson: Finally managing to work the bottle open one-handed, Watson had to pause to slick up his fingers. He was going to do this. He was going to do this, he wanted to, Holmes wanted him to, the hand in his hair was deeply satisfying. With his hands busy, he opted to lay his head on Holmes's hip, with his mouth against the side of Holmes's cock. This was remarkably cosy, comfortable and warm and safe despite (perhaps because of, or in addition to) the sexuality of the situation.

With his fingers slicked, and purposely not thinking of the time he had done this with a young woman, he ventured to begin to press his finger into Holmes, penetrating him slowly. He kept his eyes on Holmes's face, alert for any reaction, good or bad.

Holmes: It's a difficult job to handle this while also trying to remain conscious of the attitude he's putting forth. He takes deep breaths, comforted by the feel of Watson reclining against him and the strangely alluring sensation of breath against his cock, and finds that he relaxes easily under Watson's touch. In fact, it isn't too long until he's making the occasional quiet sound and his hips start moving restlessly.

"I could never understand why this is more teasingly aggravating than nothing at all," he murmurs breathlessly, his eyes still closed tight; he presses his hips against Watson's hand, pleased to find that he's ready for more already.

Watson: Watson laughed, breathily. That reaction was precisely what he had hoped for, and it was a relief to see it. "Is that an invitation?" he murmured, adding a second finger. Seeing Holmes enjoy this so obviously only encouraged him, only made him more impatient to actually take him. That was a bit overwhelming, but not daunting, either.

He pressed lips and tongue against Holmes's cock, savouring him while he continued working his fingers inside him. This was incredibly intimate, gratifying to know that Holmes trusted him this much. The intensity of his hungrer had faded somewhat to give way to a gentler, savouring heat, at least for the moment.

Holmes: He groans quietly, entirely involuntarily this time, and he takes hold of the sheets, needing to be able to cling to something to ground himself. This is the maddening part, feeling stimulated from the inside out and yet being entirely unable to do anything. He's entirely at Watson's mercy, but thankfully Watson is merciful.

Oh God, and soon Watson will take him, and the idea seems more real than it did just twenty minutes ago.

"Not just an invitation," he says, feeling strained and restrained, and he makes another impatient noise.

Watson: Oh, that sound. That was impatience and an invitation if Watson had ever heard it, and it rekindled his hunger, which truthfully hadn't been very far under the surface. He couldn't wait any longer, and it sounded like Holmes couldn't either.

Hoping desperately he wasn't misreading that, he raised himself up. Cupping Holmes's face in his hand, he leaned in to kiss him, hot and desperately. How to do this? To sod him face to face as Holmes had sodded him? To take him from behind as seemed most typical of the act, at least from what little he knew? When he had done this act with a woman, he had taken her from behind.

No, he had him face to face, he wanted to keep his eyes on Holmes's expression, he would try in this position. Watson put his arm under Holmes's legs, shifting them into a good position. Still watching Holmes's face, he guided himself into Holmes, letting out a low, intense moan as he did.

Holmes: Is Holmes really ready? Perhaps physically, perhaps sexually, but he can't deny the flash of anxiety that comes when Watson settles over him. It doesn't last long, though, and it virtually disappears as he smooths his hands down Watson's chest, reminding himself that he possesses Watson as equally as Watson possesses him.

Holmes's mouth falls open silently, and he reminds himself to breathe once he has the sense of mind to do it. Watson is much bigger than his fingers, naturally, and it takes him a few seconds to adjust to him, but soon enough he moans quietly. Opening his eyes, he lightly grips Watson's upper arm; holding onto Watson firmly helps him feel a little more grounded. He seeks out Watson's mouth for a light but nonetheless heated kiss.

Watson: He was grateful for that kiss, unsure as he was that he was doing the right thing. Watson moved slowly, biting his lip to hold himself back, to hold in the rough groan that was threatening to burst forth from him. He kept one hand resting on the side of Holmes's neck as he moved, still terribly worried that he would see some sign of pain, or displeasure, or disappointment, or something, some sign that he needed to stop.

That fear, though, was quickly fading, and he was quickly losing himself in the sensation and sensuality of the moment. It was heady, addictive, he was so very, very lucky.

"You're all right?" he murmured, breathless, hardly able to speak but needing to ask the question aloud.

