mustbethetruth | (no subject)

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Holmes can't shake the feeling that this is his greatest triumph. This journey, this race through the Continent with Moriarty on his heels, is going to be a turning point in Holmes's life. It's the climax his life has been building to, and his life will only spiral downward from this point in the falling action that will carry him to his conclusion. He's taking down the Napoleon of crime, or maybe he's the one that will be taken down; either way, this is an apex he's working toward with each step they take, each city they visit.

The only thing he isn't sure of is if this is the greatest acting job he's ever given himself, or if his invigorated spirits are truly genuine and he's suspicious of his own attitude for no reason. He does appreciate his life up to this point; he does appreciate what he's been able to accomplish, but he isn't ready to let any of it go. Not yet -- not really. Maybe in a way he is tired; it is exhausting to be him in general, and then with added expectations... it's taxing.

No, what really calls his happy front into question is the sense of finality that looms over this entire trip with Watson. What a holiday, or what a grand farewell tour. It could be both. It feels like the latter, but he thinks that might just be him. At any rate, each kiss with Watson feels like his last, and he himself feels like a skeleton in a danse macabre, leading Watson to their death.

With such morbid thoughts, he's confused by his mood's determination to stay cheerful, but then he's rarely in charge of his moods, anyway.

He opens the door to their room and holds it for Watson, feeling strangely like a liar for the smile on his face.

"After you, my dear boy, if you can still walk after that meal."

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Watson bit back a groan, bucking his hips up to meet Holmes's. He might come apart entirely but for Holmes's touch on him, and so he clung. He could hardly think to do anything else.

He slid a hand down between them, tangling with Holmes's fingers, both of their cocks sliding over his palm together. He turned his head to nip at Holmes's ear. It was hard to tell at this point where he ended and Holmes began, and touching Holmes was like touching himself: familiar, sensual, possessive. Mine.

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.

Though answering in words was out of the question just then, Watson did give a long sigh, a sound of nothing short of assent. Yes, said that sigh, yes, I am yours, there is no better fate than that. There was a moment in this act, just this one moment, where he found himself warring between wanting this and being afraid of it; that fear was always growing less, was barely a moment's hesitation now, but it was always there, nontheless.

He leaned his head back, relaxing into Holmes's touch, a small pucker of worry forming on his brow briefly before fading again. "Mine," he whispered, an echo and an affirmation, a claiming and an acceptance.

"Yes," he breathes, entirely involuntarily, but he has no arguments to that. It's true; they belong together, and sometimes it's romantic, but other times, like this, they possess each other. It's more frightening, perhaps, but also perfect in its way. He kisses the line of Watson's throat and bites gently at the base of his neck, working his finger with what's now expert precision. He knows how to curl and twist to get Watson to moan, to come unraveled at his touch. He busies himself with nipping and kissing, perusing Watson's body because it is, after all, his.

"Always, John," he says, a fierce whisper, because he's not sure he could do anything just now without doing it fiercely. "Do you understand? Always," he says against his lips, and he adds a second finger, scissoring them.

Always. That was the best possible thing to hear, with things as they were, with the danger as it was. No matter what might happen, always they would belong to each other.

"I understand," Watson managed, trying to gather his thoughts enough for words. There was a definite intensity to his words, a desperation, and not all of it was lust. Some of it was, truthfully -- he was trying to thrust down onto Holmes's fingers -- but not all of it. "Always."

Always. Even when their lives weren't in such immediate danger, Watson sometimes had to wonder if Holmes, so brilliant and unique and talented, would not someday tire of Watson. It was difficult, though, to disbelieve such ferocity.

He seals this moment -- whatever it is -- with a breathless kiss that makes up in intensity what it lacks in coordination. Coordination is hardly the point; finesse is something of an afterthought. What matters is their mouths coming together, their bodies coming together, because their souls are, too.

He's impatient, he will admit, and he adds a third finger, stroking and twisting inside Watson in an effort to prove how united they are. He doesn't want to name why this is so desperately important, why he must make his mark in Watson now; it's obvious, of course, but he reminds himself that right now, there is nowhere but here. He is no one else but John Watson's lover, no one but this flushed body pressed against his soulmate.

Watson reached up to catch Holmes's hair in his hands, pulled him down against him, kissing him, smothering his gasps with Holmes's mouth. The kiss was almost a promise, an oath, a sealing of some pact between them of mutual ownership, of love.

"Now," he begged. He murmured this against Holmes's lips, his voice desperate, his fingers still clutching at Holmes tightly. "Now, if you have mercy."

Does he have mercy? He doesn't feel merciful right now; he feels needy and desperate and hungry, and that's why he slips his hand free, why he reaches for the bottle and slicks himself up with an urgency. It's good to hear Watson beg, though, and he isn't in any kind of mood to deny that, no matter what it says about him.

He enters Watson achingly slowly, holding his breath until he can feel his lungs scream for it; he gasps then, and buries his face in the crook of Watson's neck, his breathing still confused, still ragged.

"John." He stops once he's buried himself, but he doesn't move, not yet; he simply wants to be still and feel whole, complete for a moment.

Watson shut his eyes, savouring this moment just as Holmes was, feeling how very right this was, how very perfect: possessed, and owned, and loved.

"Sherlock," he whispered, speaking it like a caress. He angled his head up, kissing him, one hand still resting, gently, on Holmes's cheek. For all the impatience, the intensity, the roughness of this evening, he wouldn't have had it any other way than this.

