Watson shut his eyes. His fingers folded into Holmes's back, feeling the creases between muscles, the edges of vertebrae, all that was his to claim. He kissed wherever he could reach, kissed like he was starving for Holmes's skin.

He held Holmes close against him, where he could, needing every inch of contact between them, needing every molecule of scent. I love you said his touch, his kisses, his uneven sighs, but he had no room for real words in any of that. He trusted Holmes to know what he meant.

He slid his fingers into the waistband of Holmes's trousers, drawing them down a little further.