creepin with the sailor next door

[mustbethetruth]

Island life is not as stimulating as life in London. Even with the variety of people here and the strange occurrences, Holmes finds himself feeling idle much of the time, and the lack of food of any substance or flavor or worth has left him quite unhappy and in need of a good, absorbing distraction. The best answer he could think of was to recall some of his pastimes in London and find a way to recreate or adapt them to the island.

Solving a mystery would be difficult. Seeing an opera would be impossible, but acting would perhaps be something doable. Surely there's some pool of talent, but when he begins considering whether he would like to endure mediocre talents, he becomes less excited about the idea. Maybe he could don a costume and wander about the island, pretending to be someone else. Occasionally that yields interesting results.

And from there it isn't a very difficult leap at all as to how he ought to spend the afternoon.

He waits until Watson leaves for a walk with Nell, which means he has roughly 20 minutes at minimum to get together a scruffy outfit not unlike what a sailor would wear own at the docks. It takes him slightly longer to decide how much makeup he ought to apply, how severely he ought to change his appearance. To make himself completely unrecognizable seems... odd, and he isn't sure how Watson would like that anyway. But if he looks just the same, the game is lost.

He leaves his nose largely the same and arranges his hair differently, adds a scar or two, settles on a way to set his shoulders, and gives himself a more weathered appearance. He wouldn't be recognizable immediately, but once Watson identifies him, he ought to be able to see that the man before him is what Holmes would look like had he been a sailor.

After that it's a matter of coming up with a cover story, which is quickly done, and then he must somehow find a way to wait patiently until Watson arrives, testing out his character, selecting the appropriate accent and inflection for his words.

Comments

[lightconductor]

His daily walk with Nell was something Watson looked forward to, whether or not Holmes was joining him on it. He was a little disappointed he was alone today, but he wouldn't make a fuss about it. It wasn't fair of him to do that.

As he wound his way back to the cottage, Nell dancing around his feet, he was trying to work out what he would do with the rest of his day; he was surprised to see someone waiting outside the cottage. Nell also saw him; she barked before she caught a whiff of familiar scent, and ran to greet him.

"Heel, Nell. Come back here," Watson said. He didn't want Nell all over this stranger, whoever he was. Nell looked between them, puzzled, but she circled back to Watson as he came near. "Good afternoon, sir. Could I be of any help?"

[mustbethetruth]

"You might be, if you're of a mind to give it," Holmes answers gruffly, slipping easily into a familiar accent common around the docks. He gives Nell a half-interested look and turns his attention back on Watson. Nell would be a problem, he realizes, but Watson hasn't put two and two together yet; it'd be better if he didn't do much to acknowledge the dog, though.

"Are you the doctor that lives here?"

Already Holmes is feeling the rush of adrenaline. Hopefully this won't fail, but he doesn't think it will.

[lightconductor]

"I am." Watson put a hand on Nell's head to steady her as he came near; he offered his hand to shake. "Dr. John Watson, at your service." Had the man knocked? Where was Holmes, if he had? Had he gone out?

Nell sniffed cautiously at Holmes's trousers, a bit confused about what was going on, but too pleased about having her people together to be seriously worried.

"Apparently my reputation precedes me. What sort of assistance did you need?"

[mustbethetruth]

"Nothing too serious, Doctor," he says, shaking Watson's hand. He makes his handshake a little tighter, a little less practiced. "Benedict Brett. I've just arrived, and a fellow I came across in the big house said I might find someone from my time and place out here. You being a doctor's a bonus."

He steps closer and casts a look down at Nell, hoping she wouldn't blow his cover. She is not nearly as interested in this as she might be in a passing squirrel, so her attention is thankfully diverted.

"I was hoping you might check me out, make sure I'm in working order, make sure whoever plucked me out of that pub in London didn't do something else to me while they were at it."

[lightconductor]

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brett. You certainly seemed familiar," Watson said with a smile. In fact, the man seemed so reassuringly familiar to his own time it was rather nice to see. "Always nice to meet a fellow Londoner. You seem like you're in one piece, but I can certainly check you over."

