Watson smiled up at Holmes, somewhat crookedly, almost a smirk. "Fierce. I like that. Certainly when it comes to you, it is." With Holmes's hand in his hair so tightly, there was a wonderful sense of being owned, too, being Holmes's own special property, of his own special duty being to ensure that Holmes continued to make those little sounds.

He returned his mouth to Holmes's chest, so low it was on the border to his stomach, to remove some trace of honey, and then lifted himself slowly up again, rocking his hips against Holmes's as he did so. He kissed Holmes, deeply, honeyed moustache and all, and there was as much giving of himself in the kiss as there was consuming.

His appetite was certainly relentless, to be sure. "I've had enough honey, I think," Watson growled. "Give the word," he was sliding a hand down between them, his fingers grazing Holmes's cock gently to make his point, "and I'll be on my knees, savouring other things. Unless you had other plans for the evening?"