Holmes: "Yes," he breathes, squeezing Watson's arm lightly in reassurance. Of course Watson is conscientious and gentle; of course he needs to restrain himself from reveling in his hedonism, but that restraint is perfect. He feels their connection buzzing between them, and he doesn't feel trapped or held down or vulnerable.

"Yes, I'm alright. Yes, Watson," he says, ending on a moan, and he moves his hips back against Watson. Perhaps that had been premature, but any twinge of pain dissipates fairly quickly, and he gives another soft moan. The smells of Baker st. are all around him, though they're mixed up in the unfamiliar but nonetheless wonderful smells of Watson's room, of Watson, and he breathes deeply. They're having sex in Watson's room, in Watson's bed, in their home, and this is real.

Watson: This seemed encouraging. Watson could only answer in a soft grunt, but he shifted, moving his hand to grip Holmes's hip as he increased his pace a little. He still couldn't stop watching Holmes, overwhelmed with discovering what Holmes looked like when Watson fucked him. The eroticism for him was many layered; here and now, what he felt, what Holmes looked like, what it had felt like to be sodded and the knowledge that Holmes was experiencing that now and Watson was responsible. All of that, sights and smells and memory and sensation, together, and he was losing himself quickly.

But that was typical, had always been typical of his attitude towards sex. He lost himself in it quickly, could only focus on the doing and could not hope to plan further than the next stage of foreplay. That was fortunate for this affair with Holmes, because it made it very hard to judge himself during the act itself.

"Touch yourself," he asked, hoarse and out of breath and somewhere between pleading and commanding. He slid his hand up Holmes's ribs, leaning closer again. He would take Holmes's cock in hand himself, but he had one arm -- his good arm -- bracing himself and keeping them in position, and he was reluctant to lose the freedom he had with his other hand, to touch and stroke and wander. Besides, he found he rather liked the idea of watching Holmes stroke himself off, and once that image occurred to him, he wanted to see it happen. "Please. For me."

Holmes: Holmes couldn't have resisted the tone in Watson's voice even if he wanted to, and he definitely wants to; a little control over his own cock, knowing Watson is watching him while he fucks him -- it's all serving to permanently eradicate any doubts he has about how suited he is for this position. At least, he's suited for it when Watson is on top of him. He wraps his hand around his cock and gives a short moan -- he's more vocal when he's the one being sodded -- and grips tighter to Watson's arm, very nearly clinging to him.

He opens his eyes now, believing himself capable of dealing with the added input, and needing to see how Watson looks, how his body moves, how their bodies come together. He isn't disappointed by what he finds, and his eyes take it all in ravenously as he starts to meet Watson's hips. Again he feels as if he won't last very long at all, at this rate, but surely he can be forgiven if it's the first time in a while.

"If you insist," is all he can manage with a weak attempt at humor, weak because his voice is mostly a breathy whisper.

Watson: Watson smiled, hungry and grateful and admittedly very much in love, drinking Holmes in as completely as he could. He was beginning to suspect this wasn't going to last very long, not after so much preamble, not when everything was so new and intense. That he regretted, but miraculously, nothing else.

A little faster, a little harder, still alert for any sign that this was not the right thing to do. He leaned down to ghost a kiss over Holmes's mouth, desperate and longing. This could not possibly be wrong, not truly.

Holmes: He has some control over how close he dances to the edge, but there's really only so much holding back that he can do. He follows after Watson's lips for another kiss, and then he ceases to think. He can only feel himself slowly coming apart, can only hear the faint slap of their bodies, can only move on impulse, his body rising to meet Watson's and his hand stroking over his cock.

He loses track of time and is no longer cognizant over whether he's lasting respectably; his mouth falls open again in a quiet cry, an exhalation of a moan, and then his orgasm takes him. He hadn't even been entirely prepared for it, floating along as he had been, and he breathes quiet groans as his cock jerks in his hand.

Watson: Watson was not far behind, and he let out a soft cry of his own as he hit his climax, his fingers tightening on Holmes entirely involuntarily. A few more thrusts and, tired and satiated, he drew back, shaking and sweaty, and collapsed to curl around Holmes, trying to catch his breath.

He had sodded a man. He had crossed that last line, now, was quite completely a sodomite in every respect, and he couldn't even seem to care overmuch about it. It was... strange, but it was also simply a new fact.

Watson wrapped his arms around Holmes, and buried his face in his shoulder. He didn't want to be the one to say something and shatter this moment.

1 | 2