Watson could not have stopped the groan that came to his lips then, not for anything; nor could he have prevented himself from pressing upwards against Holmes's hand. He hadn't expected this, not so soon, not now, not even today, but he wanted it, and he was eager for it, and he could not pretend otherwise.

"Oh, God," Watson murmured. "Oh... yes. Holmes, yes." What he was saying was little better than nonsense, and barely audible for that matter. The world, then, did not extend beyond the two of them on the sofa, and with Holmes's hand over his erection and working on his flies, the obvious thing to him, then, was to slide his hand down between them, slowly moving over Holmes's chest and stomach, and to finally press his palm against Holmes's cock, through his trousers.