He ought to take his time; he ought to strip Watson slowly and relearn his body, tease Watson until he's writhing and unable to wait any longer. But Holmes doesn't even think he can wait that long; in a strange way this doesn't even feel like having sex, and foreplay seems out of place. This is a violent, desperate union, and Holmes would be sliding into Watson already if there weren't clothes in the way.

He clutches at Watson, and he kisses him with a kind of brutal urgency that leaves him breathless when he pulls away to transfer his attention to Watson's chest. His hands pull at his trousers, eager to get rid of their clothes, not just for the physical acts it would allow. He wants them to be together, to press together so tightly that they nearly become one entity.