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Continued from here.

He has thoughts that are good thoughts to have, thoughts that Watson would approve of. They should go back to their house so that Holmes can tear Watson out of these clothes and drive him into the bed. Or the couch. Or the table -- wherever they manage to land themselves. But then that would require getting up, and walking all the way back, and there's no one here right now. It's far easier to continue kissing Watson, his fingers threading into his hair, and from there it's an incredibly easy leap to half-tackling Watson, pushing him back to lay on the sand.

But it's so wonderful to lie stretched out with his lover under the sun with the ocean whispering softly and the salty smell of sand all around them that he can't really be upset with himself, and he doubts that Watson really has many protests.

At the moment.

"You don't know," he breathes against Watson's mouth, his hand running restlessly up and down Watson's side. "Every time I gave you something to work out -- you scintillate -- " And then he kisses Watson again because talking only wastes time he could be recouping years of fantasy.

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The sand underneath him was warm, strangely comfortable, and he lifted his head to deepen their kiss, hungry and desperate. Hearing Holmes speak like to him, of him, did things to Watson he could not really explain; he could only say that it was humbling to be so much the focus of Holmes's attention, to be so devoured for reasons he couldn't really understand. Holmes was right: Watson didn't know. Imagine if he had won their game.

He only hoped Nell managed to amuse herself a while longer. He hoped no one decided to come down to the beach this afternoon.

He twisted his fingers in Holmes's hair, hungry and feeling more than a little desperate. If he was being devoured, let it be said he welcomed it. Watson gave a moan against Holmes's mouth, and pulled Holmes down against him.

He doubts what they're able to get away with on the beach, doubts what Watson would be willing to put up with on the beach (and he may or may not have good reasons for that), so he doesn't push. His hands roam over Watson, but stay above his clothes, which still allows him to grab Watson's arse, holding their hips tightly together.

Since he doubts the type of intercourse they'll be able to manage here, he attempts to make up for that by more or less kiss-fucking Watson's mouth, pressing him against the sand.

"I didn't realize Twenty Questions would be such excellent foreplay," he rasps when he breaks for breath, and he restlessly drops kisses down Watson's neck, tongue brushing against the skin.

"Only for you," Watson said, half a laugh, half a desperate gasp. Madness. this was madness here on the beach, but he couldn't seem to care too much about it, at least at the moment. Kisses like that did much to destroy any rational reserves he might have.

He gave a ragged groan, and he seized Holmes by the collar to drag him up to kiss him properly again; as much as he loved having his neck kissed, he was hungry for proper kisses, especially after having his appetite whetted. He felt like a man in a desert given water.

He complies because what else could he do, when his attention is so forcefully demanded elsewhere? It occurs to him that he and Watson perhaps have not paid such proper attention to kissing like this in some time, and that seems a shame; he endeavors to make up for this oversight, kissing Watson deeply, roughly for several long moments.

His hips start to rock against Watson's of their own accord, grinding against him with rapidly increasing need. He breaks away when he can't stand it anymore, when he needs to take this to the next level or else he might unravel from need.

"Either we start for the house now, or I'll have to drag you to those bushes," he rasps against Watson's lips, though he hasn't stopped rutting against Watson. "The latter is preferred."

It would have been a lie to deny that Watson's own hips were rising to meet Holmes's rhythm. Their cottage seemed very, very far away, and that fact trumped the wisdom in returning home now.

"I don't think you have to drag me," Watson gasped roughly in return. He shifted, half squirming under Holmes, clutching at him. He was feeling desperate enough that even the cover of the bushes seemed impossibly far away. "You can try if you want, though."

He gave a wicked little smile, an inviting smile, a hungry smile.

He'd been expecting a protest, had braced himself for it, because having sex out here really isn't the wisest solution. That somehow does not detract from it being the best solution, however, so he very gladly kisses that smile off Watson's face before he draws away and in short order grabs Watson's lapels to haul him to his feet.

"I'll at least get you started," he says roughly before kissing him again, a mixture of teeth and tongue as he draws Watson's lower lip into his mouth and nibbles.

Watson moaned, leaning into Holmes's mouth and losing himself in it more than a little. His grip was firm, desperate, possessive, his fingers twisting into cloth and flesh.

Impatiently, hardly believing what he was doing, he stepped backwards towards the bushes, dragging Holmes with him. He didn't stop kissing him, more rough, tongue-and-teeth sort of kissing. For all the foolishness in intimate acts in the outdoors, once he had started down this path he was committed. He couldn't have stopped for anything.

With a vague hope that the bushes were sufficient cover to hide them, Watson drew them behind the branches, the sea open to their view but the village hidden. He bit down on Holmes's lip, not particularly gently, but hungry.