He kisses Watson once, something gentle and loving, before the need to move makes him break away. He starts slow because that lets him move deep within Watson; he draws out only to sink himself in again, and he clutches at Watson's hip, holding him for leverage. His breath comes harsh against Watson's lips, and then the side of his neck, and his throat, as he trails his mouth elsewhere. As his mouth trails lower, into safer territory, his kisses turn to bites, and he nips at Watson, tasting him.

The slow pace can only satisfy him for so long, and after a few deep thrusts -- the purpose of which is more to lay claim, to possess than anything -- he speeds up, rocking his hips against Watson's steadily.

Watson sighed, his breath catching in his throat, and he opened his eyes again, if only to be able to watch Holmes fuck him. That was as important as the rest of it, it seemed to him.

He moved against Holmes's thrusts, matching his rhythm, gasping. His fingers were still tight on Holmes's flesh, clutching him, holding him close as though the possibility of either of them evaporating was a real one.

"Sherlock," he moaned again, half a cry, soft and broken.

"I'm here," he breathes, "I've got you." He kisses Watson, brief and distracted because his body's main focus is in his hips, driving into Watson. He finds Watson's eyes on him, and there's little for him to do but return the stare; sometimes he shies away from this in sex, finds sex too overwhelming to add a layer of this kind of a connection over it, but just now there's no way he could move from this gaze. He lays a hand against Watson's neck, fingers reaching up into the base of his hair, and he cradles him there.

His hips are determined, his pace constant, and he finds as middle ground between the kind of wild fucking they've taken to more often than not and a slower, making love kind of pace they've engaged in on occasion. Now seems more of a time for this, for measured, confident thrusts.

Another breathy sigh escaped Watson. His body rolled up towards Holmes, welcoming him, welcoming the invasion and the joining and the perfection. His hand was still on Holmes's face, his touch gentle and his fingers faintly trembling, and he stroked Holmes's temple with utmost care. His thumb rested lightly under Holmes's eye. It was a small touch, a very small thing compared to everything else they were doing, but he found himself strangely focused on it.

"I have you too," he said, and it was perhaps a nonsensical thing to say, but he didn't care. To him, it felt true.

He aches with the beauty of this moment, and it startles him, and it frightens him a little too. He shouldn't be thinking about destiny and fate, not now, but if he and Watson were to part ways tomorrow...

He shakes himself away from such thoughts and returns to the moment. Nowhere else, he reminds himself, nowhere but here. He buries himself in the way Watson's body responds so eagerly to his own, and he gives a soft moan as he throws all his faculties at recording the physicality of the moment.

After a brief debate, he takes Watson's free hand and sets it on his cock, but he doesn't draw his hand away. They will bring each other to the edge and pull each other over it; the possession goes both ways.

Though he might wish to draw this out as long as possible, that was just not realistic and he knew that. Besides, Watson could not entirely suppress the moan that came to his lips at the touch on his own cock. Tangling his fingers with Holmes's, he began a slow stroking, not exactly in time with Holmes's thrusts but at a sort of complementary pace.

And after that, it was only so long that he could last. He could feel his orgasm build up on him, inevitable and on the horizon. Though trying to stay in the moment, trying to last, Watson could feel everything begin to crash. The sound he made as he climaxed was more than a little desperate, drawn-out and soft.

It's vitally important to him that he finish as near enough to Watson as possible, and he keeps himself on edge for so long that he's trembling with the effort. He can hear the signs though, can tell when Watson's close, and he starts to let himself go. When Watson's orgasm hits him, Holmes is close behind, his hips stuttering as his mouth falls open, whatever sound he might've made caught in his throat.

He kisses Watson, insistently tender, while the last shocks of his orgasm start to fade away, and then he drops his head to Watson's shoulder. He shifts until he can hear his heartbeat, can feel Watson living beneath him, and he closes his eyes.

Watson drew in a long breath, feeling like he hadn't been breathing, like he was in desperate need of air. He wrapped an arm around Holmes, cradling him close, his fingers toying in his hair. Finding a convenient bit of skin, he pressed several long, slow, gentle kisses against Holmes's arm, his shoulder, his neck.

He was afraid to say anything, afraid of shattering this moment, and instead endeavoured to say as much as he could without words: I love you, I am very much yours, stay with me, that was some bloody incredible sex.

He doesn't speak until his breath evens out, and it's more to do with the fact that he can't leave his own mind than anything else. He's awash in this, in Watson, in what they have together, and he needs to absorb it all in his own way.

"I meant it, John," he murmurs, curling his hand around Watson's hip; he squeezes lightly. "Always. There will never be anyone else for me."

Watson smiled, sleepily, or as if one drunk. He felt very nearly drunk, come to it, drugged on nothing but Holmes himself. In his current state of mind, that made perfect sense to him. He sighed, a sigh of perfect happiness, contentment. It was not always a simple thing for him to believe that Holmes truly loved him with the same sense of utter desperation that Watson felt for him, but right now he had no such problem.

Words were entirely beyond him; he bent his head and pressed a long kiss to Holmes's mouth, not passionate or hurried or lustful, but loving and gentle. He believed him. He was in a similar position.

He knows what Watson's saying with this kiss, but then he suspected -- knew that Watson felt this deeply for him; he doesn't need to hear it in words so much. It's so much sweeter to deduce it from Watson's drowsy expression, from the slow press of their mouths.

He settles himself on his pillow again and winds an arm around Watson, pulling him close; he fully intends to sleep pressed as tightly to Watson as he can possibly get.

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