mustbethetruth | tl;dr: why couldn't mary have been ugly or something

Entry tags:

tl;dr: why couldn't mary have been ugly or something

Once the adrenaline fades, Holmes is only left with an empty sitting room and an empty hole inside him that won't be filled until the next case. He could've been happier about it, maybe, if he didn't think this would be the last case he did with Watson. If Mary Morstan hadn't been involved, hadn't been so sweet, hadn't been so pretty, hadn't been so exactly the kind of girl that Watson ought to marry.

He and Watson had spoken of love, of course, but Holmes has seen Watson's opinion on this type of love between men. He doesn't doubt that Watson ranks affection for a woman higher than that for a man; if he was so inclined to marry Miss Morstan... what would stop him? He'd feel remorse for breaking things off with Holmes, certainly, but a union with Mary would be right.

Holmes puffs out a billow of smoke and pulls his dressing gown tighter, sinking into the cushions of his chair. Watson is probably off with Mary now, explaining the loss of the treasure. No doubt he's relieved. A rich Mary would be unobtainable, but a poor one? A poor one in an emotional moment of loss and need? Oh, they lost the treasure in the Thames, but Holmes isn't so sure Mary won't wind up with a ring by the end of this evening.

As long as he had the case, he could distract himself. At the time, this business with Watson and Mary had been the distraction, and the case, full of its irrational logic and unexpected rationality, had been like food for his mind and soul. Usually a case leaves him full for days at least, especially with Watson providing him the sort of soul-stimulation Holmes needs, but now Holmes finds himself lacking both.

The worry that had been gnawing a hole in him through this entire case has now revealed itself, and that tiny hole is much bigger now. Holmes could drown himself in it. In a way, he is.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's ready to put this less-than-ideal conversation behind them, particularly if that means they can enjoy some of the fruits of their illicit relationship. He kisses Watson again, softly, and then presses a kiss to Watson's throat delicately.

"You may," he murmurs coyly, and he kisses his neck delicately; he adds a small nip, more of an afterthought. "If you like. I'd really rather you didn't," he says huskily, and he draws away enough to give Watson a very seductively playful look.

Watson raised an eyebrow, smiling down at Holmes as he let his fingers toy playfully over Holmes's face. "You want me to stay like this? You want me to stay here with you on the floor?" He bent to kiss Holmes, tenderly. "How very strange. Why would you want to do that?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pressed a deep kiss against Holmes's mouth, twisting his hands into Holmes's hair. His eyes were shut, and he inhaled the familiar smell deeply.

He enjoys this kiss far too much to want to bring it to a premature end, so he starts undoing Watson's collar and shirt, so as not to waste any time. He can toy around with Watson and draw things out once there aren't any clothes in the way. It seems an age since he really, thoroughly kissed Watson, and he makes sure that he remedies that before he lets the kiss end.

"I have an idea or two that would make this position very convenient." He smiles flirtatiously and lowers his mouth to Watson's neck, now that he's working on bearing more of it. "Would you be open to letting me experiment?" Smiling briefly against Watson's skin, he traces his tongue against Watson's throat.

Watson inhaled, rather shakily. He curled forward, his fingers massaging gently at Holmes's neck. He smiled, and kissed Holmes lingeringly. He had some small notion of what Holmes might be planning, but he prefered to let him reveal his intentions in his own time.

"Very well," he whispered. "You carry on with your experiment. I often like the way your experiments work out."

He kissed him again, hungry and impatient and eager.

Some time later, Holmes finds himself stretched on the floor with Watson, enjoying the fruits of his experiment and also the bearskin rug that has never been more fond of than at this moment. He nestles closer to Watson, throwing his leg over Watson's and trapping him close against his body. He's getting better about being on the receiving end, as it were; the feelings of vulnerability are lessening, a sign of their bond, and he only feels fulfilled and content in the aftermath.

"This is one area where I seem to have something over Shakespeare," he says, smiling to himself, as he trails his fingers tenderly over Watson's chest.

"Hm?" Watson shifted a little, wrapping his arm around Holmes to keep him close. His brain was fogged and sleepy in a post-coital haze, wonderfully content, and this was where he had hoped the evening would lead in any event. He couldn't quite grasp what Holmes was talking about. "Personally, I think you have quite a few things over Shakespear, but what do you mean?"

He kissed Holmes's forehead. The charming Miss Morstan wasn't even remotely in his thoughts. She really hadn't stood much of a chance, with this to hold his attention.

"'Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, and by addition me of thee defeated, by adding one thing to my purpose nothing,'" he quotes, smiling to himself. He skims his fingertips up Watson's thigh, definitely a suggestive gesture even if Holmes isn't feeling very able to follow up with the suggestion. "Maybe Shakespeare didn't know what to do with Nature's addition to his fair youth, but I have a good idea what to do with yours."

He catches Watson in a soft, slow kiss, tender and loving and very comfortable. Probably more comfortable than he ought to be, curled up on their sitting room floor, but it's difficult when Watson is so warm and they're pressed so close together.

Watson smiled, slowly and warmly. He knew the Bard, and he knew the sonnet well. In the past he had avoided thinking on it too hard, but now he looked at it differently. It was pleasant (to say the least) to have poetry recited to him, and it wasn't exactly what he expected of Holmes.

It was ever pleasant to be surprised by Holmes.

"You do have a good idea or two," Watson murmured. "I've noticed the myriad of good ideas you have about my particular addition." He punctuated his words with a kiss that turned into a gentle nibble on Holmes's lower lip. "No one's ever quoted Shakespeare at me in an attempt to seduce me," he added, chuckling. "It's very flattering."

