A sort of smile came to Watson's face. He did not think of himself as beautiful. Comely enough, he supposed, but ruined and scarred and disfigured. The man frigging him enthusiastically was, in his opinion, far more beautiful, far more incredible. He groaned with the addition of a third finger, impatient and surprisingly enthusiastic for someone who had so recently spent himself, he had to suppose.

He managed to reach up to put his hand alongside Holmes's head, twisting his fingers into his hair, trying desperate to hold himself back and to retain enough control to remember how to kiss.