It's as if Watson is touching the core of his being; even though every part of Holmes is alive with sensation, it all seems to originate from where Watson's fingers are slowly stroking his cock. His essence is in Watson's hand, and that is what's scary, more than anything. And risky, and dangerous, and more than a little fun.

Holmes has to close his eyes. There's simply too much -- hands on cocks and Watson's breath on his skin and Watson's smell and the air of the room on the back of his neck and the sound of Watson and Nell in another room, shifting in her sleep -- and at least he can close his eyes and spare himself something.

Thankfully he can divert his attention from being under Watson's touch by sliding his hand along Watson's cock, finding that cocks have not ceased to be such strange things. And undeniably alluring, despite their ridiculous strangeness. He wraps his hand around Watson, giving a few loose, slow strokes of his hand, and he dips his head to kiss Watson's throat, wanting to distract himself further.