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."