mustbethetruth | Holmes is seriously trying to behave

Chuckling lightly, Watson shut his eyes. "I suppose you're right. Still... this is nice. Oh, but the company has much to do with it."

He lifted their hands and kissed Holmes's knuckles, rather lazily, before settling back again. He was ridiculously, keenly, obsessively aware of where Holmes touched him, and it was wonderful. After a good chunk of the day spent miserable and alone, to be now neither was perfect.

If it were possible to somehow bury himself in Holmes, become surrounded entirely by him, he would.

His eyes snap to Watson's lips over his knuckles, and he watches with a clenched jaw. It isn't so horrible to be caught getting hard because of Watson, at least not under normal circumstances, but Holmes is worried that Watson would be hit with a wave of inadequacy and self-loathing all over again. He's so ruined he can't have sex with his husband, etc. -- everything Holmes believes is nonsense, but Watson doesn't quite agree.

Delicately he extracts his hand from Watson's and puts it into his own hair, getting his hair wet, but maybe the annoyance will help him to tame his swelling tide of lust. Or he'll just start to fiddle with his hair, which feels good, and doesn't help. He rests his arm against the edge of the bathtub instead.

"You're the best bath partner I ever had," he agrees with a half-joking tone, and recalls all of his and Watson's trips to the baths in London.

He rolls his eyes at himself.

"You do seem much improved. Are you sure the bath has not merely warmed and chased out the dose of venom that plagued you earlier?"

"Mm, well," Watson said, considering, "this is entirely possible. But if it's true, is it such a bad thing? Surely you wouldn't begrudge me that luxury."

He was sorry to lose his grip on Holmes's hand, but there were worse things, and he settled back again, smiling to himself. Instead, he trailed his fingers lightly over Holmes's knee. He was not content to sit passively and soak; he needed to touch actively, to remind himself that they were still alive despite everything going on outside, despite monsters and snowstorms, despite pain and misery. They were still alive, and still in love.

He stops himself from inhaling sharply and turns it into a smooth inhalation followed by a relaxing exhalation. Labia majora. Labia minora. Clitoris. Even as he mentally diagrams the female sex, Watson's fingers on his skin keep cutting into his thoughts, and his blood does what it's designed to do at such critical moments.

He isn't fully erect, not yet, but no doubt it's only a matter of time. It's already fairly noticeable as is, and he shifts behind Watson in an attempt to guide himself somehow farther away. He fails, as there's nowhere to escape, and the movement only encourages the damned thing. He moves his knee out from under Watson's attention and resolutely looks away from him.

"Not at all, my dear," he returns, a tad distractedly, and he clears his throat. "Truthfully I find it difficult to begrudge you anything."

That there was a problem was not lost on Watson, although it took a moment for him to realise exactly what it was; after all, it wasn't exactly uncommon for one or the other of them to suffer this sort of condition when they took a bath together. It was almost inevitable, really. And yet, here was Holmes, squirming away from him.

It had been too long, he knew that, and he regretted that keenly, felt awful about it, but he could hardly fault Holmes for having natural impulses.

Watson turned, giving Holmes a questioning look. "My dear. What has gotten into you?"

The game is lost, and Watson turning hasn't helped any except to add some movement to the situation. Holmes sighs, though at least it's apparent to him that Watson doesn't seem to be thinking too negatively about himself or the situation. That had been his main concern -- that, and hoping that Watson doesn't feel obligated to give Holmes anything when he isn't in the mood.

"You, I'm afraid," he answers plainly. "As you perceive, I'm never bored of you or your charms. You needn't ever worry about that. And you needn't worry about this, either," he adds a touch softer, "if you aren't feeling yourself."

Watson looked at Holmes in some perplexion, his head slightly tilted. Was that it? The days of having to be circumspect about their attraction to one another seemed far in the past, and yet... he could understand, too, why Holmes might want to try to shield him of this, or at least he could understand the thought process.

But on the contrary, he found it flattering. As ruined as he was, as broken, as bearish and unpleasant as he had been earlier, Holmes was, quite evidently, still attracted to him.

