(no subject)

[mustbetruth]

Warning: Adult times of an NC17 nature.

1 | 2

Holmes: That had been... very loving, for all its playful and lusty preamble. It certainly made up for the not-so-sweet memories he had of Victor, though he doesn't feel like sparing him much thought now, with Watson curled up with him. This post-coital moment seems better than the last, which had been more than a little awkward, though Holmes still feels a little concerned. Watson isn't regretting it now, is he?

He turns to kiss Watson's forehead and hair, and he strokes his fingers lightly along Watson's back, soothingly. Would it be too cliche, too sentimental to say that he loves Watson? But wouldn't anything else ruin this moment?

"You are a remarkable lover," he murmurs appreciatively, though he's not convinced still that's the right thing to say. Maybe there isn't a right thing to say, but that statement is true enough.

Watson: Watson smiled, his eyes closed. "Thank you," he murmured. "I do try. You are quite wonderful yourself, you know." He pressed a kiss against Holmes's shoulder, and settled in.

They were in Watson's bed, with all the smells of sex around them, and Holmes had... well, submitted, for lack of a better word, and it had been incredible. Holmes was not less because of it -- Watson could hardly even bear the idea -- so perhaps... perhaps the fact that sometimes he thought about how nice it would be for Holmes to sod him again was not a reflection on what sort of man he was, other than that he liked sex, which he knew already. It was... not definite in his mind, but it was a start, and it was a relief.

He had liked having Holmes have no place to sleep but the same bed, would miss that excuse for sleeping together and regretted the return to sharing a bed only in secret, but this was the best possible homecoming, as far as Watson cared to imagine.

"If you do that so infrequently," he murmured, softly, "why let me?"

Holmes: This is good -- this is Watson accepting the moment, or at least it feels warmer and less awkward as it had the other night. He's torn over whether or not he regrets that, still, though Watson did deserve a proper first time with a man. Maybe what they wound up having was better, in that it seized Watson before he could think too much about it.

The question, however, is an awkward one to answer. Holmes considers how to answer, how much to reveal, but after sharing what he's shared with Watson not just in these past two nights, but their entire vacation, he isn't sure he could evade the answer. He's secretive, has always been so, but it is nice to return to having someone in whom he can confide things.

"As you might have guessed, I dislike feeling vulnerable." He pauses, as that had felt like an admission to say it aloud; he kisses Watson's hair again and hugs him closer. "I knew I would be alright with you. You love me," he says warmly, smiling, and his tone makes it plain enough that he loves Watson in return.

Watson: Watson opened his eyes, rather startled by this. It was a rather overwhelming sort of confession, words of intense trust. He had the impression that he was being trusted with something very valuable, very precious and delicate. Of course Holmes didn't like to feel vulnerable, that was hard surprising. But to know that he trusted Watson to, well, take care of him in that position was a rather startling revelation. He knew Holmes loved him, but it was one thing to be told that fact, and quite another to realise it on such a deep level.

"Yes, I do," he said, his own intensity surprising him a little. He lifted his face to kiss Holmes, lingering, tender. "And you love me." He wrapped his arms around Holmes, drawing him close. "I can tell by the way you trust me so implicitly."

Holmes: "It's extremely easy to trust you," he says softly. Holmes is feeling a little nervous, a little shy after his confession, and he's grateful that their positions keep Watson from seeing him just now. The kiss is calming, and he closes his eyes, lightly tracing Watson's spine. "And I'm not only saying that because I'm quite in love with you."

Thankfully Watson hasn't pressed the issue of Holmes feeling vulnerable. Holmes hopes that Watson doesn't mistake that as any kind of negative opinion about the sort of man who take this role. It really has nothing to do with any of that, the roles of gender and respectability and sin. He noses against Watson's hair and hugs him snugly.

Watson: "You're quite safe with me," Watson promised, "in any event, whatever your reasoning."

He pressed a series of kisses, gentle and unhurried, over the nearest patch of skin he could reach. The heat of arousal was beginning to fade, and he reached find a blanket to pull over both of them; he was unwilling to let the moment be ruined by a slow chill. Under cover, Watson burrowed close again, his fingers playing over Holmes's skin. It was beginning to dawn on him that despite all of Holmes's confidence, his brilliance, his perfection, his strength, the flawless exterior covered an inner insecurity, a fear of weakness. That Watson was being trusted with this was slightly awing, and wonderful, too. He promised himself, right then, he would never betray that trust. Holmes would not regret it, not if Watson had anything to do with it.

That was a frightening thing to think, he realised, even as he made this resolution.

But he stayed close, holding Holmes against him, slightly amazed at how comfortable, how perfectly they fit together like this.

Holmes: He regrets very much that they won't be able to share a bed all the time, without question or suspicion, because it's quite comfortable, and it really does help Holmes to sleep better than he would normally. Could he devise some excuses? Perhaps he could spill something horrific-smelling in his room just before bedtime.

Had he revealed too much of his inner character? The confession seems to have had a bigger impact that he had considered, too wrapped up in saying it at all. He flushes very faintly, slightly embarrassed at Watson's reassurance, but it is romantic to hear, that he's safe with Watson, that ostensibly Watson would be his dashing hero. Of course Holmes wouldn't let Watson risk his life for him, not at all, but the notion is romantic enough.

"As you are with me," he murmurs, sliding his fingers down Watson's side, counting his ribs. It's soothing. While he's dying to know if Watson still has reservations about their sexual activities after tonight, he can't quite bring himself to ask.

"Was tonight to your liking?" he asks instead, with a note of humor in his voice.

Watson: Watson gave a small, good-humoured sound that was not quite a laugh, but close. "What a ridiculous question," he teased. "Was tonight to my liking? Of course it was. Didn't I seem like I was enjoying myself?"

