It was strange to continue to find himself so completely dominated like this, a gentle and loving and uninsistent but no less definite sense of control, to be guided into actions he had done so often. It was not unpleasant either, not even a little bit. Watson was used to Holmes wanting, needing control in all aspects of his life, giving it up only in special circumstances.

He slipped gladly into that control.

With Holmes's flies open, Watson slid his fingers inside to run them gently over Holmes's cock. It was familiar flesh, known nearly as well as his own, and long-missed. His motions were slow, and deliberate, and he kept his eyes on Holmes's face as he did so, watching for signs of trouble, watching for signs of enjoyment, although it was getting rather hard to concentrate on things like that.