mustbethetruth | Behold I dream a dream of good

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Behold I dream a dream of good

Holmes is not dead, but that seems a mere technicality. It’s only because the world thinks he’s dead now—that Moran thinks he’s dead—that he can even begin to consider himself alive. Even still, even with the tentative new grasp on himself, even with the aftershocks of having been so close, so very close to tipping over into actual oblivion, he doesn’t feel alive. His heart beats, and his lungs expand and contract, and he moves from Tibet to France to London, but it’s all just movement, just technicalities that propel a man who is but a technicality himself.

Holmes does not feel alive until he’s dressed as an ancient bookseller, and he has a pain in his back and his neck from stooping, and he smells of spirit gum and makeup, and he sees his soul from across the street.

He could hardly be blamed for nearly forgetting himself, forgetting all of this, and crying out to Watson. What else would a body do, when it sees its soul, ripped from him for far too long?

Maybe that’s overly sentimental, but he’s nearly faded away to his own death in an opium den, and spent the next several months under the careful care of monks, themselves prone to sentimentality and metaphor. He’s allowed.

And besides, it’s true.

The purpose of his mission is to guarantee that Watson is not being tailed, that Moran has not noticed Holmes’s technical state of being, that Moran has not decided to give in and kill where his loyalty has so far stayed his hand. Very shortly, nothing seems more important than cataloging everything about Watson; what weight he’s gained or lost, what new items of clothing he’s bought, what needs to be replaced, where he’s been walking, how much sleep he’s been getting, the emotions that flicker over his face (annoyance at the man who walks far too slowly in front of him, fondness for a boy who might’ve been an Irregular).

He only barely remembers that he has more to do today than drink in Watson’s presence, but suddenly the prospect of reuniting with Watson seems far too real, far too frightening. He’s been dead for so long, to himself as much as anyone, and coming back to life is daunting, like emerging from a cave and finding himself entirely unaccustomed to the light of day.

He allows himself this: he crosses their paths, he bumps into him on the sidewalk, he spills his armful of books, and he flees before they sew themselves together again, as they must inevitably do.

~

Mrs. Hudson faints when a bookseller transforms into the specter of Sherlock Holmes in her entryway.

Holmes revives her in her kitchen, and she cries in little bursts, and she clings to Holmes’s neck, and Holmes hugs her back because she doesn’t smell any different, not in the least, and her hair’s the same, but her apron is new. A present from Watson. When she confirms the deduction, Holmes has to stop himself from fingering it, from imagining Watson lingering in a shop and choosing this for her for her birthday.

Everything is arranged, she says; Mycroft’s package is here, and she hasn’t touched it, like he asked. She fixes her hair and blots her face and hugs Holmes again, arms tight around his back, before she pushes him upstairs. She promises tea, promises composure, and disappears into the kitchen.

There is danger. There will come a time when Moran must know, when Moran will step back into the hunt, and his target will be very different. His target will be far more precious. If Holmes slips, if he fails, the story of Sherlock Holmes will be over; his body, the corpse that still breathes, will complete its decomposition, and maybe the darkness will take him.

But he won’t fail. Before he was but a ghost; soon he will be resurrected.

In their sitting room, he is the bookseller. Sherlock Holmes is not alive still; he is not yet complete, but he will be soon. He sips his tea, and he waits.

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"I suspect last night we wouldn't have been able to do it like this," he murmurs. He humors himself with small kisses along the line of Watson's jaw, and he lightly rubs his hands along Watson's thighs, tenderly massaging him.

Last night had been a fragile thing indeed, and he's glad they've broken through that distressing wall. There's been enough separation between them that even now it seems like anger is a small thing, and it isn't worth foregoing the opportunity to bathe each other, for instance.

"There is no other way I'd like to bathe than this."

"It's difficult to dislike," Watson agreed, his voice low and throaty with laughter. He had forgotten how he missed such things, such minor things that were so important when he had them. He wasn't sure how he had ever managed to live so long without being able to be touched every day, in intimate and insignificant ways, both.

He kissed the back of Holmes's neck, delicate and savouring. He let his fingers run in gentle circles over the skin of Holmes's arm. He was enjoying the moment, drinking it in through every pore, memorising every aspect of it.