At times like this, the sheer depth of his love for Holmes astonished him, and honestly that was a little frightening. It was the sort of love that demanded public announcements and marriage proposals -- or so he had to assume, never having proposed before -- but that was all completely impossible. The illegality of their affair troubled him, by now, far more than the state of his soul. He couldn't believe this was so wrong, that any God would forbid this and yet allow the sort of horrors he'd seen and experienced in Afghanistan -- or at least, he could mostly commit to that. He could not, however, change his mind about it being illegal, because it was. This could ruin both of them, easily.

But that was a world that seemed miles away. Watson shut his eyes, sighing under the feel of Holmes's fingers over his ribs.

Holmes: "Just thought I'd check," he says, not as amused, but a little; he'd been hoping Watson would pick up the hint and offer some information. Not that that topic is any less appropriate for this wonderfully comfortable moment; perhaps a change of tactic.

"I do regret... surprising you last night," he says softly, tracing over Watson's hipbones now. "Has tonight eased any doubts you had after our... passionately impromptu evening?" It's futile to press the issue, he knows; he can hear well enough that Watson loves him, is devoted to him, and a bout of good sex won't necessarily make him stop being unsure. It won't still Holmes's mind, either, unfortunately.

Watson: Watson sighed a little, although not unhappily. "No, don't regret it," he said, softly. "There's no use in regretting it. It happened as it did, and were I to have the opportunity to repeat the evening, I would make the same choices. I would still let you sod me. I... I enjoyed it." He pressed his face against Holmes's chest, kissing him gently.

He smoothed a hand over Holmes's side, almost thoughtfully. "I have been... admittedly... thinking of whether I would like you to do it again." Watson felt awkward saying so, and he was glad his face was invisible, although he had to wonder if Holmes could somehow feel his face grow red and hot. "I think I would like that, actually."

Holmes: Watson still has trouble with this notion of being sodded, it seems, and Holmes wonders uncomfortably if Watson thinks differently of Holmes, or maybe it's simply the imbalance of power that's off-putting and strange. But beyond any surface troubles... he's asking Holmes to sod him again; he's admitting enjoyment. Perhaps in time the shame will dissipate.

"I would too," he says, a warm smile in his voice, and he grins against Watson's hair. No, he refuses to be too worried about what's clearly a step forward. He squeezes Watson's hip and lets himself be relieved. He'll get to sod Watson again, which is really very enjoyable; as crude as it makes him feel, he can only be excited about that.

"You've been thinking of it, hm?" he murmurs suggestively, slowly trailing his fingers up Watson's side. "Do you often think such dirty thoughts about me? Should I be scandalized?"

Watson: With a nervous sort of laugh, Watson shook his head. How quickly the conversation turned from seriousness to laughter. "Yes, I often think dirty thoughts of you. No, I don't think you should be scandalised, as you seem to be willing to enact all the things I've ever thought."

He pulled back enough to press several kisses over Holmes's collarbone. "Anyway, I don't believe for a moment you've never had any filthy thoughts about me." He laughed again, more genuine, and drew back to kiss Holmes properly.

Holmes: He cups the back of Watson's head and keeps him close, lingering in the kiss. Jokingly talking about their sex life seems safer than having an honest discussion about whether or not they ought to sod each other, and it's easy to slide into this playful banter. He threads his fingers through Watson's hair and toys with the strands, arranging Watson's hair as he draws out of the kiss.

"I've had my share," he says lowly, his voice husky, and he smiles devilishly, though he feels a little shy for it. "You might choose to be scandalized, as I'm not sure you're quite willing to enact all the things I've thought."

Watson: "I haven't turned you down yet," Watson pointed out, laughing. "Give me some credit, won't you?" Truthfully, he was both intrigued and frightened by what Holmes might be considering in his fantasy. There was little that he had ever turned down when offered to him, when it came to sexual escapades.

"You could always ask me now," he suggested. "Unless you prefer to suprise me with those ideas, too." He smiled, and kissed him, wanting to take out any of the sting that might be percieved in his words.

Holmes: He's done enough surprising, he thinks a little bitterly, though it's directed all at himself. At Watson's reassurance, however, Holmes realizes the error in his logic because Watson really never had said no. He had had his reservations that Watson would want to be so adventurous with him, but maybe the adventure is just what Watson needs.

"No, I'd much rather hear your thoughts," he says, his voice colored slightly with suggestion. "What do you think about introducing a pair of darbies into the mix?" He runs his fingers lightly down Watson's arm, stopping at his wrist. "Would sodding you while you're, say, affixed to the bed be appealing to you?"

Watson: "... my goodness." He hadn't expected that, and Watson drew in his breath, rather uneasily. What did he think of that? Part of him was slightly aghast, but a significant part of him was more... curious than anything else. He envisioned it, the way it had felt, in addition to the way it would feel to hand over all control to Holmes, so completely. He closed his eyes, exhaling rather shakily.

"That would be," he said at last, speaking hesitantly, "interesting." He drew back to look Holmes in the face, his expression equal parts intrigued and cautious. Watson smiled, and reached up to stroke his fingers playfully over Holmes's cheek and jaw. "You know, I do believe I would let you do that."

Holmes: If this had been a test of how much Watson has come to accept their arrangement -- and possibly how much he'd actually enjoyed being sodded, as he'd revealed here -- then Watson passes with flying colors. Would it be indecent to make love all night? He smiles before he pulls Watson into a heated kiss, lightly stroking the back of his neck.

"I assure you, you'd have better words to describe it than 'interesting' by the time we'd finished," he purrs, though his grin is very wolfish. "If you have any ideas for our future sex plans, feel free to share them. My taste for adventure is as vast as your own."

Watson: Laughing faintly, Watson kissed Holmes again before answering. Truthfully, he needed a moment to consider; he wasn't someone who planned out sexual interludes before they happened, preferring to let them happen and carry him along in the heat of the moment.

"I sodded a young lady, once. The position we used was... rather different. I would like," he said presently, after some thought, "to bend you over a desk, perhaps, and take you that way." Watson smiled, a little shy. "Or perhaps I ought to invite you to do the same to me."