He stepped over to the door, opening it for them. "Do come in. Nell, stay." He thought it best to keep her out of the way during this, though likely enough she wouldn't be pleased about being banished outside. Indeed, she laid down unhappily on the ground, with a small whine of protest.

"After you," he said to his guest.

[mustbethetruth]

Whew, that's one obstacle easily managed. He enters the cottage and sweeps his eyes over it surreptitiously, like he's never seen it before, and he tries to slip a little of the dangerous, unfamiliar sailor into his glances about the room. Of course, any moment now, Watson might start recognizing him; certainly once he takes off Holmes's shirt, though Holmes did add a few scars and cover up a few others, just to keep things surprising.

"Nice cottage. You live here alone?" He turns around and watches Watson, waiting for some direction from the good doctor. His heart rate is definitely increasing; of all the sex games they've played, this one is the most unusual by far, and possibly the most daring, too.

[lightconductor]

"No," Watson said, slowly. He was hedging a little, he knew, but explaining his sexuality and his unconventional marriage to a man of his own time wasn't something he wished to embark on, at least not just yet. What if the man knew them by name and reputation? If they ever returned home, what if he thought to blackmail them? "No, I share the cottage with a friend of mine." Good God, but he hated that lie. "Holmes? Holmes, are you here?"

After a quick exploration of the rest of the cottage -- hardly more than ducking his head into the other rooms -- and finding himself alone with his patient, Watson returned with his medical bag in tow. He gave a friendly, brisk smile. "I'm afraid I haven't much of a proper examination room here. Let's see... perhaps you could sit down at the table, there. Unless you'd prefer to relocate to the clinic in the village, Mr. Brett?"

[mustbethetruth]

"Here's just fine, Doctor," he says, hiding his small smile at Watson's reaction to his question. Maybe here's where he can have some fun with that. He pulls out a chair and seats himself, facing Watson. He keeps his expression generally polite but with a distinct hint of impishness.

"That's right. The fellow I met said you shared rooms down here. 'Sherlock Holmes' is a right unusual name, don't know how I forgot that."

[lightconductor]

"Yes, I suppose it is," Watson said, suppressing his amusement. "He's an unusual man. Speaking of him, I apologise in advance if he barges in and interrupts us."

He was laying out a few things on the table as he spoke, readying himself for the examination. It felt strange to be doing this in the sitting room, but he had performed medicine in far less sensible or comfortable surroundings. "If it's any reassurance, if you've been harmed in any way before being brought here, it would be the only such case of it to my knowledge."

Ready at last, he turned to 'Brett' with stethoscope at the ready. "If you wouldn't mind removing your shirt," he asked, politely, "we may as well begin."

[mustbethetruth]

Ah. Here's where the game changes. He may have added a scar or two to his chest to add to the experience, but he highly doubts that Watson won't be able to recognize him once he takes his shirt off. While this private game has been fun, he knows anything truly enjoyable won't happen until he exposes himself (literally and figuratively). Watson won't succumb to any seduction until then.

Incidentally that is an extremely comforting thought.

Catching Watson's eye, he unbuttons his shirt and smiles, a hint of suggestion and danger about his expression. "You don't waste any time, do you, Doctor?"

[lightconductor]

Watson, who had been warming up the metal of the stethoscope with his hand, looked up in some surprise, though he was trying to hide the full extent of that expression. Possibly it was nothing at all, but it certainly sounded like a flirtation.

Clearing his throat, Watson stepped close, opting to pretend nothing was amiss. "I don't see why I ought to waste time," he said. "I take it you've arrived quite recently. Have you had any unusual pains or discomforts since then?"

He placed the stethoscope on his patient's chest, listening. Everything sounded quite fine to him in that department.

[mustbethetruth]

There's something rather wonderfully splendid in how Watson's pretending as if this stranger isn't flirting with him. He does wish sometimes to be inside Watson's mind, hearing how he rationalizes these things to himself, though his face throws off enough clues at least.