Holmes closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, his hands still touching over the familiar lines of Watson's thighs. It's infinitely relaxing. He finds that even his own memory has underestimated how wonderful just this simple act can be, lying in Watson's arms, breathing quietly together. Watson's nearness is intoxicating, and he buries himself in it, making a point to record every detail of their bodies in this moment: Watson's mouth at his neck, his breath at Holmes's hairline, his fingers on Holmes's arm, Holmes's back to Watson's front...

And from there his mind points out where Watson's cock is, and how that feels when it's hard and hot and pressed against the small of Holmes's back. He doubts very much that his memory fails him in how good that is, and he's increasingly aware of how much he misses that. It's crass of him, maybe; he should be more engaged in their spiritual reunion, etc. Watson's the creature of lust here -- not that Holmes isn't insatiable, himself, but Watson rather embodies lust in that incredibly arousing way -- and he's managed to keep a handle on himself. Perhaps Holmes ought to continue to be patient and pure... or something.

The trouble is that once he's come to this conclusion in one part of his mind, the other part is still imagining the phantom heat of Watson's cock, and then he realizes that at least part of the hardened-cock-imaginings going on in his mind aren't entirely imagined, as his own seems to be reacting to all the sensory input -- both external and self-inflicted.

He isn't exactly sure if he ought to address it, and if so, how; he chooses a wordless route that he could potentially wave off and turns his head. He traces the hollow of Watson's throat with his tongue and scrapes his teeth against the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, his kisses distinctly sensual, rather that merely exploratory.

Watson sighed, sensing the change in tone and relaxing into that newness, gladly. He wasn't thinking about it logically, not rationally, merely reacting in a deep and primal way.

Slowly, casually, he smoothed his hands over Holmes's chest, moving his fingers into familiar, long-missed curves. He knew it all so well, even now, after so many years. He was as familiar as he had ever been.

He inhaled Holmes's scent, savouring it, tasting his skin with small, hungry kisses.

He really hasn't thought this through, and even though it's tempting, he resists and simply goes with it. If he thinks too much, he doesn't know what he might do, and he doesn't really want to second guess whether or not they ought to be having sex.

His angle makes things a bit difficult, but he takes advantage of what he can, mapping the side of Watson's neck, biting gently at his jaw, tugging his earlobe between his teeth and sucking lightly at it. He gives a small puff of frustration at not being able to attack Watson as he'd like, and vents this by reaching for Watson's hair, so he can pull him into a deep, hungry kiss.

There really is little he can do about his growing erection, but he's not embarrassed by it; he only hopes that Watson won't decide that they're not ready for this yet.

It was then that he let his hand slide down a little too far, and he noticed for the first time Holmes's growing erection. It was perhaps inevitable, but he hadn't exactly aimed for it, either. His hesitation was only momentary, and had more to do with surprise, with savouring this moment and the power he had.

For Watson, there was no question of what the proper reaction was in this situation.

He reached down and took Holmes's cock in his hand, shutting his eyes at the feel of it. It had been far too long, he thought, since he'd had any cock in hand other than his own. He pressed his lips against Holmes's neck, exhaling slowly.

Oh, that's a relief. To be honest, he really hasn't done this very often in the past three years. For much of the time he was too stressed or too drugged to even get an erection, and then being tended to by Tibetan monks really doesn't leave one eager to engage in sins of the flesh, even on one's own.

He hisses in approval and squeezes Watson's thigh, grateful that Watson is ready to accept him back completely, that they can consummate this newly-named marriage of theirs. That he's about to be given an orgasm, to be crass.

This angle is still difficult, and he kisses whatever he can reach of Watson's skin, his tongue flicking out to taste him and his teeth nipping at him.

"God yes," he whispers against his skin, reaching up again to slide his fingers into Watson's hair. "I've also missed our fantastic sex."

Watson's laughter was low and breathy. It would have been a lie of the worst sort to claim he hadn't also missed it, or to try to hide the fact that he was beginning to grow a little hard himself, pressed against the small of Holmes's back.

He stroked Holmes's cock slowly, turning his head to kiss him, lingering and hungry. "I missed everything," he murmured. "This included."

He wrapped his free arm around Holmes's chest, holding him close against him.