Holmes: Holmes isn't sure what information to process first. The image of Watson sodding him over a desk, the opposite image, or Watson sodding a young lady. His eyebrows shoot up of their own accord, and he takes a minute to imagine the extent of Watson's sexual history. It isn't that he thought he was so pure, but he'd been focusing so much on the masculine side that he'd barely considered the feminine.

"Either way sounds extraordinarily acceptable. What was her name?" He's very curious about these past lovers of Watson now, and a faint worry starts to creep in. What if Watson decides to leave him for a woman, finding their attentions more pleasurable?

Watson: Watson smiled, stretching out a little. He was feeling a little cramped, as cosy as it was to be curled up with Holmes as he had been, and he rolled comfortably onto his back. He certainly wasn't about to move very far away. These were some very good memories, to be sure.

"Her name was Prudence," he said, "although to be truthful, I'm not entire sure she was." He gave a laugh, although a fond one; there were few of his old lovers he didn't still hold fond memories of. "I knew her when I was a medical student. She was extraordinarily adventurous, a wholly bohemian soul, a very modern woman. She tended to hang about artists and other bohemian types. I suppose a future doctor who wrote a little on the side was intriguing enough for her." The two of them had been a good pair, he had thought, his steadiness countering her enthusiasm nicely, bringing her back down to Earth when she demanded it, she offering him a taste of feral life he sorely needed. He had considered proposing to her, although he'd known she would have turned him down. Prudence had been far too wild, far too bohemian and independent, to have ever been content as someone's wife. "She eventually threw me over to run off to Paris with a painter, but there was no maliciousness in it on her part."

Holmes: He chuckles over the contradiction of the girl's name and her character; it just goes to show that parents ought to be more careful in the things they name their children. How strange it is to think of Watson with this woman, surely one of many, and stranger still to think she'd throw Watson over. He can't shake the fear that's still growing that Watson might throw Holmes over for another bohemian girl, possibly with big breasts. With these uncomfortable thoughts in mind, he turns onto his side, draping his arm over Watson's stomach and sliding his leg in amongst Watson's.

"Nor on yours? Were you as cavalier about it then as you are now?" That would be valuable information. He kisses Watson's shoulder and neck idly, though he's largely preoccupied.

Watson: "Mmmm." Watson gave the question some thought, reaching to grasp Holmes's hand. This was very comfortable indeed, a very satisfying way to relax together. Apparently there was no notion of sleep in their future. He was vaguely surprised by that; they ought to be tired, after so long a journey, but Watson felt surprisingly awake at the moment. "I was more grieved than angry. She explained to me that while she was very fond of me, she had a higher calling serving as this other chap's muse, and that it would be irresponsible for her to refuse." Privately, he had often doubted that her position as muse had lasted, knowing Prudence, but that seemed uncharitable.

"I believe I drowned my sorrows in whiskey for a time, until I found a girl in whom I could drown them even more effectively." He gave a puff of laughter. "Lucy, I believe it was. Yes, Lucy."

Holmes: Lucy. Holmes carefully keeps the worry out of his face, but he can't help but be upset; he isn't jealous, but simply concerned that Watson is used to this quick-succession relationship pattern. Holmes's relationships haven't worked like that; Holmes doesn't work like that. Will Watson tire of him, as Prudence grew tired of Watson? The fact that Holmes is a man may help or hinder him. The novelty may wear off, or it may keep him interested. He nestles closer.

"Lucy. And did Lucy treat you more fairly than Prudence, or did you lose her to Paris too?"

Watson: "Oh, Lucy and I were nothing very serious." Watson shook his head, though he was still smiling. "Merely friends who enjoyed an occassional dip into the physical. She had other lovers even at the time, and that was no secret. I don't think I even recall why we broke it off at last." Some of Lucy's lovers, Watson remembered, had been female. At the time, he hadn't been sure what to think of that, had tried not to. He hadn't discussed it with her. She'd had a fierce temper, after all.

He turned to kiss Holmes's forehead. How long ago those relationships were, how different a man he had been. Hardly more than a boy, really, with no notion of the hardship and horror he was to face. It was natural to try to compare those old relationships to this one he was building with Holmes now, but it wasn't an easy comparison. They had been women, Holmes was a man, Watson was friends with Holmes in a way he hadn't been with the girls.

Holmes: "You've had your share of lovers." He isn't judgmental; it's obvious that Watson enjoys these carnal acts, and he's kind enough to grace others with his skill. The trouble is, Holmes feels a little... intimidated, perhaps, maybe inexperienced next to Watson. At least Holmes makes up for it in being far more familiar with men.

"Do I live up to the others?" he asks playfully, deciding that this question hits close to where his insecurities lie. Yes, he's fishing for reassurance and a compliment; he can't really fault himself for it.

Watson: "Well, bearing in mind that I'm comparing two rather different things," Watson said, smiling, "yes. Yes, you do." He turned to catch Holmes in a warm and loving kiss, before settling back beside him again.

He was beginning to worry, just a little, what Holmes thought of him, with so much history behind him. Perhaps it had been unwise to admit to such licentiousness? "I suppose I have had quite a few lovers," he admitted, rather quieter. "I was rather wild, and associated with wild people. It all seems rather long ago, now."

Holmes: "My dear," he murmurs, leaning over to kiss Watson's forehead, "you are still rather wild, and associated with wild people. You just hide it with a veneer of respectability." Despite his worries, he can comfort Watson easily; after all, he doesn't want Watson to think that Holmes finds his colorful past objectionable. "That is why we are so well-matched."

So Holmes holds up to these wild, bohemian women. Watson did describe them as two rather different things; hopefully they are different but equally (if not more, on the masculine side) enjoyable.

"Now you have your own semi-Parisian bohemian, though my art is rather different. I'm not certain you're my muse." He pauses thoughtfully. "Maybe more my whetstone."

Watson: "Now, that sounds like quite a perfect occupation," Watson smiled. "I like and approve of your art, and 'muse' sounds like an irritatingly passive role when compared to 'whetstone,' in any case."