There's no time to do this in any sort of proper way, if there's a proper way to have sex on the beach; in fact, if there is, barely removing any of their clothes would be the best way to go about it, would make it a little less horrific if they were discovered. So there, Holmes has every excuse to shrug out of his jacket (it restricts his movements, a bit), drop it on the ground, and start tugging impatiently at Watson's flies.

Some days he laughs at himself for always having a small vial of lube on him, but on other days he's fucking Watson on a beach, and everything falls into place.

"On your knees," Holmes says gruffly, breaking free of their kiss, his lips flushed and his eyes dark and his breathing erratic. It's insane that he should want Watson this urgently when he's had him countless times -- will continue to have him countless times; he has Watson memorized, but still he resents the seconds it will take for Watson to assume the position and Holmes to slide his cock home.

Watson swallowed, rather hard. There was an aphrodesiac in being so thoroughly wanted, the moreso from someone he wanted so completely in return. He pressed forward with a forceful kiss, clutching Holmes's dark hair with pale, tight knuckles, before he let him go to obediently drop to his knees.

There was a small, deeply-buried thrill at being ordered about, at taking orders and obeying them, especially such very good ones. He hated to examine that feeling too much, but at present he was hardly in any state to examine anything.

Pulling away from Holmes to any degree was a wrench, but he scrambled to arrange himself on his hands and knees, grateful for Holmes's jacket (which smelled like him), pulling his trousers out of the way in a graceless, hurried way.

Holmes drops to his knees behind him, rather transfixed by the sight of him with his trousers barely out of the way, poised and primed for Holmes to take him. Quickly slicking his fingers, he drags a gentle touch over the swell of Watson's arse, but the moment for appreciation passes; he slides a finger into Watson with the minimum amount of patience required.

"You're quite a sight," he says lowly, quietly, but the lust in his voice is distinct. "How wanton, how desperate you are with your trousers around your knees. I bet you're near to begging for it, aren't you?" Reaching around, he teases Watson's cock, palming over the head.

He could only give a low groan in answer, a desperate sound. The only reason Watson wasn't begging was because he hadn't the breath for it. His fingers clenched in the ground, in Holmes's jacket; his breathing was ragged and harsh in his throat.

He bucked his hips back towards Holmes, impatient for things to continue, impatient for the sensation of being taken. Watson lifted his head, trying to remember to breathe. "Hurry up," he managed, and he was definitely begging. "Fuck me." It was hardly more than a hoarse whisper; he had no will, no breath for more.

"There it is," he says breathily, a dark smile in his voice. Oh, and that -- that is a beautiful sound. That's his Watson, breathless and hungry and needy, so very the epitome of man. His thoughts are clouded; he could explain how he connects the two -- Watson and humanity -- in much more eloquent terms when he can concentrate, but right now he only wants to work another finger or two into Watson as quickly as he can. He spreads them wide, preparing Watson quickly, and undoes his flies with his free hand.

From there it's a matter of moments to shove his trousers down, coat his cock, and line up against Watson's entrance. Gripping Watson's hips, he rocks his hips forward; his mouth falls open in a quiet grunt of satisfaction, and he quickly settles into a rhythm.

The sound Watson made was low and shuddering, a long keening of lust and pleasure and relief, just the edge of pain that pulled everything into sharper focus. His head dropped down again, and he grunted lowly with every thrust. He was trying to hold back as best as he could, and not just completely lose himself already, but the sensation, the edge of danger that came of this ridiculous act on the beach, it all made this very difficult.

Bracing himself, his back arched, Watson moved backwards, trying to match Holmes's rhythm.

Now that he's settled into the rhythm of driving his hips into Watson with an increasing roughness, he can appreciate that they're outside, that there's a soft ocean breeze ruffling his hair, that the waves are murmuring their own rhythm on the shore. The scene around him is so calm, in fact, that contrasts starkly with the sharpness of his hips against Watson's, and it only drives him harder, wanting to disrupt this idyllic scene.

Reaching out a hand, he slides his fingers into Watson's hair and tugs, his eyes rather voraciously watching him move against Holmes.

Lifting his head automatically, Watson gave another desperate groan as he slid back against Holmes. He was trying to be silent, trying not to make noise that might attract someone to investigate were they to happen by, but he was failing miserably at that. Still, the noises he made were choked and strained.

He was hard, and that was excruciating simply because he couldn't manage to do anything about it himself. His eyes were squeezed shut as he took in every bit of Holmes's intensity, the feel of his cock.

They are ridiculous for carrying on like this, and Holmes loves them all the more for it. He stifles a groan as he repositions his hips, seeking better purchase on the ground, and also seeking a particular spot inside Watson. Reaching around, he takes Watson's cock in hand, roughly stroking over him.

Truthfully, he isn't sure how long he's going to last, how long he ought to last, if they ought to hurry. He stops worrying about any of that and instead focuses solely on grinding into Watson and enjoying every utterance that sneaks past Watson's rather sad attempts at staying quiet. There's something erotic in the way Watson moves beneath his shirt, how he can just see the muscles straining the fabric.