This is all wonderful but just... too... not enough. He wants to throw Watson on the bed and relearn him, wants Watson to throw him on the bed and leave Holmes squirming and gasping for more. This angle is insufficient; the pace of Watson's hand only highlights how little Holmes can do in return.

He squirms, pressing back against Watson's growing erection, and he tries to sit up, to break free of Watson's arm.

"This position is most inconvenient," he says, only a little whine to his voice. It's intensely erotic to be held like this, against Watson's chest, and to be stroked so slowly. That's possibly a part of his protest, too, as he's been helpless far too often to settle into it now without being a little restless.

"It's perfectly convenient for me," Watson murmured. He certainly made no move to let Holmes go to any extent. Why he wanted to hold Holmes like this when there were possibilites of doing other things, he couldn't say... except, perhaps, it was good to hold Holmes in one place after too long of having him be far too far away.

He nibbled gently on Holmes's ear. His touch was firm but gentle, loving but with no room for argument. This was his moment, to lay out and direct as he wished, and he would have it, and have Holmes, as he wanted and no other way.

"Stay, just as you are."

...oh. Holmes is caught. The realization isn't an unpleasant one, not exactly. This isn't the situation that he would have chosen; he's still restless, frustrated that he's limited in the actions he can take, but he isn't upset that he's being held like this. That's something he makes note of and files away, something he recognizes is significant. Probably it helps that he's reminded of Watson's dominance, Watson in his uniform, Watson giving him orders, and all the pleasantly arousing scenarios that drums up.

He makes an entirely ungraceful whine of frustration and doesn't relax back against Watson immediately, still wriggling against him, though it's at least in part simply to feel Watson restraining him.

"Fine," he says, relaxing finally. "But I will ravage you later, make no mistake about that," he says, his voice low.

"I look forward to it," Watson purred. "In the meantime, you're mine."

He continued his gentle touches, long and slow and soothing, his hand on Holmes's cock firm and reassuring. He was growing very hard against Holmes's back, only thinking, only imagining this future promise of a ravaging, imagining this shade of control over Holmes, even if it was temporary. Strange, how games of power could be so exhilirating, so intoxicating. He mouthed Holmes's neck, letting his teeth scrape against skin with playful hunger.

He lays his head back against Watson's shoulder, still rather restless to be confined, to be handled so steadily, but at the same time, it seems to be breaking through Holmes's aversion to feeling caught. Watson's dominance is endlessly arousing anyway, but just after a conversation about Watson in his uniform? It's difficult for him not to feel the soldier around him, in the strength of his grip and the scrape of his teeth. His steady handling of Holmes's cock is maddening, and erotically so.

"Do you see, my dear? You don't need a uniform to be commanding," he says, voice strained. Watson's pace is slow, and it's frustrating, but Holmes is almost grateful; he doesn't want this over sooner than it has to be, and even though this pace is driving him a little insane, it's preferable to the alternative.

"And don't you forget it," Watson growled, smiling a predatory sort of smile. He stayed slow, easy, savouring each stroke almost as much as if it were his own cock in his hand. Moreso, perhaps; he took a certain amount of pleasure in pleasing someone else, as opposed to himself.

And he had done this to himself too often over the years.

He took Holmes's earlobe gently between his teeth, his tongue exploring. He slid his leg alongside Holmes's body, along his legs increasing every contact between them as much as possible.

Holmes's breathing is harsh and growing harsher still, and he ought to be reacting more than he is, but he's quickly overwhelmed by the sensations, not just of Watson's skin, or his hand, but the water, too. His cock is increasingly sensitive and eager under Watson's steady pace, and Holmes's hips twitch of their own accord in time with Watson's thrusts.

He certainly feels owned, laid out, claimed, and it's a wonderful position to find himself in when he hadn't been expecting it.

"Still want you in uniform sometime," he manages, though he's losing himself, and rather embarrassingly quickly. It's rare that he becomes unable to speak, but those words are difficult to get out.

"Sometime," Watson promised, his voice breathy and hoarse. "When you're not expecting it. Perhaps your birthday."

He scraped his teeth along Holmes's shoulders, light enough to not make a mark, wishing it were possible to bite down and leave some sign of ownership, as juvenile as that was.

It was unwise, but good God he felt tempted to.

He increased his pace, just a little, and his hips bucked up against Holmes's back, trying to get some sort of friction against his own cock.

