mustbethetruth | (no subject)

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Continued from here.

He smirks faintly, adjusting to being touched once again, but so far nothing seems to be driving him toward sensory overload. It helps that Watson can amuse him, even now, even when Holmes's heart is racing just a little at entering into something like this now, so suddenly.

"I wasn't quite asking permission," he admits a little sheepishly, his fingers seeking out Watson's ribs and mapping them carefully. Their positions have slid from when they were sitting properly, and Holmes is slightly uncomfortable from the angle; besides, the urge to situate Watson under him is quite strong, suddenly. He finishes their transition from sitting to laying down, nudging Watson down and positioning himself over him.

It's rather enjoyable to have Watson solid and secure and half naked beneath him, the latter not nearly as important as the first few.

"It seems so long ago that we last did something like this," he observes, and he ducks his head to kiss Watson's collarbone.

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"It has been too long," Watson breathed. He took being laid out like this, trapped under Holmes's body, with a certain amount of amusement, a certain amount of gratitude, a certain amount of relief. It was right, it was far more comfortable than such a position ought to be. He let his hand rest on the small of Holmes's back, very lightly, in what was he hoped was a casual and non-threatening way. He was worried of startling Holmes, in this strange and fragile mood he currently was in, but if he did not touch him in that small way, hold him to him with that (only faintly) possessive tenderness, he would go quite mad with being touched and not touching.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath. He was feeling more at peace than he had been all week. "But I would have waited for years longer if necessary."

He's certainly doing better about having his space invaded, and while he's aware of Watson's hand, he doesn't feel as trapped as he did earlier. He's much too focused now on mapping Watson's chest with his lips, feeling out the familiar dips and marks, almost giving himself a pop quiz of Watson's skin. This may be the longest the two of them have gone without such activities as these, and while it wasn't a hardship for Holmes, he can't imagine Watson's side of things.

Suddenly struck with a thought, he glances up at Watson. "Have you been abusing yourself?" he asks softly. The image, he must admit, is undeniably sexy. He hopes Watson says yes, and then Holmes can't really ask when or where but he can fill in those details for himself.

Lost in sensation as he was, lost in the faint anxiety he always, always felt when Holmes began to pay any attention anywhere near his scarred shoulder (and true, that was a great deal less than it had once been, but it was still there, and still an issue, and possibly always would be), the question caught Watson off-guard. His eyes snapped open as he drew in his breath.

"No!" he objected automatically with all the horror of an embarrassed schoolboy, though he felt his face redden, felt the lie show all over his face. Of course he had. He was a healthy man with healthy appetites, and with Holmes unavailable Watson had had to do something.

"Yes," he admitted, rather reluctantly, shutting his eyes again. He only hoped he wasn't going to be mocked for it. "Yes, of course I did."

Watson's embarrassment is as alluring -- though for different reasons -- as the image of him engaging in such an activity. He can very clearly call to mind an idea as to how Watson looks when he's pleasuring himself in such a way, and it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of, especially not when the person in question emanates lust and passion while he's at it.

Cupping Watson's neck, he kisses Watson fiercely, almost hungrily; his lustful confidence is quickly returning to him, he's almost surprised to say. He really shouldn't underestimate Watson's ability to bring Holmes out of his doldrums.

"Terribly sorry you had to manage that all on your own," he murmurs, his voice thicker now. "Might I offer some reparations?"

Breathless after that kiss, Watson brought his hand to Holmes's cheek while he gasped and sought for words. He rubbed his thumb over the ridge of cheekbone.

"You might, yes," Watson managed. He lifted his mouth to Holmes's again, kissing him with a certain amount of desperation. The desire in him for more than simple kissing and touching was certainly being wakened now, and while he'd been faintly concerned that that sort of thing was not entirely welcome just then, Holmes's words now were reassuring and very welcome.

"It was very difficult. Traumatising, even." A ridiculous thing to say, but it was easy to joke about it, even in hoarse, half-whispered words.

After making the promise, he worries now that he won't be able to follow through on it, even though he doesn't think that too likely. The dominant positioning is doing its job to make Holmes feel more in control, even as Watson clings to him. Besides, taking Watson's cock in hand will complete the quest to reacquaint himself with Watson's body.

"Traumatizing?" he asks, not as amused at Watson's words as he ought to be, as he's too busy feeling aroused. He brushes his lips teasingly over Watson's, giving him the hint of a kiss. "What did you think of?" This question is serious, and he draws back enough to let Watson know that.

He hadn't expected that question. He hadn't expected curiosity into his fantasies -- but then, why shouldn't he have expected it? This was Holmes; what was Holmes not curious about? Still, it was a first; no lover before Holmes had expressed any interest in Watson might have been thinking of as he pleasured himself. It wasn't done, after all, to so much as acknowledge the habit.

