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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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."

"My dear, if you don't mind, I am the one who is in love with you, and who is currently observing your naked form. I think you ought to allow me to choose the words I would use to describe you." He smiles playfully and kisses him again, stroking his fingers down Watson's arm, following the lines of his muscles.

"And I am most certainly yours," he breathes, his nose brushing Watson's still. "Just as you are John, and you are mine." Much recovered from his exertions, he kisses the corner of Watson's mouth and his cheek, and neck, and the tip of his ear.

"Do you suppose we ought to carry ourselves to the bed without a name that's technically mine, but functionally ours?"

"If you insist," Watson groaned, rolling over. "I only agree to moving because I suspect it would be unwise to fall asleep where we are."

He kissed Holmes playfully, and gave a grunt of protest as he shifted into a sitting position. "Come on. Get up, and escort me off to bed like a sensible person. Not that either of us are terribly sensible, but let us pretend."

He kissed him again. He was looking forward to a bed.

"Pretend to be sensible? That is an adventurous taste for acting you have, my darling." He sits as well, pausing to stretch his arms and back. He supposes he could stand to gather their clothes, but they aren't too far and crawling a bit seems the most efficient, if inelegant, but it's a halfway mark to standing at least. He picks up Watson's shirt, holds it a moment, and then turns and throws it in the direction of Watson's face.

"Sorry, but is behaving sensibly an absolute requirement?"

Laughing, Watson pulled the shirt from off his face. "No, I suppose not. We'll get by without being sensible. We usually do."

He draped himself around Holmes's shoulders, kissing him at random, losing himself in adoration for a moment. Finally, he stood, stretching a little. He would be sore in the morning, he suspected. He thought his leg had been strained a little, but he was not going to complain overmuch. He couldn't even say when it had been done. A minor injury, not worth mentioning.

"I really don't want to pick up after ourselves," he said, rather mournfully.

He's beginning to wonder if they'll ever make it to their room when Watson draws himself away, and he chuckles low in his throat, leaning over to recover his waistcoat. Their life is rather shamefully good in between Holmes's black moments. He's tempted to say that they're too much of a burden on Watson, that he doesn't deserve them, but does Holmes? He isn't inclined to wallow in self-pity at the moment; right now, his relationship with Watson feels like something he deserves, and the black periods are what infringe on what's rightfully his.

It's a cheerful mood to be in.

"You were quite happy to make the mess, if I recall." He smiles slyly over his shoulder and stands, holding the clothes in his hands out to Watson. "Here, you hold. I'll recover."

There are only a few items left, and he picks them up quickly, excited but also a little disappointed about going to bed. He's excited to stretch out with Watson in comfort, to feel Watson fall asleep behind him, but he's a little disappointed because he feels good and sleeping seems like such a waste of time. Oh, he's tired, certainly, and more tired than he's been in days. He's sure to sleep through the night tonight, though he may wake up with the sun. It's a little like Christmas morning sometimes, the first day after a case, especially when he shares a bed with a gift like Watson.

"Can you manage the walk into the bedroom, or shall I carry you too?"

"I am perfectly capable of walking, thank you." Watson made a face, but he was laughing. He bundled up the clothing obediently as it was handed to him; his smile was a bit naughty. "And while we're at it, you seemed just as eager to make the mess as I was, so if we're pointing fingers, you've got the wrong man. You seemed rather glad to make the mess yourself."

He followed Holmes, dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth when he was able to. "Try to carry me," he said, by way of advice, "and you will be facing dire conseqences, believe me."

"I was very eager to make the mess, and I didn't complain about having to pick it up, if you'll notice." Holmes grins, close to laughter himself, and takes a minute just to appreciate the way Watson looks when he's naked and cheeky and playful and silly; to appreciate how happy they are, how easily they fit together. How perfect this simple moment is, walking to bed with their clothes in their arms.

Once he's done doing that, he lifts an eyebrow at Watson, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Oh is that so? Well, well."

He may have been ridden vigorously and shortly thereafter rode Watson vigorously, but his reflexes are not too sluggish to prevent him from slipping behind Watson and wrapping his arms snugly around Watson's waist and chest. He has no real intent to pick Watson up, not interested in another wrestling match as he doesn't think he has a third round in him, but he does make efforts to lift Watson briefly off the floor, once or twice.

"What sort of dire circumstances am I looking at?" he asks playfully in Watson's ear; the laughter that hadn't quite broken through yet takes him now, and he laughs against Watson's neck, his nose nudging his hair.

Laughing and dropping clothing, Watson twisted away, more out of some feeling that he couldn't let Holmes get away with that than with any real desire to leave Holmes's arms. Entirely abandoning his burden of clothing, he reached to give Holmes a swat on his bottom, his expression as stern as he could manage. Pulling himself close, he gave Holmes's arse a squeeze and kissed him.

"If I don't get to keep my dignity," he said, still with an eyebrow raised in an attempt at severity, "then neither do you."

After another, gentler swat he pulled away and bent to pick up the scattered clothing he had dropped.

“A true consequence to be sure,” he says with a grin, though really it hadn't been a consequence at all, and if he hadn't had been worn out, it may have inspired him to a third turn. As it is, he stands back and watches Watson recover the clothes he dropped, shamelessly watching Watson's behind. The temptation is far too much to resist, and he reaches out and gives Watson's ass a light slap.

“It seems only right that you might have a taste of your own very bitter medicine.” Will they ever get to the bed? He's starting to wonder, but he still isn't any more eager to fall asleep. It's almost as if he's absorbing these playful moments straight into his soul, however silly that might sound; after such an intense case, however, Holmes must return to his human self, and teasing Watson like this is like immersing himself in a pool of humanity.

Watson gave a bit of a jump. He glanced over his shoulder, laughing, and bent to pick up the collar that had he had dropped in his surprise. He couldn't quite name what had possessed him to indulge in something so outlandish as a little playful spanking, but he was glad he had, and he was glad it had been received so well.

"Do you really think that's necessary?" Watson said, smirking. "Is such punishment really deserved? How cruel you are."

He continued to be surprised at just how far he was willing to push himself with Holmes, what boundaries he was willing to explore. With most women, he wouldn't have dared, and it would have gone badly if he had.

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