mustbethetruth | (no subject)

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.