"Holmes, my dear." Watson shifted a little more in the tub, the warmth having loosened his stiff bones to let him turn easily enough to face Holmes. He kissed him, gently. "I am perhaps not myself, but that doesn't mean I'm about to let you suffer."

He kissed Holmes again, a little deeper, while his hand slipped down under the water to grasp Holmes's cock, gently.

He gives a muffled noise of pleasure into Watson's mouth and melts easily into the kiss, deepening it, as his cock rises to the occasion, as it were. There's still a faint worry about whether or not Watson is entirely up for this, but it's only just a small wrinkle in Holmes's ability to give himself over to this. He slides his hand over Watson's back, happily exploring for the umpteenth time skin he hasn't touched so greedily in far too long.

"You are irresistible in the bath, do you know that?" He kisses him again, fiercely, and then makes a conscious effort to dial himself back a little. Watson's being gentle, maybe being gentle is what he wants. He slides a tender hand up Watson's inner thigh until he can take hold of Watson's cock.

"I didn't, but I'm glad to hear it." Watson kept his movements very gentle, very easy, because he was in a precarious position and he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to catch himself if he slipped. He leaned in to trail his lips over Holmes's neck, closing his eyes as he tried to ignore the strain in his leg that bending like this produced.

"You're rather irresistable yourself. My love. What sort of husband would I be if I denied you any sort of fulfilment when I want it as much as you do?" He kissed him, giving a small grunt of effort deep in his throat. Watson's fingers played gently over Holmes's cock, almost playfully. He felt in no hurry, wanted this to last as long as possible. Yes, the pain was a small hindrance to him, but surely this would help take his mind off it.

He teases Watson's cock, retracing all its familiar lines, remembering the shape and weight of it against his palm. God, but he'd missed this, and felt a little guilty for missing it so much when Watson has been hurting. With Watson in his lap now, Holmes is not about to let this scene end too quickly. His kiss is deep and hungry, but his hands move deliberately. His free hand is still following the lines and curves of Watson's body, and finally comes to rest against his arse, giving him a little support, as well.

"Oh, my love," he says thickly, leaving Watson's mouth in favor of his neck, where he licks the water from the bath off his skin. "I thought -- I didn't want to be the husband that made you feel obliged. No matter; I will revel in being wrong." He kisses Watson again with the abandon he'd been holding back.

It's plain to him that Watson's position is not ideal; it's also plain to him that the bathtub is not ideal for the kind of worship he has in mind. He draws out of the kiss and sets both of his hands against Watson's hips, squeezing tenderly.

"You'll need to get out of the tub, I'm afraid. I can't possibly taste every part of you while in here."

Words were momentarily beyond Watson, for the simple reason that being tasted all over sounded extremely promising. He leaned over and gave Holmes one last stubborn kiss.

"Very well," he said, rather hoarsely. "I suspect the hot water's done for me all it can. Let's see what you can do to improve my situation." He moved to rise out of the tub, although he let his fingers trail over Holmes's skin as he did so. His movements were easier than they'd been when he got into the tub, but still stiff, still sore. As much as he might have wished for some very vigorous exercise, Watson knew that unfortunately he wasn't up to it. Something, though, was better than nothing. A very good deal better.

He isn't far behind Watson, still keeping a watchful eye out in case Watson should need his support, though he's happy to see that Watson really has improved slightly thanks to the water. Maybe another bath later, when Holmes won't be so easily distracted, will do him good.

And, of course, a good, thorough orgasm. As much as Holmes would like very much to drive Watson into the bed (or vice versa, as seeing Watson struggle physically has made Holmes dream of him getting his strength back, which usually leads to some very agreeable fantasies involving a desk), Holmes doesn't think it very likely. He doesn't need that, however, as just the chance to drink Watson in will satisfy some of his thirst well enough.

He doesn't stop touching Watson. His hand is on Watson's leg as he stands, and it travels up to his hip, and by then Holmes is near enough that he can kiss along Watson's collarbone. His fingers trace the base of Watson's spine and though he readies himself to help Watson should he need it, he keeps his embrace entirely sexual.

