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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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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.

He returns the kiss gladly, feeling somewhat shaken after everything, but certainly much improved; certainly closer to what serves as normal for him, anyway. Lightly he cups Watson's face, tenderly brushing his fingers against his skin. He's not sure he'll ever stop appreciating how handsome Watson looks in different situations, different clothes, different contexts. This rumpled look here, with his shirt undone, is quite enjoyable.

"So have I," he admits softly, and he settles his head against Watson's shoulder, letting his eyes fall shut. "It feels like years since we've done this. It's like coming out of a cave after days..." He sighs, glad to have admitted that much, and he nudges his nose against Watson's neck.

His breathing still slowing, Watson pulled Holmes close against him. He loved these moments, these quiet and heavy intimate moments in the afterglow of sex. Sex was wonderful -- he had a quite unseemly interest in it, admittedly -- and sex with Holmes was extraordinary, but there was something that he cherished deeply about these sweaty, sticky moments afterwards.

"You're all right?" he murmured, half a question and half a reassurance. It was difficult to know; for a moment Holmes had seemed about to break apart. If Watson could say it, could mean it enough, then perhaps he could make it true.

No, he isn't. Well, maybe he is now, but he won't be all the time; inevitably the time will come again when he will disappear, slip away into a dark mood. He'll need the cocaine again, and will Watson be as forgiving in the future? God, he can hardly believe Watson condoned it this time. It's strange to recall Watson injecting him now, as if remembering something from a dream if only because it's so unreal.

"For the moment," he murmurs, running his fingers down Watson's arm, and his thumb brushes the inside of his elbow. He's glad they kept their shirts on. "For now. I think the storm has passed."

"I'm glad to hear it." Watson let his fingers find their way to the back of Holmes's neck, and he stroked the skin there very gently. "Were it in my power to do so, I would spare you of it entirely." How to possibly put into words how much this frightened him sometimes, how utterly powerless he felt.

He concentrated on his breathing, inhaling Holmes's scent and breathing back warmth into him. "I love you. I would protect you from everything, if I could. I cannot, I'm sorry, but I love you."

"That is the definition of love, my dear." Lifting his head, he slips his hand around to cradle the back of Watson's neck and pull him in for a kiss. "And I love you," he murmurs and places another small kiss against Watson's mouth.

"I do feel better from this morning, even. It's possible I could do more than simply cling to you all day, but I'm not sure I want to." He smiles slightly and runs his fingers through Watson's hair.

"You can cling to me all day if you wish," Watson murmured. He pressed several small kisses against Holmes's face, over his chin and jaw, before returning to his lips for one longer kiss. "I think I would like that, actually. But only," he continued, shifting in such a way that was almost burying himself closer to Holmes, "if I have full permission to cling to you as well."

He let out a sigh, one of pure contentment and comfort. "Do you have any ideas beyond that? Is there something else we ought to read? Shall we take a bath?"

"A bath is a splendid idea," he says thoughtfully. It's certainly better than anything he'd thought of. A chance to wash away the past few days -- and shave -- would certainly help him to feel more like himself. "Yes, I think we will start with a bath. I'm not sure how you feel about it, but I'm quite keen to shave."

He isn't quite ready to move now, though, and he lays his head back against Watson's chest, nuzzling closer.

"You look a little more yourself when you're shaved," Watson said thoughtfully, "but I cannot complain about the state you're in, either. Not seriously." He would have taken Holmes any way at all, shaved or unshaved, and there was part of him that rather revelled in the relative novelty of kissing that much stubble.

"But a bath it is," he agreed. He slid his hand up under Holmes's shirt, stroking the skin of the small of his back. "When you're ready."

The mention of Watson's opinion on Holmes's facial hair had been a throwaway statement at first. Holmes generally dislikes feeling so disheveled as to go unshaven for too long, always has, and so gives little thought to his unshaven state beyond the fact that it bothers him slightly. But perhaps Watson might like it; that is something worth investigating.

"You cannot complain?" he returns, playfully. "What am I to glean from that? Am I only moderately repulsive, but not so much as to detract from my appeal too seriously?"

This is nice; calming and quiet and nice. He makes sure Watson's shirt is pushed away as much as possible, and he dutifully sets to tracing his initials against Watson's chest, over his heart.

Smiling at the slightly ticklish touch on his skin, at the possessive branding of the initials over his heart, at the small and meaningful mark of ownership, Watson turned his head to kiss Holmes again.

"You are never repulsive," he chided. He spoke in a low murmur, hardly more than a whisper, throaty and full of emotion. "Don't speak such nonsense. You are so handsome, you are such a blessing to me, it would be poor of me indeed to complain about so small a thing as a little stubble." Watson brushed a thumb over Holmes's chin, following the touch of his fingers with his lips. "I haven't often kissed men so unshaven, that's all."

With one hand on Holmes's back, his fingers curled and gently stroking the skin, and his other playing over Holmes's face, Watson sighed, rather happily. "I think I might enjoy the novelty a little."

He can feel himself settling back into place, and it almost seems fitting that he ought to trace his own initials onto his own skin -- reclaiming his body for himself again.

"Is that so?" he murmurs, pleased at this result, though his vanity may not be entirely satisfied. Watson might enjoy it a little? Holmes's vanity could use some bolstering, and he's not quite getting as much as he would like. He steals another slow kiss, lingering in it for a while before he pulls Watson's lower lip between his teeth and playfully nibbles at it.

"Well. It will soon be gone, so get your amusement with it while you can."

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