God help him, he had somehow managed to entangle himself with a man who could be on his knees in front of him, worshipping him with his mouth, and still maintain every semblance of control and power from that position, sitll have him so completely at his mercy. Watson exhaled shakily, pressing his fingers tightly into Holmes's hair with a distinct and definite desperation.

"Give me orders, then," he gasped. Disobedience was suddenly a very distant thought; he could only crave the heat of Holmes's mouth, and certainly the scrape of his teeth. Watson thought himself a strong man, certainly as strong as a man who'd been through what he had been through could be. He was therefore not a man to be humiliated and demeaned, but let Holmes, of all people, have all the dominance over him he wished to exert at the moment. Holmes broke all the rules, after all, and if there was anyone he would let order him around in the bedroom -- or at the dining table, as the case currently was -- it was he, and only he. "Give me all the orders you want. I am yours, I am yours, do you understand that?"

His voice was desperate, and hoarse, and intensely fierce.