"It's my intention to make you forget yourself entirely, and your situation along with it. If you're boneless, how can your bones trouble you?" he murmurs in a low voice over Watson's neck, trailing up to his ear. He draws the lobe between his lips as he finishes, trailing teeth and tongue alike along the skin.

Watson slid close, his hands against Holmes's abdomen, and buried his face into the curve of his shoulder. He smiled against his skin, feeling easy and comfortable. "That," he murmured, "is a positively diabolical plan. I like it."

As much as he liked the idea, standing here in an embrace was just not going to be possible, not for very long. "The bedroom?" he said, half a question, have a suggestion. They were still wet, still dripping, but pausing to dry themselves off seemed... bothersome.

"Immediately." He directs Watson toward the bedroom, a little amused by them going into this still wet. It's different and new, after all, and new things combined with Watson never fails to thrill Holmes to his core. No doubt he should be ashamed for how he feels, released upon Watson's body; he shouldn't feel like a starving man given a feast, but he does, and oh well. Watson doesn't complain about it.

He waits for Watson to settle on the bed with hungry eyes and is on him nearly instantly. As he straddles Watson's waist, their cocks brush, and he gives an entirely involuntary moan, along with a less-than-involuntary movement of his hips that brings their cocks together again.

He decides to begin with Watson's chest, licking away stray water droplets, while his hands take care of remembering Watson's arms, following the curves and reaching in to cover the more sensitive skin.

For a moment, Watson was a little worried that Holmes would be carried away, and that he was going to have to break this mood by protesting for the sake of some serious discomfort -- for a moment only. His trust in Holmes was absolute, after all, or very nearly so. He drew in a long breath, reaching to rest his hands lightly on Holmes's waist.

He let his eyes shut, focusing on Holmes's tongue and clever fingers rather than the pain, finding it deliciously easy to do so. This was perhaps a good deal less efficient than a towel, but a lot more enjoyable.

"Oh, yes," he hissed gently. He brought a hand up to the back of Holmes's neck, his fingers rubbing the skin gently, combing up into damp hair.

When Holmes had said he would reacquaint himself with Watson's body, he had meant every part -- even his shoulder and leg, maybe especially those parts. He busies himself first with the unscarred half of Watson's chest, methodically licking and kissing and worrying at his skin. He pauses at his nipple to take it between his teeth, sucking lightly.

Holmes feels quite... luxuriously overwhelmed. The hand in his hair is absolutely wonderful; his eyes close of their own accord when Watson begins to rub at his neck, and then Holmes decides to leave them closed, quizzing himself on the rest of Watson's chest. Easily he locates his ribs and counts each one.

"My darling, we ought to make this an official weekly event, at least," he murmurs against the third rib, his tongue brushing against his skin. "A weekly inventory of your body. Or worship service. Whatever you'd prefer to call it."

Chuckling ticklishly, Watson had to spend a moment concentrating on remembering to breathe. "Do I get to return the favour?" he asked in a murmur. "I think I would rather like that. My memory is not so good as yours... I would need more time to memorise you."

He spoke breathily, gasping occassionally, savouring every movement. "You need worshipping if any man does."

Shifting a little to accomodate his aching leg, trying not to squirm under Holmes overly much, although it was tempting to, and difficult not to. There was a lot of stimulation, and lord was he hard already, but he wanted this to last. Just... let it happen.

Holmes is intent on making this last because it has been a few days too long, however shameful that is, and he wants to drink this in as much as he can. Moreover, there's no guarantee Watson will feel up to it again soon -- well, soon enough. Oh, but it's good to hear Watson talk like that again, and he moves smoothly back to Watson's mouth to kiss him lingeringly, savoring the feel of Watson beneath him.

"I am available for worship at any time of day or night. I'm rather like a church that way," he says with a dark, playful smile before he resumes his mapping of Watson's chest. This venture is more sensitive; he sets to tracing the lines of Watson's scars, still licking the water leftover from their bath.

"Your body is a temple," Watson murmured. Something about the way Holmes was licking him clean put him in mind of a cat, perhaps some very large, sleek, dangerous wild cat. A panther, perhaps, or a cheetah. A brief kiss here or there between the mouth over his chest was not enough, not nearly, but he also recognised he wasn't exactly setting the pace for this, which was fine.

