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

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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.

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"Perhaps, perhaps." For a moment, Watson lay puffing, resting and waiting for a moment where he could fight back. He smiled, trying for innocence, but there was a great deal of wickedness in his expression. He was well aware that Holmes was going easy on his bad shoulder. At another time he might have appreciated that; now, we was only inclined to take advantage of it and turn the tables.

When he judged the moment right, he worked his way free, calling on deep physical memories of working out of rugby tackles. Grasping Holmes's forearm, he wrestled his way up, twisted the pair of them upwards and over, tackled Holmes down as he pressed forward with a hasty kiss. He was laughing.

"Do you really think," he chortled, "that I wouldn't take advantage if you went easy on me?"

He isn't quite laughing, not for lack of merriment, but his lungs are busy helping him to pant, and his muscles are busy settling themselves before their next move. He's grinning anyway and his amusement is plain on his face; he leans up for another quick, playful kiss.

"I did think that you might, for the record. I weighed the possible outcomes -- accidentally doing you a harm versus finding you atop me, naked and grinning -- and decided I favored the latter."

It doesn't mean that he isn't about to retaliate either, for that matter, and he counterattacks, attempting to get the upperhand over Watson, which instead leads to a prolonged battle for the top position. They are too well-matched and not overly interested in coming out the victor for anything to escalate beyond playful tussling.

At last, finding himself conquered, effectively pinned down and quite trapped, Watson dropped his head back against the rug, laughing. "All right," he said, breathless, "all right. You win. Do with me as you will." He shut his eyes, grinning wildly. He was beginning to be hard again, as ridiculous as that was so soon, but a wild and naked wrestling match apparently could do that to him. He could feel Holmes's answering erection.

He released his grip on Holmes, and lay back limply, laughing silently. "I am at your mercy, you win."

All too pleased to be the victor, more because of the rewards he plans to take for himself than anything, he gives Watson a breathless, but nonetheless involved, kiss. His first prize, of a few more to come. His cock is already on its way to readiness; he isn't surprised to find that rolling around nakedly on the floor with Watson is enough to revitalize his lust. It seems only right that he might take Watson -- quite literally -- as his grand reward.

"Perhaps I should have taken up rugby, if I am so successful at defeating a fine athlete such as yourself." He kisses Watson again and considers the placement of Watson's kisses on his list of addictions. "Though you can see why I never pursued the sport very much." Grinning, he glances down between their bodies. "I may be a difficult man to attract, but something about rolling around in close contact with sweaty, robust men always managed to affect me."

Watson gave another low chuckle. "I admit there might have been a rugby scrum or two that required some self-abuse later that evening." He slid his hands around Holmes's waist, and kissed him hungrily. "Are you really so difficult to attract?" His smile was slow and flattered. "However did I manage it so unwittingly?"

He sighed, and squirmed beneath Holmes, shifting downwards to kiss Holmes's throat and chest. "You also haven't told me what you might claim as your prize," he pressed, teasing, eager. "You do plan on claiming something, I hope?"

"Precisely by being so genuinely unwitting, in a very attractive way." He doubts that's very explanatory, but it makes perfect sense to his mind, anyway. He closes his eyes briefly, indulgently enjoying Watson's attentions, how he's eagerly egging Holmes to advance their activities.

"I suppose claiming you wouldn't be specific enough," he says with a withering sigh, and he starts stroking his fingers over Watson's hip and upper thigh. "Though I do intend to claim you in the most carnal way possible," he adds darkly.

Watson sighed, closing his eyes as he shifted up into the touch of Holmes's fingers. "Oh," he murmured, "good." He continued kissing whatever patch of skin he could reach, hungry and eager.

"Do you still want us to relocate for this claiming?" he asked presently. He gave a small, throaty laugh, kissing Holmes with small, teasing nips. "You had better decide quickly. I want to be claimed." He couldn't quite believe he was saying that, but he meant it. He meant it desperately. "And I'm impatient for it."

"You are, aren't you?" He chuckles and kisses Watson playfully, teasing him with his tongue and hints of teeth. Presently, Holmes feels very wanted and quite sexy, and it might be going to his head a bit.

"Quite the hedonist tonight, my darling," he says huskily. "I'm not sure we have time to relocate." Regrettably, he has to draw away to find and recover the necessary vial. It's comforting in some way that Watson's body (and his own body, come to that) has become more accustomed to this sort of activity, that he needs less preparation now. Some sort of carnal sign of their connection.

He slides one slicked finger into Watson, pulling away enough to see his expression.