"No one?" he asks, surprised. He hadn't expected Watson's reaction to be so surprised, but then again, Holmes's prior relationships had had strong literary components from the start. "Then I suppose no one has mentioned to you that you have a face that inspires poetry?" He smiles lightly and kisses Watson again, gently, before he props himself up on one arm.

He shuffles quickly through the library of poems in his head before settling on one a little more recent than the Bard, but nonetheless suitable.

"The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle -
Why not I with thine?"

He pauses for his memory and breath's sake, and he gently traces his fingers along Watson's jawline. He'd nearly forgotten what joy could be derived from such a private performance as this, and he thinks fondly of the stage, which he hasn't done in a while either.

"See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?"

Through this last stanza, he gets nearer and nearer to Watson's lips, so that he says the last line very nearly on Watson's lips themselves.

With that sort of poetry, Watson felt he had no choice but to close that small distance and kiss Holmes, his eyes closed. The gesture was deep and lingering, gently exploratory, more tender than lustful. He smoothed his hand over Holmes's chin.

When he drew back, he let his hand wander to stroke through Holmes's hair. He rested their foreheads together. "No one," he confirmed, smiling, "has told me that I have a face that inspires poetry. Thank you, even if I doubt it." He kissed Holmes again, carefully. "I knew a girl once who wrote me poetry. Terrible stuff. I'd rather have you quote Shelley in a heartbeat. You perform beautifully."

He shut his eyes again, and began to recite something he had learned long ago, his voice soft. It lacked the practiced sense of performance Holmes seemed to grasp so effortlessly; it was, too, in its own way, a small apology for having caused Holmes any pain.

"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his."

He's more than thrilled to have poetry read back at him, and though Watson perhaps lacks the acting chops, really he doesn't need them very much. He has the voice of an author when he reads, and the face of a romantic hero, so if he tried to act it would just seem cheesy. As it is, he's very sincere, and Holmes definitely gets the message he's trying to convey.

"And you read sincerely," he murmurs softly, "which is just as important as performing." He kisses Watson softly, his hand gently trailing down his chest. He's still smiling as he draws away, and he kisses Watson's nose too, for good measure.

"I can't remember the last time I had a naked poetry reading on the sitting room floor, on a bearskin rug, before a fire." He chuckles throatily and kisses Watson's throat, nuzzling closer.

Watson laughed too, low and throaty. He snuggled close, pressing kisses at random over Holmes's head and face and shoulders. "It's a new experience for me." He gave a contented sigh, running his hands carefully over Holmes's side. "An interesting experience."

He was quiet a moment. "I love you," he said presently. As if that were necessary, as if that weren't entirely obvious. "Holmes, there are a great many attractive, charming women in the world, but I am beginning to believe none are as perfectly suited to me as you are." He gave a small laugh. What a strange piece of irony that was. "Ought we to move to some place more permanently comfortable?"

Holmes grins, almost to himself, and his ears turn slightly red with pleasure over hearing Watson admit something so wonderfully... perfect as that. It's somewhat frightening to presume that they might be soulmates, perhaps, as that's such a grand thing to believe, but Holmes is starting to wonder if it isn't true.

"I love you," he murmurs, still smiling, and he kisses Watson's forehead gently. "And there is no one better for me than you. Come, my darling boy. My bed might be a little more forgiving than the floor." He pushes himself up into a sitting position and glances around, looking for their clothes. "We ought to tidy up a bit too, before we retire."

Also sitting up, Watson shifted to wrap his arms leisurely around Holmes from behind. He kissed Holmes's shoulders. "Yes, I suppose it would be unwise to leave all this all over the floor."

Despite his words, he began to kiss Holmes over the back of his neck and shoulders. "I think I may need convincing, actually." He laughed, and took Holme's earlobe gently between his teeth. For someone who had been so recently satiated, he was quite affectionate.

How thrilling it is to cavort about on the floor like this, so warm and comfortable, so at ease with each other. Peace is hard to come by for Holmes, and even when it's needed, it isn't always welcome. But he's just figured out a particularly thorny case, had a thrilling boat chase on the Thames, and had fantastic sex with his utterly perfect partner, who's now laughing against his ear. Holmes can feel a remarkably good mood settle over him like cool water.

"It was your idea," he returns, chuckling warmly, though he does nothing to dissuade Watson's antics just yet. "Am I to convince you of the wisdom of your own suggestion? Watson, that is hardly logical." Reaching back, he runs his hand over Watson's thigh, familiarizing himself with the parts of Watson he doesn't pay as much attention to in the heat of the moment.

"I am changeable and irrational," Watson said happily, trailing his mouth over Holmes's neck. "I am also easily distracted by you."

He wondered about the odds of their having an encore that evening; he was feeling rather inclined to have Holmes take him later on, if possible. There was a perfect symmetry about that sort of evening. A little strange to be so eager for something he had once been so nervous about, but he couldn't regret the change.

"So, yes." His smile was cheeky, and the cheekiness crept into his voice. "Convince me."

Holmes returns Watson's cheeky smile, noting a distinct air of challenge about Watson's expression, and he wonders if their exploits will repeat this evening. He feels vigorous enough; just hearing that cheeky tone is enough to start warming his blood.

"Very well," he answers, playfulness creeping into his own voice. "If you must be so difficult." Holmes knows he has to move quickly, as he's skilled in boxing but slightly less so in wrestling of this nature, whereas Watson has a distinct knowledge set to draw from with his rugby background.

In a flash, he wrangles Watson to the ground, using the element of surprise and his own innate speed to help him succeed against Watson's instincts. He pins Watson, though consciously is less severe on his injured side than on the non-injured; maybe that will open Holmes up for vulnerability, but being pinned by Watson doesn't sound all that bad.

"Does the bed sound alluring to you yet?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

tl;dr: why couldn't mary have been ugly or something

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject