[fic] Sherlock Holmes (movie), Holmes/Watson, "Damage"
IN UNDER THE WIRE. SORT OF. Written for Porn Battle with the prompt "opium."
Edit (7/28/2010): Ending revamped. It didn't feel right.
Damage
Watson returns home. Holmes awaits.
~900 words. NSFW. Warnings for recreational drug use.
When Watson arrived back at home one afternoon, he was surprised to find Holmes stretched out on the floor of their sitting room, apparently asleep on the tiger skin rug in front of the fire. Most of the time Holmes was constantly in motion, his restless mind finding outlets in his hands, his expressions, in order to siphon off its extra energy. Even in his sleep he was almost never still, tossing and turning, muttering to himself, hands twitching with phantom motions.
It was an unfortunate coincidental irony for Watson then that Holmes appeared innocent and most at peace only when in the grips of a drug induced stupor.
“Watson my dear,” said Holmes, his voice slurred and drowsy as Watson shook him by the shoulder to wake him, blinking in the mid-afternoon sunlight that penetrated the blinds. “So wonderful to see you.”
“Holmes, what have you done to yourself now?” His body was completely pliant as Watson attempted to lift him off the floor.
“I fear, my dear boy, that I may have chosen to visit an opium den today. I would not normally undertake such an excursion as I much prefer the stimulation of the cocaine, but I found myself in a rather seedy part of town today and found that the urge for new sensation was so compelling that I entered the nearest den I found. I must say the den itself was not to my taste, but the drug is quite satisfying in the oblivion it provides. The clock on the wall says it is almost four o’clock and yet I could swear it is barely late morning, the time has slid by so quickly. I realize you may disapprove Watson, but I really cannot stress the good it has done for my mental health, if perhaps not for my physical.” For someone who seemed at times to subsist solely on tea and adrenaline, Holmes was remarkably heavy when he was making no efforts to assist in his own movement. Watson’s wounded leg began to protest the dead weight and within a few steps he found himself unable to continue in his effort to get Holmes into his own bed for once.
“It’s a pity your mouth is the only thing unaffected, Holmes, I could use your help,” he said, grunting slightly as he attempted once more to make his roommate and sometimes patient move of his own will.
Holmes let his head fall so he was looking at Watson sidelong, and before Watson was quite clear on exactly what had transpired he found that his leg had quite given way and he was flat on his back on the same rug he had just attempted to vacate of its occupant with a very heavy, very insistent private consulting detective lying on top of him, fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
“Holmes, no,” Watson said, trying unsuccessfully to push him off. “You need sleep and medical attention, not a tryst.”
Holmes refused to answer him, instead bending his head to nuzzle at Watson’s neck, humming contentedly to himself. His hair smelled sweet and smoky from the den and Watson found himself breathing in deeply to taste it. Even when he seemed determined to permanently ruin himself Holmes was entrancing.
“Holmes-”
But Holmes chose to silence his protest by sealing their mouths together, and Watson arched up into his mouth, groaning, helpless. Holmes’s hands - his damnably clever hands - had slid from Watson’s shirt to beneath the waistband of his trousers, and were stroking him into hardness.
Watson gave up his efforts to move them to a softer locale and struggled to return the favor but found he could barely get enough leverage to slide his hand between them, let alone get Holmes‘s trouser buttons undone. Holmes did not seem to mind overmuch anyway, as he rutted into Watson’s hand and against his leg feverishly. Watson gripped Holmes tightly with his free arm, the fabric of his shirt sweated through beneath Watson’s palm as held him close. Holmes’s breath was hot on his ear as he pressed his nose in the spot behind Watson’s ear as they rocked together. The angle was awkward but Watson could feel the familiar build, tensing along his back and his feet, and then Holmes lifted himself enough to unbuttoned his trousers and got a better grip and suddenly he was there and he arched up into Holmes, crying out in his climax as if his heart might break. Holmes followed him swiftly after, climaxing silently as he always did, muffling his own potential cries by kissing Watson soundly, his mouth almost feverishly hot.
After several moments, when Watson found he could breath normally again, he rolled them over and stood, tidying himself as best he could. Holmes had become drowsy again but was more willing this time to be lifted up and walked to his bedroom. When they got to his room Watson dumped Holmes onto the bed and pulled one of the blankets over him.
“You’re going to kill yourself this way,” he murmured, brushing a bit of hair away from his face.
Holmes scoffed softly. “Hardly, old boy," he said, his voice slurred with sleep. Watson sat and watched for a moment, until Holmes's breathing had evened out.
"Yes you will," he said, trying to not wake him. He pushed back Holmes's hair and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. Holmes was burning hot but pale. Watson knew when he opened his eyes again they would be blodshot and he would have gone far too long without food, but would still refuse to eat properly.
"And I don't know if I can watch," he whispered, and left the room.
Also here on AO3.
Edit (7/28/2010): Ending revamped. It didn't feel right.
Damage
Watson returns home. Holmes awaits.
~900 words. NSFW. Warnings for recreational drug use.
When Watson arrived back at home one afternoon, he was surprised to find Holmes stretched out on the floor of their sitting room, apparently asleep on the tiger skin rug in front of the fire. Most of the time Holmes was constantly in motion, his restless mind finding outlets in his hands, his expressions, in order to siphon off its extra energy. Even in his sleep he was almost never still, tossing and turning, muttering to himself, hands twitching with phantom motions.
It was an unfortunate coincidental irony for Watson then that Holmes appeared innocent and most at peace only when in the grips of a drug induced stupor.
“Watson my dear,” said Holmes, his voice slurred and drowsy as Watson shook him by the shoulder to wake him, blinking in the mid-afternoon sunlight that penetrated the blinds. “So wonderful to see you.”
“Holmes, what have you done to yourself now?” His body was completely pliant as Watson attempted to lift him off the floor.
“I fear, my dear boy, that I may have chosen to visit an opium den today. I would not normally undertake such an excursion as I much prefer the stimulation of the cocaine, but I found myself in a rather seedy part of town today and found that the urge for new sensation was so compelling that I entered the nearest den I found. I must say the den itself was not to my taste, but the drug is quite satisfying in the oblivion it provides. The clock on the wall says it is almost four o’clock and yet I could swear it is barely late morning, the time has slid by so quickly. I realize you may disapprove Watson, but I really cannot stress the good it has done for my mental health, if perhaps not for my physical.” For someone who seemed at times to subsist solely on tea and adrenaline, Holmes was remarkably heavy when he was making no efforts to assist in his own movement. Watson’s wounded leg began to protest the dead weight and within a few steps he found himself unable to continue in his effort to get Holmes into his own bed for once.
“It’s a pity your mouth is the only thing unaffected, Holmes, I could use your help,” he said, grunting slightly as he attempted once more to make his roommate and sometimes patient move of his own will.
Holmes let his head fall so he was looking at Watson sidelong, and before Watson was quite clear on exactly what had transpired he found that his leg had quite given way and he was flat on his back on the same rug he had just attempted to vacate of its occupant with a very heavy, very insistent private consulting detective lying on top of him, fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
“Holmes, no,” Watson said, trying unsuccessfully to push him off. “You need sleep and medical attention, not a tryst.”
Holmes refused to answer him, instead bending his head to nuzzle at Watson’s neck, humming contentedly to himself. His hair smelled sweet and smoky from the den and Watson found himself breathing in deeply to taste it. Even when he seemed determined to permanently ruin himself Holmes was entrancing.
“Holmes-”
But Holmes chose to silence his protest by sealing their mouths together, and Watson arched up into his mouth, groaning, helpless. Holmes’s hands - his damnably clever hands - had slid from Watson’s shirt to beneath the waistband of his trousers, and were stroking him into hardness.
Watson gave up his efforts to move them to a softer locale and struggled to return the favor but found he could barely get enough leverage to slide his hand between them, let alone get Holmes‘s trouser buttons undone. Holmes did not seem to mind overmuch anyway, as he rutted into Watson’s hand and against his leg feverishly. Watson gripped Holmes tightly with his free arm, the fabric of his shirt sweated through beneath Watson’s palm as held him close. Holmes’s breath was hot on his ear as he pressed his nose in the spot behind Watson’s ear as they rocked together. The angle was awkward but Watson could feel the familiar build, tensing along his back and his feet, and then Holmes lifted himself enough to unbuttoned his trousers and got a better grip and suddenly he was there and he arched up into Holmes, crying out in his climax as if his heart might break. Holmes followed him swiftly after, climaxing silently as he always did, muffling his own potential cries by kissing Watson soundly, his mouth almost feverishly hot.
After several moments, when Watson found he could breath normally again, he rolled them over and stood, tidying himself as best he could. Holmes had become drowsy again but was more willing this time to be lifted up and walked to his bedroom. When they got to his room Watson dumped Holmes onto the bed and pulled one of the blankets over him.
“You’re going to kill yourself this way,” he murmured, brushing a bit of hair away from his face.
Holmes scoffed softly. “Hardly, old boy," he said, his voice slurred with sleep. Watson sat and watched for a moment, until Holmes's breathing had evened out.
"Yes you will," he said, trying to not wake him. He pushed back Holmes's hair and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. Holmes was burning hot but pale. Watson knew when he opened his eyes again they would be blodshot and he would have gone far too long without food, but would still refuse to eat properly.
"And I don't know if I can watch," he whispered, and left the room.
Also here on AO3.