Watson gave a gasp; he hadn't expected this so soon. His eyes wide open but seeing nothing, he clutched at Holmes. His playful teasing was quickly giving way to being overwhelmed with senation. He dropped his head back, trying to remember to breathe. The thought passed briefly through his head that Holmes needed to fuck him thoroughly, until he could no longer remember his own name, let alone Miss Morstan's. He hadn't the breath to say it.

He shifted up to try to kiss Holmes, desperate and clumsy in his rush of lust. He couldn't deny that he was a hedonist, because he had always known that to be true. If he was going to be sodded on the floor on the bearskin rug by the fire, then so be it.

"I," he breathed, "am made for you, I'm beginning to think."

To be speaking in terms of made for each other flows neatly from their recitation of poetry, though it's certainly a bold step, particularly for a man like Holmes whose relationships have been few, but Holmes isn't like Mycroft, whose logical mind drives him away from society. Holmes is a confused mix of logic and emotion, which occasionally drives him to brief periods of madness, and it results in relationships which are as emotional as they are logically defined. Has he considered that he and Watson were made for each other prior to this? He thinks so, as the notion is hardly surprising to him.

"You are made for me. Nature's own hand has fashioned you out for me, for my love and my pleasure," he murmurs, his tone a jumble of things: an attempt at romance, the rasp of his lust, and the rumble of his own emotions. He kisses Watson again as he adds a second finger, encouraging Watson's legs farther apart with his knees, wanting more of him.

Watson obliged, breathing hard, almost to the point of moaning. He was feeling owned, and the feeling was remarkably intoxicating, far better than he would have suspected.

"Not your pleasure alone," he said, breathless. He pressed himself down onto Holmes's fingers, his hips bucking eagerly. What he tried to say next was lost in an incoherent moan, and he clutched at Holmes desperately, kissing him, devouring him. Sometimes he feared that he was in this relationship only for the physical release, but this was so much more than that, he knew that. He had been in purely physical relationships. This was a far deeper connection.

"God, but you are beautiful," he says, nearly moaning himself, but it's nonetheless true. Watson is handsome always, and he wears lust particularly well. Holmes can romanticize it and say it has to do with how strongly Watson feels most everything, but a good deal of the reason for his particular observation right now is how very much he wants to fuck Watson into the floor.

A third finger, moving quickly maybe, but Watson compels him onward with the way his hips move. It seems unfair that one person could be full of such lust in motion. Holmes might seem a god to Watson, but Watson seems one to Holmes too, with how seemingly pure he can be even in the throes of lust.

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.

The both of them must have a deep reservoir of lust that has been filling steadily while this case has had Holmes's attention. He's too happy to drain it now, too happy to give himself over to feeling eager and lustful and hungry and reckless. They really are made for each other; their remarkably excellent sex life must be a result of that. Their tastes would not mesh so well, their bodies would not answer so strongly to one another if Nature hadn't pricked the two of them out for each other.

Somehow he manages to draw his hands away from Watson and ready his cock, and he takes hold of Watson's (good) leg, hitching it up around him, before he thrusts into Watson. It's a familiar feeling in the most remarkable way; his muscles know Watson's, understand them, and so he can fluidly begin to rock against Watson as soon as his cock settles inside him.

The sound Watson made was deeply relieved and deeply hungry, and he leaned his head back as he groaned, long and low. "God, yes," he murmured. The fur beneath him over the hard floor, the feeling of Holmes inside him, the heat and the sweat and the smells of sex; it was all so much, and so intense. He neeeded this, desperately.

Matching Holmes's rhythm in a way that was quickly becoming second nature, he bucked up towards Holmes's thrusts. His eyes were closed, and he was feeling. It was so much, and it was perfect.

Edited 2011-09-19 05:47 (UTC)

The other brilliant thing about achieving comfort with one another's bodies is that he knows how far he can take Watson; he knows what liberties he can take, what angle to drive his hips, how and where best to apply what nails he has. Holmes's observational skills are a gift at all times, but particularly so in matters of sex. Watson is far gone, and Holmes is far gone, and the both of them only too recently reached a wonderfully satisfying climax. There's no reason for preamble, in that case, and he knows he can skip it safely, can move right onto something a little more vigorous without raising complaint.

So that is precisely what he does, driving his hips into Watson with a confident force.

This was perfect, this was just what Watson had hoped for and needed. He groaned, rather weakly. His breathing came harsh and rough in his throat. He was lost, quite lost, and he distantly imagined being quite thoroughly decimated, fucked through the floor and lost to all sort of consciousness ever again. He couldn't say he minded that so much, either.