The perfectin of the moment seemed to hit him all at once. How long since he had had any lover he connected to so deeply? After all the women he'd known, it was strange to find himself settling down so perfectly with a man. Come to think of it, the reasons he'd thought he and Prudence fit together so well also applies to he and Holmes. Perhaps there was something to that. So long as Holmes didn't tire of him, didn't find himself some sharper, fascinating man who would follow him about on cases. It had been a long time since he had had any serious lover. Now that he had found one, even an unconventional one, he wasn't inclined to let him go.

"If I am your whetstone, does that mean I have to beware any potential muses you might find?" He smiled, rather slyly.

Holmes: How amusing that Holmes had been wondering this very same thing about Watson. They're turning away from the seriousness, and rightfully so, so he tries not to dwell on that and instead focus on the sly smile on Watson's face. Again, he wonders if another round of sex would be ill-advised. Watson did say he wanted Holmes to sod him again...

"Not unless you feel you ought to beware a crime scene, or a corpse. You know I care nothing for my clients once the mystery is solved, as I no longer have use for them. But my whetstone." He smiles darkly and leans over, kissing him slowly. "I can't go long without my whetstone, can I?"

He shifts lower, tenderly kissing along Watson's collarbone, and he realizes he's set himself up to ask a pertinent question and soothe his fears.

"Should I beware of the bohemian women who find their way into our sitting room?" he asks lightly.

Watson: "Oh, I don't think so." Watson smiled back, his own expression somewhat playful. "Those days are far behind me, and as you said yourself, I have my own bohemian to attend to."

Truthfully, he couldn't imagine behaving now as he had then, flitting from girl to girl so cavalierly. Truthfully, he was not so much older now, but he felt older, a world's worth of grief and pain and horror between now and then, and he doubted he could re-entered that world with much success. This, what he had with Holmes, was not the sort of romance he had expected to ever have in his life, but it was proving to be quite as good. Perhaps better, as Holmes was a partner in a way that none of the women he had known could have been.

This was a strange thing to think.

Holmes: Those days. What days? Days with women? That's a far too hopeful thought. Days of having a succession of relationships? Possibly more likely. Watson hasn't been cavorting with any women since Holmes has known him, so maybe that's a good sign -- well, not really. It's a sign that the carefree young man he used to be has been replaced with someone less carefree, and clearly less proud of himself on an aesthetic level if not more. But that may make for a man who's ready for a steady relationship with someone who can help rebuild what's been broken.

"And I will keep you very busy," he says, his voice low, and he steals another languid kiss; feeling cheeky, he brushes his thumb against Watson's nipple.

"Are you tired, my dear?" he asks once the kiss ends, his face still very close to Watson's, their lips nearly brushing; he flicks is thumb against the nipple again.

Watson: The smile on Watson's face was one of dawning recognition at what he was beginning to suspect was an invitation. It had been quite a long time since he had had such a night as the one that was possibly before them now. He thought possibly an encore performance would not be beyond him. "Do you know," he said, slyly, "I am not tired in the least. I ought to be, but strangely, I am not."

He closed the very small gap between them, kissed him hotly. "I suppose you are very tired," he said, with a roll of his eyes that was intended to be innocent and was not at all. "After so long a journey, it's hardly surprising. Well, you are more than welcome to stay in my bed and sleep here, if you wish."

Holmes: "I accept your invitation," he says lightly, a playful smile on his face, before he shifts, claiming his position atop Watson. Even if Watson isn't up for being sodded now, Holmes at least deserves some time on top of him. He was very obediently submissive just now. Lowering his head, he kisses the line of Watson's throat, and he bites as hard as he judges safe at the base of his neck.

"But I'm not yet ready for sleep. We'll have to coax each other into exhaustion." He kisses Watson again with a quickly rising passion. Provided Watson truly doesn't fall for some bohemian woman with large breasts and adventuresome spirit, Holmes is quite convinced they'll have a long arrangement. Well. And if Holmes doesn't drive Watson off, and if Holmes himself doesn't grow bored. There's a worry he's had a time or two. His interest never flagged with Gideon, but their romance was cut rather short; who knows how long Holmes can really last without going stir crazy.

He isn't stir crazy now, though, and Holmes is sure he can last long enough to make tonight particularly memorable.

Watson: Returning Holmes's kisses gladly, Watson slid his hands around Holmes's waist. He wasn't in the least sure whether he was about to be sodded here and now, but he couldn't exactly find much fault with the idea, either. Let it happen, if that's what was on the table. That bite on his neck had done a very good deal to reignite his passion, and he was feeling comfortably... possessed.

"Well, if you insist," he returned, smiling. "I am very wide awake, though, so I expect you'll have to do a good deal of coaxing." His smile was very wide, and very naughty, and full of barely-contained laughter.

Holmes: "Very well," he says with a put upon sigh that doesn't match with the laughter in his expression. "If you must be so difficult. I'm sure I can think of a way to wear you out thoroughly." That naughty smile goes straight through him, and it's remarkably reassuring. Surely Watson must have some notion that Holmes might want to take him, and this seems as much of a green light as he needs.

He lowers his mouth to Watson's throat again, nipping at his skin as much as kissing, and he slides his hands down to Watson's hips, squeezing fondly. There's a good deal of possession in his touches, and he relishes the chance to possess Watson like this, to make him his.

Watson: Watson let out a long, shaky breath, his hands on Holmes beginning to distinctly clutch. He was beginning to feel a great deal of satisfaction at being caught under Holmes like, was beginning to feel more and more grateful that he had someone like Holmes in his life. Were it not for the illegality, he would be thanking his lucky stars ad infinitem; as it was, he was more reluctant to take that step, but he still managed to feel lucky.

He tilted his chin up to let Holmes have as much access to to his throat as possible, loving the teeth as much as the lips, his eyes closed. "I look forward," he said, with some difficulty, "to seeing what you come up with." It was permission, it was invitation, it was everything. He wasn't, he thought distantly, going to have much issue rising to the occassion.