The sound that escaped Watson's lips was certainly not a groan, more a strained cry, halfway a gasp. He bit his lip, hard, trying to hold back, trying to extend this experience a little longer.

However, he was drenched in sweat, and his strength and stamina were beginning to flag. Every muscle fibre in his body was crying desperately for release. He could not hold on forever, he knew that. With one more shaky cry, between Holmes's hand and Holmes's cock Watson found his climax; shuddering, he struggled to keep from collapsing entirely, at least just yet.

Holmes has little chance of lasting much longer past Watson, and as wonderful as this is, he's eager to be dragged over the precipice. With only a few rough thrusts, Holmes's orgasm takes him rather violently, a groan sneaking past his normally quiet resolve.

His shirt sticks to him unpleasantly, but at least his trousers are no stranger to him dropping to his knees and scouring the earth, though Holmes doubts the Yard would be as tolerant of this particular activity. He withdraws from Watson and flops down on the ground beside Watson, lying back and breathing heavily. Buttoning his trousers takes every ounce of strength he has, but it must be done.

Watson at least managed to pull his trousers up before he collapsed entirely, though his flies remained unbuttoned for the moment. Something halfway approaching decency was good enough for him, at least for the moment.

Feeling utterly boneless, he turned over and curled close around Holmes, his hand seeking out Holmes's and tangling their fingers together. He had no breath for words yet, only soft gasps for air while he tried to regain control of himself.

It's several moments before Holmes has a handle on himself, and he pulls Watson's hand onto his chest, glad to have something to hold onto while he settles. They probably ought to move, but Holmes is far too unwilling; it isn't even that he's comfortable where he is, because he mostly isn't, but moving sounds unacceptable.

As he adjusts (he rolled over onto some sort of rock), he realizes again that they just had sex on the beach, and with such ridiculous urgency. Turning his head, he smiles at Watson, prepares to say something witty, but in looking at Watson, the humor of the situation strikes him. He starts to laugh, a deep sound in his chest, that soon becomes even more silent as his amusement takes him.

Watson looked over at Holmes, initially more baffled than anything else. With the shuddering of Holmes's silent laughter underneath him, the humour in his face, it was positively contagious. He began to laugh as well, helplessly.

"What," Watson managed through his chortling, "is wrong with us? Surely most men of our age and station don't carry on like this."

He squeezed Holmes's hand and pressed a brief, firm kiss against his chest.

"Maybe they do, and they're supremely good at muffling their orgasmic cries, as we apparently are." Grinning, he kisses Watson's forehead and sighs, contentment flowing through him, another pleasant after effect of good sex.

Nell's tail twitches excitedly as she comes over to check on her people, and she sniffs at Holmes's face before going in for the face lick. When Holmes resists, squirming away, she transfers her affections to Watson's face.

The disconnect between orgasm and post-coital laughter and having his face licked by his dog only made Watson laugh harder, which only encouraged Nell to lick more enthusiastically.

"Easy, Nell, easy." Watson waved her off, and she settled down on the ground nearby, her head on her paws and her tail thumping as she watched them. "I hope that's not some veiled suggestion I should be quieter," he complained to Holmes. "I honestly don't know how much quieter I could be, the way you carry on."

Edited 2011-11-09 21:39 (UTC)

He snorts and reaches for Watson's hand, picking it up by the wrist. "What, that I'm suggesting you be quieter? Never, my dear. Never." Raising Watson's arm to his face, he wipes at where Nell licked him; it's mostly in jest as most of it's already begun to dry, but he still gets a perversely childish pleasure in it, anyway.

"It shouldn't surprise you to know that I catalog your sounds. If you were silent, my sexual experience would be dampened." He smirks lightly and releases Watson's arm, sighing contentedly. "I did enjoy the novelty of taking you out here in the open, and not just the voyeurism of it all."

"Oh, of course you catalogue me," Watson said lazily, with a small laugh. He took his arm back, remarkably unbothered that his sleeve was as good as a handkerchief. "That doesn't surprise me at all." It was, nontheless, a strange thing to acknowledge aloud, and he did have to wonder the extent of what Holmes thought was noteworthy.

"The novelty was excellent," he said, closing his eyes, "but the risk of getting sand in miserable places doesn't seem quite worth it. Still," Watson's smile was broad and wicked, "I have to count myself in favour of anything that provokes you into buggering me so thoroughly. I suspect," he yawned a little, "that you've quite ruined me."

"I suspect I ruined you long ago." He kisses Watson softly and noses his hair, breathing in the smell of his soap mixed with the ocean air. "Come, my dear," he murmurs, starting to draw away from Watson. "We should return home before we fall asleep out here." Reaching out, he tugs playfully at Watson's flies. "And you may want to make yourself decent. Really, dear boy, have you no shame?"