Because he had to, because there was nothing left to him but desperate desire and desperate lustful instinct, he reached down to take his hard cock in hand. The fingers of his other hand gripped the rug beneath him tightly.

Truly it's a rare thing when Holmes's mind ceases to function like... well, like Holmes's mind. Presently he's more instinct and urges than anything, and that's such an exotic feeling, one that he doesn't feel too guilty about having from time to time. He actually manages to think of nothing more than the union of their bodies and watching Watson's hand on his cock, and it's almost as liberating as an orgasm.

Speaking of, as he settles into the wild abandon of his thrusts, his orgasm starts to ready itself; thankfully he thinks he can stave it off, but the slow buildup is bound to be as sweet as the moment itself. He groans and forces his eyes to stay open, forces himself to watch Watson as he rides him through to their finish.

It could not last forever, and eventually Watson gave a long, moaning cry as he went over the edge into an intense orgasm. With his eyes squeezed shut and his hand on his cock, he shuddered through waves of ecstasy, groaning.

Panting, he dropped back against the floor. He felt drenched in sweat, he wasn't sure he could move, he felt exhausted to a level that it was very nearly pain, and he couldn't have been happier. Still, he certainly couldn't do much besides enjoy it as Holmes finished riding his own orgasm out.

Holmes is happy when his orgasm follows soon after, as his body is very near to giving out regardless. He's still quivering with the force of his climax when he collapses atop Watson, breathing raspily. His first coherent thought is that it's very fortunate that Mrs. Hudson is a heavy sleeper, occasionally using medicine to help her to sleep (thanks to Watson, of course), and that her bedroom is not beneath their sitting room. Now he's ready for bed, though he's not any more ready to go about recovering their clothes beforehand.

He presses his face against Watson's neck and breathes heavily, his heart still pounding and the sweat only just beginning to cool on his back. He doesn't think he's capable of anything more than clinging to Watson at that moment, and praying that he doesn't fall asleep here.

Watson had just enough presence of mind to to cup his hand over Holmes's head. He was breathing hard, his mind scattered, and his thoughts all but non-existent. He was aware of nothing but the satiation of his body and the warm, dense presence of Holmes beside him.

He began stroking Holmes's hair, and when he spoke, it was distracted and almost meaningless. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, hoarse. He didn't know what he was saying. "You are so beautiful."

"You needn't pay me back the compliment," he manages, still breathing heavily. He's gifted in that his mind returns to him quickly, even though his body is struggling to keep up. He sighs softly, relaxing easily under Watson's touch in his hair. Wrapping his arm over Watson's chest, he draws close, doing nothing short of snuggling against him.

"I love you, my dear John," he murmurs softly. Feeling safe and comfortable and close to Watson leads to him trying out Watson's Christian name. He can't imagine that it wouldn't be received well, but it's thrilling nonetheless.

Watson smiled at the use of his name, but he said nothing about it. To call attention to it seemed like it would break this fragile, perfect moment they were currently creating. "I love you too," he murmured. And then, hesitantly, he added, "Sherlock? Shall I call you that?"

He stroked his fingers over Holmes's back, his movements slow and rather sleepy. "And I really must pay you back the compliment," he said, quietly. "It's true. How could I live with myself if I didn't let you know it?"

Oh, his name. He's never been overly fond of it, and prefers Holmes; it sounds more, well, like an actual name that's worthy of a little respect. Still, no one else has a name like Sherlock, for better or for worse (probably the latter), and being unique is not something that generally upsets him.

And at least now that would only make two people currently in his life who feel free to use his given name. Two people aren't very difficult to bear.

"You shall if you wish. I'm afraid I wouldn't answer to Robert if you decided to call me that." He smiles faintly and kisses Watson's collarbone, thinking distantly of their comfortable bed but finding it difficult to want to get up now.

"In that case, I appreciate your contributions to my vanity." He lifts his head to kiss Watson tenderly, and draws back enough to look in his eyes. "I'm not sure I could live with myself if I didn't tell you emphatically enough that you are a spectacularly beautiful creature, to the point that you might believe me."

"Nonsense," Watson scoffed, though he was admittedly pleased and flattered. "That's not a good word to use to describe me, but it's lovely to hear, all the same."

He turned, kissing Holmes lazily, curling close. He had to suppose they ought to get up before the fell asleep, or got a chill (they likely would, hanging about naked on the floor). Still, he felt so comfortable, and so relaxed, and so content, it was hard to summon the desire to move.

"You are not a Robert," he chuckled. "You are Sherlock, and you are mine."

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

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