Holmes: Their relationship had seemed so impossible, so potentially close to failure in its initial stages, that to hear Watson offer himself up to Holmes so nonspecifically, so freely, so unreservedly, is simply quite remarkable. It nearly startles Holmes out of his task, but then it just as quickly redoubles Holmes's effort and his mounting lust.

He busies himself a little longer at Watson's neck, immeasurably pleased that he's comfortable enough with Watson to be able to intercut his tenderness with some roughness. With that in mind, he finally sets his lips near Watson's ear and murmurs huskily, "I thought I might fuck you."

Watson: Watson closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to recover his equilibrium. He'd expected this, of course, but it didn't make the coarseness of Holmes's words any less astonishing. It would mean a score of two for Holmes, one for Watson. Potentially at some point in the future, he might lose track. That was a rather pleasant notion.

He smiled, his expression more than a little dangerous. "I think you might do that, yes." It would be a lie to claim that he was entirely free of misgivings, the sort of poisonous little doubts that lurked in the back of his mind, but he did want this, he knew it. He turned his head to catch Holmes's mouth in a hot kiss, because it had been too long since their last proper kiss, in Watson's opinion.

Holmes: At some point, the prospect of having sex won't make Holmes feel so light-headed with the mere possibility of it all. Though they've always been equals, at times he felt too comfortable, at odds with Watson's doubts and concerns. With Watson kissing him so fiercely, having just had sex and going in for seconds, he doesn't feel as if he's dragging Watson down a path of sin and temptation. Maybe he still is, but he doesn't feel so guilty about it.

He breaks free of the kiss and makes his way down. It's incredibly difficult sometimes to resist the temptation to explore the cluster of details sprawled across Watson's shoulder, but he manages tonight, not wanting to detract from the moment. He traces the outline of Watson's nipple with his tongue and bites it, gently to see how that goes over.

Watson: "Oh," Watson breathed, "good God." He buried his fingers in Holmes's hair, shutting his eyes. It had been so very, very long since he had had a lover with whom it had felt so right to push at each other's boundaries like this, with whom the sense of danger and ferocity had tied in so well with a very real affection. Danger was one thing. Danger offset with love was positively intoxicating.

"It's been a long time," he managed, with difficulty, "since I had a night like this. Twice in one night?" Positively bacchanalian, hedonism beyond belief. It was wonderful. It had been a long time since he'd had a lover up to such things as this, too.

Holmes: Maybe it was just in his own imagination then that had pictured Watson in lustful embraces for hours on end with his bohemian ladies. If Holmes can compete with them in terms of how many times in a night, well, then; that boosts his confidence a little, truth be told. He's also remarkably pleased to see Watson likes it a little playfully rough, just on the side of danger; that is something Holmes will take advantage of, and often.

"I simply cannot get my fill of you," he breathes huskily, and the sentiment is true enough. At the moment he doesn't feel as starved for Watson as he does other times; just now he feels as if he's gorging himself on Watson, in a way intoxicating himself with Watson's -- well, everything. Holmes can't deny he has an addictive attitude when it comes to his preferred substances, and Watson is one of them.

Since the test run had been received so well, he tugs at Watson's nipple again with his teeth, and after trailing some kisses away, he bites harder at Watson's skin than he has before; it's a bit safer down here, after all.

Watson: Watson positively gasped, part surprise and part pain but mostly pleasure, and he clutched at Holmes tightly, while in his mind he could only think, over and over, the devil, the devil, the glorious, handsome, amazing devil. He wrapped his arms around Holmes, as best as he could, desperate to hang on.

Not to mention desperate to maintain some sort of conscious thought.

"I will look," he gasped out, "like a gnawed bone by the time you're through with me." It was not exactly a complaint, merely a statement; he certainly made no movement to get away. If anything, he leaned up into Holmes's touch.

Holmes: "A very well loved bone," he corrects with a dark smile. It's quite the power rush to have someone who wants him so much pinned beneath him, and he feels quite splendidly devious as he kisses over the last bite mark, giving some tenderness to make up for some of the roughness, even though that doesn't seem to be a problem.

"You don't have any complaint with that, do you?" He looks up at Watson, grinning wickedly, and he trails his kisses lower, kissing over Watson's ribs.

Watson: "No," Watson murmured, craning his neck to watch Holmes as best as he could, "I certainly have no issue with that."

He was definitely feeling a stirring in his cock again. If he'd had any trace of doubt about his attraction to men, that would have killed it right there. To think, all the women who had been in his life, and he had become so entangled with a man. It was reaching a sort of normality, though, which was undeniably pleasant.

He couldn't have made any complaint about being something well-loved, no matter what the noun in question might be.

Holmes: He kisses Watson's hip and looks up the length of Watson's body, thinking very possessively for a moment that this is all his, and for all intents and purposes, Watson is more likely to say yes than no to what Holmes might want to do to him. His lust is resurrecting his cock, which is a very indulgent feeling; twice in one night seems so extravagant, so... well, bohemian.

"Oh good. I'm not sure I'd be interested in hearing complaints just now." He bites Watson's hip and brings his hands up to stroke Watson's thighs, his fingertips brushing over the more sensitive skin on his inner thighs. "What would you like me to do?" he asks, smiling darkly. "Perhaps my submissiveness hasn't run out yet. You could try your luck."

Watson: Watson smiled, and leaned his head back. That the offer was made was worth more than words could say; perhaps he was taking a submissive role, but it was clear that things were not so simple, that it was far more complex a relationship than that.

But what to say? How could he possibly improve upon the situation? What orders could he give that were not contrary to the already arranged scenario of Holmes fucking him? He was actually feeling impatient for that, imagine that. How mad it was, but how wonderful.

Tangling his fingers in Holmes's hair, Watson hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes and revelling in sensation and imagination, bites and kisses and possibilities. "We were discussing different positions," he said, trying to bury his own case of nerves. "I think perhaps that could be explored now?"