Grinning, he rises gracefully to his feet and starts brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers.

Watson also rose, not nearly so gracefully, and he buttoned his flies while Nell pranced excitedly around his feet. "No shame," he scoffed. "This accusation from the man who insisted on dragging me behind a bush, simply because he couldn't wait to get to someplace more private."

He pulled himself close in order to kiss Holmes, laughter in his eyes. Nell gave a bark, her tail wagging wildly.

"But yes, let's get back. I propose a bath."

"Who couldn't wait?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow skeptically. "Allow me to refresh your memory. I gave you the option of going back to the house, and you challenged me to drag you to the bushes." He shoots an imperious look and turns around to gather up their lunch supplies.

"I do agree that a bath would be a good idea."

"Details, details," Watson said dismissively. "You brought up the notion in the first place. If there's any blame to be had in the matter..."

He trailed off, giving Holmes a cheeky look, daring him to contradict him. There was something about being sodded that made him feel sultry and unusually desirable, sometimes. He could never quite put his finger on it, but he enjoyed the mood, when it happened.

"If there's any blame to be had, it's entirely yours for tempting me in the first place," he counters, and he steps up to Watson and kisses him soundly. "And if you don't mind your cheek, you'll have me at it again soon enough. I would like some time to recover if you don't mind; there's a good chap."

He gathers up what he'd carried there and waits for Watson, Nell waiting eagerly for the next leg of their adventure.

"Blaming the victim, are we?" Watson cried, mockingly incredulous. He shook his head over his armful of picnic supplies. "And here I thought you were better than that. I'm appalled."

His expression said anything but. To the contrary, he looked rather sly. "I'm rather disillusioned, I find, as to your true nature. Whatever will I do?"

"No doubt continue to sleep with me, as you're attracted to danger. And though I'm arguably not evil, I possess a disagreeable streak that prevents me from being as wholly good as, say, yourself when you aren't in such a cheeky, post-orgasmic mood."

He gives Watson a very smug smile and starts toward their cottage, watching as Nell excitedly trots along in front of him, her tail wagging behind her.

"There's a question. Am I as 'bad' as you would go, or would your goodness lead you to become romantically, or at least sexually, attracted to a villain? Not a serious criminal -- a thief, maybe, who steals and is prone to violence in self-defense." He quirks an eyebrow curiously at Watson.

"Why, did you want me to experiment more?" Watson asked, eyebrow raised. He followed, eagerly; he was feeling positively filthy, and was sure he had sand in unpleasant places. "Perhaps I do hold a lingering attraction towards criminal men. Surely, were that the case, I would quickly grow bored with you."

His smile, naughty and cheeky, softened a little. "But I suppose sodomy is enough of a crime for my tastes."

He stops in his track, a small smile on his face. "For a moment there I forgot that sodomy is illegal." He shakes his head and resumes, though it is rather comforting to know that he's grown so accustomed to their life here that he'd forgotten the complications -- and that's okay.

"It's good that I scooped you up then before you fell in with the likes of thieves and criminals. What a sordid life you might have led," he teases.

"Not a bad thing to forget," Watson said, peaceably.

For a moment he imagined; he had been in a strange place after the war, broken and ruined and angry, and in a strange way vulnerable too. What if he had fallen in with some unsavoury types? What if he had become entangled with... with smugglers, or spies, or who knew what else?

What if, in this possible other life he might have led, he had at some point found himself going up against Holmes?

"I was very lucky," Watson agreed. He slipped his arm into Holmes's, smiling to himself. "Think what might have been. I might have been a criminal of far more serious note. Or worse, my life might have been dull."

He shudders, walking close beside Watson. "Dull? Perish the thought. No, you were destined to be involved in the conflicts of 'that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained', I believe is how you rather melodramatically put it." He smirks to himself, squeezing Watson's arm, finding himself suddenly wistful for London.

"I'm not sure you were quite fair to the city. There's more life there than anywhere; that is what draws people like yourself. The lure and hum of crowded streets and the possibility of finding oneself, or losing oneself. There's no place better for those on the cusp of depression, for it's just as easy to find your footing as it is to spiral backwards."

"I never said that was all London had to offer," Watson countered good-naturedly. "After all, I did have the choice of leaving for the countryside, and I decided against it."

It was strange, the reaction hearing Holmes quote his own words back at him produced. Even if Holmes professed to not particularly liking A Study in Scarlet, or his other biographical works, it cheered him a little to realise that Holmes still knew parts of it by heart.

"I was lucky enough to find someone willing to help me find my footing. It would be uncouth of me to judge it harshly."

Watson missed London very much in that moment, but there seemed little point in saying so. At the very least, there was a home here for them, if a home in a prison. He held closer to Holmes's arm, thoughtful.

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