He could manage to play this game.

"You," Watson murmured, his embarrassment still evident. "Your hands, your mouth, your touch." He spoke slowly, picking his words with care, trying to choose the best possible ones. "You inside me."

Holmes smiles for the briefest of instants and then kisses Watson heatedly, shutting his eyes tight. He could try to analyze why this is helping him not to feel so nervous, nor so skittish; maybe it's because now he's focusing even more on Watson, which had been the initial plan, exploring Watson intimately on a whole other level -- a level that's more important, in some ways. Perhaps it's reaffirming Holmes's confidence.

Regardless, he's quickly forgetting about his insecurities and beginning to have fantasies akin to Watson's. He doesn't think he's quite ready for what Watson had had in mind, but at least he can imagine them without feeling trapped again.

"So my being inside you has become traumatizing now?" he murmurs, teasing Watson, though it still seems slightly... off to be doing that. He doesn't feel the teasing spirit all the way through him yet. "I shudder to think what a longer dry spell might have caused. Is the damage reversible? We would have to start small, I think, and work our way back up."

It's not too difficult to come up with this cover story to make up for Holmes's inability to fully reverse Watson's trauma now, as it were.

Watson leaned into that kiss gladly, gratefully. "You are not traumatising," he murmured. "Going without you is what is so difficult. But," he continued, smoothing a hand down Holmes's arm, "if you think it best to start small, to ease myself back into your presence again... I shan't contradict you."

He was all too aware that things were perhaps still uncertain between them, and had concluded it was best to let Holmes set the pace and the boundaries of where this might lead. His trust in Holmes was, after all, absolute.

"The damage is certainly reversible, though. I feel myself improving already."

This play of double entendre they're acting out is convenient, and enjoyable, and helpfully allows Holmes to reveal while concealing. It's his line, now, and he thinks he can spot his cue, so he snakes his hand down between them, cupping his hand over Watson's erection.

"So do I," he says darkly, and it could be that he literally feels Watson 'improving,' or it could be that he feels himself improving -- either, both.

The heat against his hand is curious. On the one hand, it's slightly alarming to feel Watson's physical desire for him, right there in his hand. The rest of him, however, responds with a carnal enthusiasm to feel that familiar weight, to be returning to these activities.

His heart pounding ever so slightly, either from nerves or eager anticipation, he begins to undo Watson's flies.

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.

Holmes inhales sharply, stilling his hand as he adjusts to having Watson's hand against his erection. Thankfully, Watson's progress downward had been slow, and Holmes had had time to mentally prepare himself; had Watson skipped the preamble, it's likely Holmes would have jumped and drawn away, his courage lost. He doesn't feel shaken now, or too invaded; it is very strange to be touched so completely, but it isn't unnerving.

What is setting him on edge is that Watson is quickly filling with lust, as he is wont to do, and that's part of why Holmes loves Watson so much, but that intensity of feeling is what set Holmes on edge earlier. He needs to remind himself that there is no danger, that he is still in control.

"Allow me," he murmurs. He finishes undoing Watson's flies quickly so that he can then undo his own. He takes hold of Watson's hand and presses it against his erection, making it clear to himself that this is something he wants.

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.

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.

Watson's breath caught, and then continued, with a measured attempt at being slow and even, while it was undeniably coarser in tone, more laboured. The urge he felt was something akin to the desire to devour Holmes, but he still retained the sense to realise this was not necessarily a good idea. Let Holmes devour him, bury himself in Watson in whatever way he wanted, that was safe.

He kept his touch on Holmes's cock light, matching the speed of Holmes's hand on his. He brought his other hand to the back of Holmes's neck, keeping his touch light and gentle, stroking the skin there in soothing circles.

His senses are threatening to overload, but he manages to wrest some control over them, to rein them in to more normal parameters. His breathing is erratic and labored, his lungs forgetting to breathe while his brain sorts out the sensory input, and then they remember all of a sudden and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Oh God," he whispers, planting erratic kisses on Watson's shoulder and neck. The facade of his confidence is gone, but it is difficult to keep it up when he is attempting to keep so many other things at bay. He firms up his grip, keeping his pace slow still, though now it's more of a deliberate teasing action and less of a necessity.

Holmes plants a kiss beneath Watson's ear and takes his earlobe between his lips, nibbling at it gently -- a stroke of boldness for him.