"Unusual ones, no, but I cracked a rib a day or so before I turned up here. They've been hurting me some." He breathes quietly a moment, letting his chest rise and fall under Watson's touch. He's sure the process has lost any eroticism it may have had for Watson, but Holmes has always found it a strangely intimate act. "Could you give them a feel?"

[lightconductor]

"I certainly could." Watson moved the stethescope to listen to his patient's breathing from behind. All was well here, too; no congestion, no sound of fluid, no wheezing. He was a healthy individual, this Brett.

Satisfied, he set the stethoscope on the table, nodding. He would not read any more into this next task than was strictly necessary. Surely he had been imaginging that suggestive tone.

"Which side was it?" he asked.

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed under Holmes's touch, and he stretched out leisurely over him, breaking away from that kiss (as wonderful as it was) to take Holmes's ear between his teeth. He was caught between imagining Holmes beneath him, and imagining this Benedict Brett stranger, whether sent to him by Holmes or not.

"I suppose you want me to get on with it?" he said, playfully if rather hoarse. Somehow he had managed to work open the little jar one-handed, and he held up his slicked fingers with a curious lift of his eyebrows. "Unless you can think of some very good reason for me to hold off, Mr. Brett, I would recommend this course of action."

Dear God, but it was strange to call Holmes that during a moment like this.

[mustbethetruth]

To hear his fake name like that is so very... thrilling. He moans, somewhat enjoying these more vocalized reactions; he feels a bit freer in offering them up, even if he has to think about them each time. It occurs to him now, when confronted with the notion, that letting Watson fuck him while he's in this persona will be arousing in strange ways.

"Can't argue with your good opinion," he says, straining slightly, and he spreads his legs, inviting Watson to carry them forward. "You do have," he says, with some effort, "a wonderful, if forceful, bedside manner."

[lightconductor]

"Sometimes one has to be direct with patients," Watson murmured, "who don't know what's best for them." He smiled, darkly, as he let his finger seek out Holmes's entrance.

He was cautious at first (no game would trump that, in his mind, not ever), but as he worked his finger inside Holmes, Watson busied his mouth at Holmes's throat. He could make out Holmes's pulse point with his tongue, for crying out loud; that was something he suspected he would never admit to enjoying doing. He closed his eyes, working entirely by feel.

Still with that dark smile, he asked (though hoarse and wicked), "Do you feel any pain?"

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes isn't in this position nearly as often as Watson is, so Holmes isn't quite primed for this. It does hurt initially, but he's far beyond having some complex about letting himself be taken in this way. He relaxes easily under Watson's touch, especially when he's so deliciously distracting against Holmes's throat.

"Not now," he murmurs, a bit breathless, and he skims his fingertips down Watson's back to settle his hand heavily against his arse. "Must be your healing touch. I could use a little more of it, I think." He presses his mouth against Watson's neck and nibbles, giving his arse a squeeze.

[lightconductor]

Watson chuckled lowly. He worked his finger slowly, taking his time; he wouldn't for the world hurt Holmes unnecessarily, no matter what the game. "I can comply with that request, he murmured. "I have plenty of that, enough to easily spend a little on you."

Focusing, holding himself back, remebering he was supposed to be sodding this Brett character -- it was all becoming a little overwhelming, a little difficult to keep straight. The nip of teeth on his throat, the squeeze of Holmes's fingers didn't help.

He slipped a second finger inside, inhaling Holmes's familiar scent like it was a drug. "How's that," he whispered, "for a little more?"

[mustbethetruth]

He hisses in a kind of pained pleasure, arching toward Watson's finger and gripping his arse tighter. He seeks out Watson's mouth again for another kiss, needing a kind of stabilizing distraction while his body adjusts. When the roles are reversed, this part is such fun for him; now it's such an annoyance, as he doesn't want to have to be prepared and teased. He wants Watson to fuck him now.

