He was too far gone for any noise that came from him to have even the faintest similarity to real words, and it wasn't long before Watson was honestly shouting, desperate under every thrust, every muscle in his body taut and humming. Holmes had won, just as he'd known, hoped he would, and he had, by way of ceaselessly rough rhythm, driven almost every conscious thought out of Watson's head.

It was only because of their earlier activities that Watson was able to last like he did. He was sweaty, growing quickly exhausted, but he rose to meet Holmes with every thrust as much as he was able. He held out as long as he could, but it could only last so long. With his back arching, he gave a sudden yell that was more than halfway a moan, and came, hard, tension quickly evaporating, his cry softening at the end to almost a whimper, if a pleased and deeply satiated one.