Holmes: Whatever else Watson may still be harboring about their relationship, his adventuresome spirit seems to win out, and Holmes is glad for it. The obvious choice is, perhaps, that Holmes will bend Watson over and take him that way, but not after Watson suggested taking Holmes over a desk like that. And Watson's leg, regrettably, wouldn't stand for mounting Holmes -- that's something else to save for later. The option he settles on is no less arousing for being the one he winds up with; in fact, he ought to have thought of it first.

"I think it can." He kisses down along Watson's hipbone, his impatience mounting as his cock makes its return to full vigor. Reaching up, he pinches one of Watson's nipples lightly between his fingers. "I think I love your adventuresome spirit even more now." With another dark smile, he takes Watson's cock between his lips and draws it into his mouth.

Watson: Watson hissed with pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut. He wasn't sure that this was, yet, any sort of cooperation, but it was too pleasant to be overly upset about it. He did bite down hard upon his lip, because the alternative was to cry out, and he wasn't yet so far gone to realise that was a potentially unsafe thing to do.

"This," he managed presently, although his voice was strained and distracted, "while extremely pleasant, is not new." He ran his fingers through Holmes's hair, possessive and loving and desperate all at once. Mine, he found himself thinking, surprising himself. It was gratifying, and the fact that Holmes was possibly also thinking the same thing did nothing to weaken the value of it.

Holmes: He raises an eyebrow -- it's difficult to look saucy with a cock in one's mouth -- and slowly drags his mouth back up Watson's length, sucking along the way. "If you get bored, do let me know," he drawls as he moves up Watson's body quickly, plants a brief kiss on his lips, and returns to his position, having acquired the vial he was after.

He draws Watson's cock back into his mouth as he slicks his fingers and sets one against Watson's entrance. The other night comes back to him -- really, as it had been doing all day -- with their passionate desperation and urgent touches. While possibly regrettable, it had been incredibly sexy. And this is too, in a different way, in a way that implies their comfort with each other and their growing boldness. He pushes past Watson's entrance, working his finger in carefully.

Watson: "Did I say boring?" Watson managed, sucking hard at the air. "Never boring. You're not.. you can't be boring."

He did let out a wordless, agonised cry, one of unmixed delight and hunger. It was hard to feel disgust with himself through so much lust, and hard to believe he still had so much lust in him after so recently spending himself. He was, he had to admit, a lot less proper than he might think himself to be, but that was nothing new. Working to relax himself into Holmes's attentions, Watson continued to wind his fingers through Holmes's hair, clutching him rather desperately and possessively. With one hand, he trailed his fingers over Holmes's cheek, the side of his neck.

Holmes: If he weren't very busy sucking Watson's cock with a decided vigor, he might have to stop and smile at that compliment, seemingly small, but only the tip of the iceberg of something more, he's sure of it. And the way Watson clutches at him, gently maps his neck; he's definitely feeling possessed even as he works his finger (and soon enough a second one) in a steady rhythm inside Watson. 'Making love' always seemed to him to have to be sweet, gentle, or at least it was often mistaken as such, but to be able to experience how much he loves Watson, and how much Watson loves him, when there's nothing particularly sweet or gentle about their proceedings is refreshing, is wonderful.

"That's quite the statement to live up to," he says, breathing heavily as he pauses, feeling very wanton with his swollen lips. "I'll have to make sure you're constantly entertained." He stars scissoring his fingers, eager to get Watson as ready as possible as quickly as possible.

Watson: Watson groaned, positively writhing. "You're doing," he managed, between hard gasps of air, "a fine job."

That was putting it mildly. He was having a difficult time keeping still, could only twist in the sheets. It seemed to him that this was remarkably little foreplay, unless that expanse of time after the last orgasm where they had kissed and touched counted. Perhaps, he thought distantly, naughtily, it might be possible to turn the evening into a long series of sexual encounters, broken up by brief respites for sleep. Perhaps. They would have to see how this went.

Holmes: Watson is so exquisitely beautiful like this that Holmes suspects he might start fingering him like this more often, even without an endgame of sex. To know that just a few fingers inside him can get Watson writhing like this is extraordinary, and the results are fascinating to watch. He's almost tempted to prolong this, except he doesn't think he can hold off much longer from sodding Watson. Is it shameful to be so hungry despite having already spent himself once? If so, he isn't sure he cares. Hastily he slicks himself up, his breath hitching as he touches himself.

"On your side," he murmurs, and he crawls up the bed, settling in behind Watson. He lines himself up against Watson's entrance, scattering kisses over Watson's shoulder, and then he rocks his hips up, pushing inside Watson.

Watson: After rolling over obediently -- honestly, he was in such a state that he would have obeyed any command, whatever it was -- Watson soon let out a long, desperate, keening sound, completely overwhelmed. He reached back to clutch at Holmes's thighs, pawing blindly at him, while the fingers of his other hand clutched desperately in the bedclothes.

Good God, but this was far better than he'd anticipated. He'd never thought this act could be particularly enjoyable for the submissive party, thought that it must be to a certain degree demeaning. He had been wrong, he was comfortable with being wrong. This was very nearly transcendant. He rocked his hips back up into Holmes, his eyes shut as he tried to focus the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it all. Already, he was quite certain that he liked this position.

Holmes: Holmes groans, despite himself, and he thrusts back against Watson with a somewhat more vigorous rhythm than he would normally, for a start; Watson had caught him off-guard with his enthusiasm, and Holmes loses a little control over his hips (in a good way). He halts for a moment to make sure that he hasn't hurt Watson, remembering through his haze of lust that this is only his second time.

When it seems Watson is at least not asking for a moment, Holmes finds a more acceptable rhythm, thrusting shallowly, which allows him to slide his hand over Watson's chest. He could do something with it, but for the moment simply spreading his palm out against Watson's skin and feeling his heart beat while he feels the vibration of their hips moving together seems enough to him.

"Were you always such a loud lover?" he manages, breathing heavily, and he kisses the back of Watson's neck.

Watson: It was a moment before Watson could summon up a response. He'd been caught slightly off-guard by the force of Holmes's thrust, and was left gasping, trying not to completely lose himself, at least not yet. "Only," he said, barely more than a whisper because that was all that he could summon up, "with the good ones."