When Watson ruts against his back, Holmes can't help it; he gasps, very nearly moans, and he gives up on any thread of conversation. Watson in costume is hardly relevant; what matters is his hand at Holmes's cock and his teeth, too light, not enough. They've been apart for too long because Holmes was being careful, was being weak; he needs more than just those light bites.

"Harder," he gasps, his hands gripping tight to Watson's thighs. "Bite harder. Mark me." Under normal circumstances he'd rather sound sexy, sound in control at least, but he's very nearly begging, or as near as Holmes gets to such things.

To be asked -- and so irresistably -- to do exactly what he wished to do was more than Watson could resist. Wisdom be damned, he hesitated a moment, memorising the moment, his mouth hot against Holmes's shoulder before he did exactly as he was asked, as he had wanted, and bit down onto Holmes's skin. He sucked gently, soothing after the harshness of his teeth.

His hand over Holmes's cock moved a little faster, a little harder, a little more desperate.

"You are mine," he half-gasped, half-hissed.

It ought to be embarrassing, how comes apart like this, but there really was little other way for this to go. In order for him to settle back into his life, he needs to be taken apart completely and put back together again, to have all his pieces rearranged and suited to life with Watson, life without someone constantly poised at his side, ready to strike. That Watson is the person to take him apart is fitting.

All his thoughts of trying to prolong this vanish as soon as Watson sinks his teeth into him; he gives a rough gasp, and his hips stutter, and he maybe could have lasted another couple of minutes had Watson not reminded Holmes of his possession, of where Holmes belongs again.

When his orgasm hits him, his skin still tingles with Watson's words; Holmes moans, his hips lifting and then sinking back down again with the force of it. Watson's cock, tucked neatly against his back, is an anchoring weight as his cock twitches in Watson's hand and his orgasm racks him. He breathes harshly as he stills again and relaxes his grip on Watson's thighs, lightly stroking over where his nails pressed into him.

There was something beautiful about watching Holmes lose himself in his orgasm, about holding back to see it and appreciate it. Watson loosened his grip on Holmes, his touch growing soothing, though no less possessive, as he smoothed his hands over Holmes's skin.

He was still hard, of course, still desperate, but for the moment he was merely content to relish this moment for what it was.

He leaned his head forward, briefly resting between Holmes's shoulder blades, before kissing him feverishly.

He returns the kiss, slow to return Watson's ferocity because he feels as if his body is made of lead, just at the moment. He realizes as he licks his way into Watson's mouth that the last time they had sex had been about claiming too; Holmes had 'made Watson his,' though Watson had done a good deal of possessing too. How appropriate, then, that this should be their first encounter, like bookends around a particularly nasty story.

He knows what he wants, and he's eager for it, and not just because that means he'll get out of this blasted position. He turns as much as he's able and traces his fingers around the head of Watson's cock, teasing him; he'd meant to stop there, but once he starts, he can't seem to stop, and he loosely takes Watson in hand, squeezing lightly.

"Is it my turn to give some orders, or are you still in charge?" he asks, smile playful.

Watson gave a small groan, leaning back in the tub. His eyes fell shut. "I have one last order to give you," he said, rather hoarsely. He inhaled, drawing breath while he tried to phrase what he wanted when he had so much circling through his mind. Stalling somewhat for time, he twined his fingers into Holmes's hair and kissed him, hard.

"You're responsible for this," he managed at last, gesturing to his own hard cock. "You ought to do something about it."

He hadn't been able to see it as clearly as he can now, but Watson really is the picture of lust. What must it feel like to just... embody an emotion like that? Holmes had felt lost, just now, bewildered by the strength of his arousal and the way his body took over. Watson is... Well, to say he's a natural at sex sounds a little more crass than the reverential way in which Holmes really means it.

They are going to have a lot of sex in the coming days. Holmes doesn't even think all of the times will be on purpose; he's pretty sure there will be perfectly innocent moments in which they're reading together on the couch, and suddenly, sex.

"I have many thoughts about what I could do," he purrs as he slides into the role he's being offered. "But I've already decided. I'm tired of twisting sideways; out of the tub," he orders. He draws his hand away and gracefully gets out, picking up a nearby towel and holding it ready.

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Behold I dream a dream of good

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