Despite his own impatience, his own eagerness, he forced himself to reign himself in. The last time Watson had seen Holmes so... so... so near to falling apart, coming apart at the seams like this, Watson had had him bent over the table with his cock buried inside him. That he was in so similar a state from what comparitively little they had done here and now spoke volumes, and all the strength of Watson's lust was tempered somewhat by compassion and concern.

He would go at the pace Holmes set for them, and no faster.

He gasped at the feel of Holmes's teeth on his earlobe, leaning into it a little. Slow, he reminded himself, slow. He continued stroking the back of Holmes's neck, slow and gentle and calming, while his fingers toyed over Holmes's cock with the same sort of careful rhythm.

He can feel the power of Watson's restrained lust, like an animal tugging at the end of its leash, but the restraint doesn't feel threatening; it isn't overwhelming, and maybe it's also that there's concern and tenderness there too that grounds Holmes and keeps him from getting too swept up in all of this. That had been the problem all along, the fear that he might lose whatever pieces of himself survived the dark mood inside Watson. He still feels like someone who has been released from several days of being shut up in a dark room, now forced to step into the sunlight, but at least his eyes have adjusted now.

Bolstered, he kisses Watson hungrily, and he finally begins to notice individual items, instead of all of them at once. He can focus on Watson's lips and the scratch of his moustache and ignore the other things, like the bird outside and Nell's nails scratching on the kitchen floor. He begins to increase his pace, teasing his thumb against Watson's cock occasionally.

Smiling against Holmes's mouth, Watson increased the pace of his fingers on Holmes's cock to match that of the hand on his own. This was encouraging, this was incredible to see and experience after so much worry. And that meant it was a little easier for him to let go and experience the moment.

His fingers moved along Holmes's neck, up into his hairline, and Watson turned his head to press his lips against Holmes's jawline.

"Stay with me," he murmured against Holmes's skin, not ceasing in his movements. "Stay with me, my love, I'm here."

"As am I," he can murmur back with certainty, and with a voice colored with hunger. He feels more like himself now than he has in days, and that's a heady rush that rivals actual rushes of lust. He wants to make Watson groan again; he wants to know he has that control as much as he did before, and maybe even start to flaunt his renewed sense of self, rather than just desperately cling to control.

He increases his pace, tightening his grip, shifts his hand to find the angle that Watson prefers.

Watson shut his eyes, biting his lip in an attempt to hold back as long as possible. After so long without Holmes's touch, it was easy to lose himself, and too quickly. He wanted this to last, as long as possible. Unfortunately for this plan, Holmes knew him and his body and what he liked far too well, and under that familiar, knowledgeable touch his control could only hold out so long.

He moaned, softly and breathlessly, fisting his hand in the cloth of Holmes's sleeve, taking a firmer hold of Holmes's cock and judging it safe to stroke a little harder, a little faster.

That sound is immensely gratifying, far too satisfying, and the spell of being stuck inside his own head lifts. Holmes isn't the only one who knows his partner's body all too well; in fact, Watson may have the advantage because while Holmes's sexual prowess comes from observation skills, Watson's comes from a more genuine place of sincere lust.

Giving a small moan of his own, Holmes drops his forehead against Watson's shoulder, breathing shallowly. "Yes," he hisses, pressing a kiss to Watson's neck, and another, and finally he bites down on Watson's shoulder.

He couldn't hold back any longer. Watson might've had a chance to carry on a minute or two longer if it hadn't been for the teeth on his shoulder, the sharpness and the heat and moisture of Holmes's mouth on sensitive skin. But it had been too long, and with it, it was the last thing he needed to push him over the edge.

Watson gave a strangled, gratified, wordless cry as he tipped over into his release, still clutching at Holmes by his shirt; he turned his head to catch Holmes's ear between his lips while he continued stroking his cock, somewhat more urgently.

Watson's release never fails to hasten Holmes to his own end; the sound of his gasps, the tensing of his muscles, the climax of his emotions all mix together and consume Holmes's senses. He is drenched in Watson's smell and sound and feel, and he is losing control of himself, but it's okay -- it's okay -- because he's still Holmes, and Watson's hand is clutching at him. They are lost in each other, and they fill find each other again.

His release comes as a surprise; he'd hardly been feeling it build up. This release is entirely emotional, coming from Holmes's thoughts, and he utters a small cry of surprise as he loses control, his hips jerking in Watson's hand.

As Watson stroked the last of Holmes's orgasm out of him, he shifted a little, releasing his grip on Holmes's shirt to put his arm around him closely. "Oh, my dear. My dear." He murmured his words, not having the breath for any more volume. "I've missed you so. I've missed you."

Not that Holmes had been gone, but he had seemed so very far away, and that was what made the difference. Watson sought out Holmes's mouth, and kissed him warmly and tenderly.