And this was undeniably very good. Holmes was wonderfully talented, quite unfairly so, and that didn't stop at the bedroom. At least it was distinctly to Watson's benefit in this case. He spread his palm over Holmes's hand on his chest, holding him there, sliding his fingers in between Holmes's. He rocked his hips backwards, trying to meet Holmes's motions, hungry for sensation, hungry to try to and match the eagerness of their movements with the great tenderness of the position.

Yes, he was falling quickly into being a full-fledged, enthusiastic, unapologetic sodomite, and he was beginning to welcome the fact.

Holmes: He wonders if Watson's wantonness will ever stop startling him with its intensity, and he hopes not because he enjoys being just a little overwhelmed when Watson gives himself over to his more primal urges. Holmes's own primal urges are rapidly taking over, though the tenderness of their joined hands is helping him remain aware of himself, which is good; he needs to observe every moment, every sound, every motion of their hips. Encouraged by Watson's reaction, he moves his hips more sharply, and the occasional grunt escapes him as he settles into the rhythm.

It is unfortunate that Watson can't be as loud as he pleases, that they have to worry for their safety. Maybe he can manufacture a vacation for Mrs. Holmes, some task to take her away for an evening. His thoughts dissolve, unable to focus for very long on anything that isn't Watson moving against him.

"I feel very lucky," he says, with a notable effort, and he bites gently at Watson's shoulder.

Watson: Watson leaned his head back, hissing softly. He didn't think Holmes could feel half as lucky as he did, not really, not when he was being treated with so much care by so great, so overwhelmingly talented a man. It was overwhelming, and put him in mind of classical myths of gods alighting from Olympus to make love to mortals. He would never, he thought distantly, ever utter that thought aloud, because for all the ardent love and worship he had in his heart for Holmes, he didn't think he could or should ever admit to how intense he felt it.

"God, yes." His words were distracted and disconnected, unrelated to anything they had been saying between them; he'd already half forgotten it. His fingers tightened convulsively around Holmes's hand, and he rocked backwards hoping to encourage Holmes into more vigorous thrusting. Asking for it aloud was just not possible.

Holmes: It does take Holmes a second to register Watson's words are more a request than a response to anything they'd been saying. Dimly, he thinks he isn't one to disappoint, and he gives Watson's hand one final squeeze before he grips his hip. He needs the leverage so he can fuck Watson with a more unrelenting rhythm. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson's hearing can't possibly pick up the sounds of their hips slapping together. Maybe he should put "hard-of-hearing" on his list of qualifications for a good housekeeper.

"You wanton creature," he half-moans appreciatively, lovingly, somewhere near Watson's ear. In a moment, he thinks, he'll take Watson's cock in hand; his grip tightens on Watson's hip at the thought, and he drags his teeth against the shell of Watson's ear, then draws it between his lips.

Watson: Though he had no breath to reply, Watson smiled, a distracted and vague sort of expression but all he could manage just then. He liked being described as wanton, particularly in such tones as that, and he slid back toward Holmes eagerly. He was sorry to have lost Holmes's hand on his chest, but he couldn't fault him for the grip on his hip. He leaned his head back, concentrating on trying to remember to breathe.

"It makes us the perfect pair," he managed between long gasps, a soft moan of words, too long after they were really relevant. Perhaps he was wanton, but at the moment, no less so than Holmes. And he was ridiculously thankful for that.

And those were the last words he had in him, he thought.

Holmes: Though this act is supposedly unnatural, they fit together seamlessly. More than that, they work together, move together, their bodies cooperating easily. He's grateful for this encore performance because he can ride Watson harder and simultaneously last longer, the heat building up slowly.

Though he'd like to keep holding onto Watson for stability's sake, he would much rather take hold of Watson's cock, so that's what he goes with, reaching around and working it off-rhythm with his hips. The off-rhythm thing is difficult to manage, as it requires concentration, but he manages as long as he can, experimenting with different paces and rhythms. Eventually, though, as his resistance starts to wear thin, he starts stroking Watson in time with his hips, urging him on to his completion.

Watson: That Watson lasted as long as he did was only due to their earlier exertions, but even so, he could not have lasted forever. Holmes's hand on his cock was wonderfully overwhelming, wondering intoxicating and all-enveloping. He groaned, clutching at the bedsheets, biting his lip as he tried, desperately to hold back for as long as possible; he didn't want this to end, not yet, possibly not ever.

He couldn't prevent the inevitable, though; when his orgasm finally shook through him, he let out a long and desperate low moan. He was feeling sweaty and shaky with exhaustion, and he reached back to clutch at Holmes. Words were beyond him; clutching was all he could do.

Holmes: When his orgasm finally takes him, it's a wonderfully slow process, drawing out his agony in the best way possible as his hips thrust into Watson a few more times. As Holmes collapses behind Watson, returning his hand to Watson's chest and holding him close, he replays the moment of his orgasm, the way he moaned and clutched at Holmes, the way Holmes had such control, had such possession of Watson. If these aren't good thoughts to have about his lover, he doesn't feel bad for them.

Nuzzling close, he kisses the back of Watson's neck softly, struggling to catch his breath. Possibly the best part of this position is the convenient cuddling afterwards.

"You're beautiful when you lose yourself," he breathes, smiling to himself.

Watson: Still trying to catch his breath, Watson leaned back, ridiculously glad to have Holmes warm and comforting at his back like this. Sometimes it was strange to think that this was the same man who had seemed so dispassionnate, so aloof and unromantic. A front, clearly; Watson knew that now. He felt very lucky indeed.

"What a wonderful thing to hear," he murmured. He sounded rather sleepy, quite wonderfully worn out, and he shifted backwards fractionally to snuggle against Holmes. He never wanted to move again, ever, or at least not for a very long time. Whether that made him wanton or slothful or something else entirely... well, at the moment, he didn't care very much about anything besides Holmes. "I couldn't see you that time, but from what I've seen, you're quite enchanting yourself in that state."

He gave a small, sleepy little laugh.