Oh, that smile. There was nothing else like it, and it gave Watson's heart the most absurd little sideways leap, as did seeing such tenderness towards the source of his whole blasted trouble in the first place. Watson was nothing special, but Holmes -- Holmes was very nearly a god, in Watson's admittedly biased opinion.

"You do," he puffed out, distracted, "toy with me."

"I do," he purrs against Watson's skin, quite pleased with himself. If he can't bugger Watson to his heart's content -- and he presumes he won't be able to -- then he will toy with Watson until he's had his fill.

He doesn't stray again from Watson's chest until it's received the same thorough attention as the other side, but soon enough he finds himself at Watson's hips -- which both receive rather languid kisses -- and Watson's cock.

In Holmes's opinion -- and Holmes's opinions are usually facts -- Watson is gorgeous, and his cock is no exception. Slowly he kisses a trail from base to head, at first keeping his eyes closed so as to focus on such a worthy object of affection. Once he begins to pass his tongue in lazy circles around the head, however, he watches Watson with a lustful expression that doesn't lack a smirk,

Watson gave a strangled sort of cry, his back arching, and clutched at Holmes's hair desperately. Despite his talk of being toyed with, he hadn't quite been prepared for this, so sudden and so soon. He gasped for breath, watching Holmes with wide eyes.

He couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was being overly passive in this, that Holmes was doing all the work and Watson was reaping all the rewards -- but somehow, the look in Holmes's face belied that. For all the talk of worship, that was a heavy word to apply to one's lover, one's spouse. "You devil. You absolute devil, I love you."

One of the reasons why Holmes loves a good concert is that he can close his eyes and let the emotion of the music flood into him and direct his own emotion. Watson does something very similar for him, and all the better that Holmes can tease and toy with him to get the emotion he wants. If that makes him a devil, then so be it.

"I wonder if the sinfulness of inversion is related to the fact that we become devil worshipers in bed." He's wondering, however, about how they ought to proceed, as he's quite hard and wanting very much to be touched; this isn't the kind of time where he'd just handle himself, however.

"You said something about worshiping me?" he asks, mock-innocently, pushing himself up to his hands and knees and beginning to orient himself into the most convenient position of simultaneous pleasure.

Oh, now. This was ideal. This was not someting he would be unable to handle, it would not be a strain in his current condition. This had all sorts of potential to it. Bless Holmes and his inventiveness, truly.

Watson shifted into a position that was slightly more convenient, and put up his hand to grip Holmes's hip gently before drawing Holmes's cock into his mouth, at first gently, then deeper. Worshipping in this way was something he had no argument about, something he enjoyed a good deal. He shut his eyes, savouring it, listening to Holmes intently.

His movements were slow, and gentle, and unhurried, his fingers curling firmly into Holmes's hipbones.

He holds still a moment, groaning in an uncharacteristically loud way for him, though really it's not so very loud as... well, Watson. Collecting himself, Holmes takes a gentle hold of the base of Watson's cock with one hand and braces himself with the other.

This position puts Watson's cock in an unfamiliar position in his mouth, and he matches Watson's unhurried pace so he can learn this new feeling and adjust appropriately. Of course, this means he experiments; he takes Watson's cock as far as it will go, then slowly releases it. He sets a pace, and interrupts it to taste the head, to kiss along the top of his shaft, only to find his rhythm again.

Watson moaned a little; he couldn't help it. He drew back, breathing deeply, before taking the head of Holmes's cock into his mouth, very gently. This was proving to be an interesting, unique sort of experience, a deeply satisfying one even if it wasn't typical of their interludes.

He ran a thumb down Holmes's length, following it with his lips. He didn't bother trying to find a rhythm, merely letting himself explore with mouth and fingers in whatever pattern occurred to him, It was definitely worshipful, and beautiful. For all that some might find this sort of thing demeaning, Watson had a hard time finding it so, not when he could hear Holmes groan lik that and know he was responsible.

This is maddeningly slow, but wonderful in its own right, though Holmes will readily admit that it's difficult to experiment on someone's cock while that someone experiments with Holmes's. His thoughts are quite fragmented, torn between picturing Watson's every move and planning his own.

