The breath that escaped Watson's mouth was more than half a moan, and desperately longing. His grip in Holmes's hair relaxed somewhat at the promise of release, finally and at last and, so he hoped, well-deserved. He might never be able to look at honey on the breakfast table without smirking again, but it had been a well-deserved, if sticky, sacrifice.

"Please," he begged, hardly more than a whisper, but his answer came more in body language, in the involuntary buck of his hips, the curl of his fingers against Holmes's neck, the complete surrender in his posture and manner. "Oh, God, please."