Holmes: "You enjoyed this position," he says, and it's only a little bit of a question. "Even though you couldn't see me." He sighs, quite contentedly, and relaxes more against Watson. There's such a world of sexual exploration in front of them, and Holmes feels confident that they'll both be willing to explore it thoroughly; this is only their second night of such intimacies and they're already testing each other's limits. Watson is right; they are perfect for each other.

"I suspect, too, that you like it rough." He smiles against Watson's shoulder, his thumb stroking lazily against Watson's chest.

Watson: "Oh, I did," Watson sighed, shutting his eyes again. "I enjoyed it very much. And yes." He gave another small laugh, more amused at himself than anything else.

With Holmes's hand on his chest again, the only thing to do was to return his hand to rest on top of Holmes's, entangling their fingers, further drawing them closer together in a small way, almost trying to draw Holmes around him like a blanket. The amount of comfort he found in this position was surprising; it had been a long time since he had felt so warm, so safe, so loved and so desirable.

"And yes, I do enjoy it rough. How perceptive of you." He smiled to himself. "Or at least, I enjoy it rough with a willing partner."

Holmes: "And I am very willing," he says breathily, and he bites Watson's earlobe, though it's more like he scrapes his teeth against his skin. Could they be up for a third round? He's tired now, perhaps more prepared for sleep, but if Watson wakes in an hour or two and wants to rouse Holmes into action... Truly, that's a delightful notion.

"I think I have it in me to sleep now." He kisses the space just behind Watson's ear and pulls him in tighter against his chest, letting his eyes fall down. "At least for a little while. Feel free to interrupt me if the mood takes you," he murmurs, his voice warm with amusement.

Watson: Watson's smile was broad and warm, if sleepy, and he let his eyes fall shut as he settled into a comfortable position. "I'll remember that," he mumured. He brought Holmes's hand up to his mouth to kiss his fingers, delicately, before shifting back. "I might take you up on the offer. You should feel free," he tried and failed to stifle a yawn, "to take the same liberty."

He let out a sigh, content and happy. Sleep was not far off.

Holmes: Though he sleeps better with Watson, particularly after some considerable physical exertion, he still awakes with a start. The unfamiliar location, the still-at-times-unusual feel of sleeping beside another person, and his mind, often unquiet, combining to stir him out of his sleep somewhat abruptly. He'd been dreaming of a snake, slithering toward them, promising death, and he lifts his head to check for a snake at the foot of their bed, unsure for a second if reality had been invading his dream.

There is no snake, but Holmes's sigh of relief is cut off.

Had he even checked to see if this room was safe last night? Had he even bothered to give a thought as to whether or not Watson's window was locked? Or if it seemed someone was keeping an eye on it? How many times had he tumbled with Watson on this bed and never even once worried if whoever had set a snake upon them in Italy had gotten into this room?

Feeling sick, he extricates himself from Watson and the bed and starts to gather up his clothes. A plan. He needs a coherent plan, and he needs to be away from Watson, from distractions. He's a danger to them both if he lets his love for Watson blind him to the danger they're in. Worst of all, he wonders if the change in their relationship had been a mistake. If Watson is no longer his whetstone, if Holmes lets himself grow dull, then what is their relationship?

He dresses hurriedly, resolutely not looking at Watson.

Watson: Never a particularly heavy sleeper, Watson stirred a little when Holmes rose, though it took him some little time to reach any level of full wakefulness. He might have returned to sleep soon enough, but without that warmth and comfort at his back, sleep seemed significantly less inviting. He blinked blearily, watching Holmes dress with some degree of confusion. Was it morning? Was there some reason to be alarmed?

The thought that perhaps Holmes had been woken by some danger, some early morning caller, Mrs. Hudson on her way up, something else entirely, was enough to bring Watson into full consciousness. He shifted, and propped himself up on his arm, his expression puzzled and concerned.

"Holmes?" His voice was thick and creaky from sleep, though he whispered. "Is everything all right? What time is it?"

Holmes: "It's early," he says, distracted by his disappointment that Watson woke up. This would have been so much easier if he hadn't. He knows already that it will be a while -- days, maybe a week, maybe more -- before he can let himself be with Watson in any relationship-like capacity. It simply isn't safe, not when he can't keep his mind focused. He glances at his pocketwatch as he steps up to Watson's mirror and attempts to make himself look less like he'd just spent all night sodding, on the off chance he ran into Mrs. Hudson.

"It's 4:30. You needn't get out of bed." He isn't sure how to answer the question of whether or not things are all right; nothing had happened, but that wasn't due to any kind of vigilance or intelligence on Holmes's part. That had been sheer fortune. "I must go out. Don't wait breakfast for me." He turns and reaches for the doorknob, glancing up at Watson in bed. It pains him to know that this entirely inviting sight is the reason for his mental downfall.

Before Watson can stop him or delay him, he opens the door and walks out. He'll have to shave and put on fresher clothes, but he feels confident Watson won't follow him.

Watson: An eternity seemed to pass for Watson, where he could neither think nor move nor breathe, but a terrible sinking feeling was forming in his stomach. To him, Holmes seemed dismissive, distracted, cold, not the attitude of a lover at all. Something had happened, but what could possibly have happened while they were sleeping? If something had not happened, what was this about?

Feeling sick and miserable, Watson sank back into his bed, staring at the ceiling. It had been hard for him to agree to this relationship, to put aside his prejudices and his fears, and it had been rewarding. He hadn't regretted it. The idea that Holmes might now want to break things off between them was positively heartrending.

No, he told himself, he was leaping to conclusions. There was no reason to assume anything. Doubtless there was some other reason. Some... other, perfectly legitimate reason for Holmes to be gallivanting off without warning or reason at four thirty in the morning.

At last, he forced himself out of bed, feeling stiff and sore and in dire need of a bath. He dressed, to the bare minimum required for even approaching half decency -- a nightshirt and a dressing gown, and a pair of slippers, and with more than a small sense of trepidation, he began the descent down to the sitting room.

1 | 2