Incidentally, a moustache against his cock is a very unique feeling.

He takes Watson loosely in hand, running his thumb in firm strokes up and down the shaft; he busies his mouth at the head, teasing his tongue against it in every stroke and position he can think of. He isn't sure how long his patience will last, and he's poised to begin moving on Watson in earnest, but this state of exploratory limbo is rather delightful.

Watson made a small sound that he was entirely incapable of preventing. Whatever else this interlude was doing, it was very effectively taking his mind off of everything extraneous, and that was exactly what he needed. He was aware of exactly two things; Holmes's cock in his mouth, and his in Holmes's, and that was more than enough. There was no room in his head left to be hurting.

With his fingers of one hand still firmly on Holmes's hip, the others splayed over his stomach, he took Holmes's cock deep into his mouth, moaning a little as he did so.

He feels Watson's moan as much as he hears it and repays the favor, moaning around Watson's cock as he moves his hand to draw him in deep. Holmes would be reluctant to admit it, but his inventiveness is wearing thin; his mind is diverting more attention to the mouth on his own cock, and it's rather unwilling to change that.

He begins moving his mouth on Watson in earnest, finding a steady rhythm that's certainly not intended to be very teasing. He does, at least, cup Watson's bollocks, teasing them with his fingers because he isn't about to give up this inventiveness game so easily.

It was difficult not to thrust into Holmes's mouth impatiently; instead Watson focused on trying to match Holmes in intensity, with his fingers stroking skin that he couldn't quite take into his mouth. He started to slip into a rhythm to match the one Holmes was using, steady and eager. It was natural to do so, and all too easy.

Not to mention thoroughly enjoyable.

Watson pressed the pace faster, eager and groaning a little.

Edited 2011-07-03 20:41 (UTC)

The upside of remaining focused on a task such as sucking Watson's cock, while Watson returns the favor, is that Holmes is sufficiently distracted to be able to prolong is his own stamina. That's important when coming out of a dry spell, which usually leaves Holmes feeling ready to come apart under Watson's touch. He holds himself together as long as he can until finally Watson's mouth is simply too much.

He regrets it, but he releases Watson to press his face against Watson's thigh, hissing out a warning before his muscles start to tense. He gives a small, quiet cry when his orgasm hits him, and remains still while it reverberates through him.

When he recovers enough, he lifts his head and resumes his attention to Watson, eager to help him to his end, knowing that he can soon collapse into Watson's arms.

With the taste of Holmes's semen in his mouth, and somewhere under his own distraction ridiculously gratified at hearing that little cry of Holmes's, Watson clutched at Holmes's thigh, gasping in small, short breaths. His muscles were all taut with tension, and for the moment at least there was no room in his brain for pain; his nerve endings were far too busy communicating deep, sensual pleasure.

With a long grunt, half a groan, he tipped over into his orgasm, and he clutched at Holmes's leg, his eyes squeezed shut through it.

At last, he opened his eyes, and slid his fingers lazily down Holmes's thigh in a wordless caress that spoke of vast tenderness; speech had not quite returned to him.

Holmes rests his face again against Watson's thigh, enjoying the kind of intimacy that lets his head rest there so comfortably, but this position isn't the most comfortable he could be in. Soon enough, he picks himself up and repositions, settling down against Watson's side and burrowing close.

"You're a very good husband indeed," he murmurs against Watson's neck, his fingers splayed across Watson's ribs. Holmes very much hopes he'd achieved his goal of bringing some pleasant relief to Watson, but he doesn't want to ask how Watson feels. The spell would only break.

Watson covered Holmes's hand with his own, aware of the pace of his breathing, of the pound of his heart. He was, indeed, feeling just as boneless as Holmes had promised to make him. He inclined his head towards Holmes slightly, his eyes closed, but otherwise moving as little as possible.

"The same applies to you," he murmured. He stroked his fingertips lightly over Holmes's hand, and smiled to himself. "And to think, you thought I wouldn't be interested in that right now." He gave a small puff of laughter, his hand closing around Holmes's.

Holmes is seriously trying to behave

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