"Getting warmer," he says as he breaks from the kiss, stroking his fingers through Watson's hair. "How much more have you got?" he asks, playfully challenging.

[lightconductor]

"I have as much as you care to take," Watson answered, with a wicked twist to his voice. "And perhaps just a little more."

Taking this as a clue to press on, he added a third finger, and worked them inside Holmes, his fingers curled in an opportune way. His own breathing was harsh and desperate; he wanted very badly to get this teasing over with, but was forcing himself to hold back as long as possible. He loved this moment, this desperation and wanting, Holmes's fingers in his hair, the wild kisses and crazed touches. He loved being taken, but with the roles reversed everything had a different sort of flavour, a sense of intense ownership that there usually was not for him.

Holmes, whatever name he called himself, was his.

[mustbethetruth]

As much as Holmes wishes he could move forward from this, he ought to wait a moment or two, restless and eager to continue as he is. He moans softly and loses himself for a moment, dropping back against the couch, part of an effort to force himself to relax and be patient. He breathes heavily, his hands resting lightly against Watson's back, clinging slightly to him.

"I can see why Sigerson thought you deserved a gift," he breathes, and he nearly chokes back another soft moan before he remembers himself and lets it slip.

[lightconductor]

Watson grinned, adding a fourth finger. He was feeling increasingly eager, and the desire to have Holmes splayed out underneath him and properly sodded was so intense as to be nearly painful. Almost, he promised himself. Almost. He would draw this out, he would make sure Holmes was not overeager, too much so for his own good.

"Lucky, lucky me," he murmured, moving his hand a little faster, a little firmer. Were this actually a stranger beneath him, he would consider Brett to be thoroughly and utterly seduced. It was interesting to have seduced his husband. Power could be an interesting aphrodesiac. "Tell me," he said almost in a purr, "what you want me to do to you. I want to hear you say it, and you are mine."

[mustbethetruth]

The fourth finger is surprising to him, though probably necessary. Under different circumstances he might praise Watson for his good idea; right now he merely distantly notes the truth to Watson being a good and attentive doctor/lover, and he moans again, his eyes opening in his rather pleased surprise.

Even more pleasant is this assertive role Watson's taking, and he really can't quite answer for a moment or two, caught up in far too many sensations all at once. How strange it is to let himself go like this. There isn't anything particularly unsettling about it, not in Watson's hands; it's simply so exotic for him. At this point, he's quite certain he's ready, and he pushes his hips back against Watson's hand.

"Fuck me," he says huskily, and then he gathers himself and draws Watson in for a rough kiss. "I want you to sod me, Doctor Watson, with everything that you have because I am yours." He manages the latter with a little more composure than the first, though he still sounds rather desperate.

[lightconductor]

How could Watson possibly turn that sort of request down? He removed his fingers, and after a final, posessive kiss, he hooked an arm around Holmes's leg and guided his cock inside.

Thank God Holmes hadn't laughed at him, that's all he would say on that matter.

He gave a groan, biting down on his lip in an attempt to not lose himself entirely at this point, and he needed a moment to recollect himself. Holmes's name was on his lips, and it was only the barest amount of self-recollection that let him remember that he oughtn't do that, not yet. He gripped Holmes by the hip tightly, trying to adjust, letting Holmes adjust.

[mustbethetruth]

Oh, but this is intense. He's getting better about managing the sensations, but sometimes he's simply overwhelmed, simply submerged in feeling that he's rather lost, and not always in a good way. He has a grip on himself now, thankfully; maybe having somewhere in his mind this idea of acting is giving him a lifesaver, or maybe he's simply adjusting to the amount of sensory input he gets.

Regardless, he only freezes for a moment, his mouth half-open in a genuinely Holmes silent reaction. Once he gathers himself, he groans loudly and drops his head back, his eyes closed tightly.

"Oh fuck yes," he hisses lowly. Sailors have dirty mouths, after all. He seeks out Watson's mouth, kissing him hungrily, greedily, and he tugs at Watson's hair, not quite gently.