They could stay like this, he thinks, and pull each other over into the kind of oblivion they seek, and it would still be poetic. Their fingers are tangled around their cocks, and he can feel Watson's pulse as clearly as his own ripple through his body. They could, and it would be wonderful, but Holmes needs more, needs not just to have, but to possess, to join them. He doesn't touch on the why; he doesn't touch on the fact that he needs to bury himself in Watson, remind Watson that Holmes is a part of him, because soon he might be wrenched away.

Instead he thrusts his hips, breath hitching at the sensation, and then he pushes himself up to reach for the necessary bottle out of their nightstand.

"You are mine," he hisses under his breath, staring hard at Watson, as he slides a slicked finger past Watson's entrance.