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Holmes paced the carpeted parlour. There were several elaborately woven rugs of different densities from Watson’s time abroad before his military career was shortened prematurely. They seemed to help keep the warmth of the room up, but he was sure it was just a palliative. The bigger issue was truly in the sills if the man paid any attention to it at all.
To Sherlock’s mind, it was a good thing that the man himself had pulled through the subsequent fever and had been able to set up in London for a time, until they had met through their mutual acquaintance. It had been a wonderful two years of friendship and calamity. Cases that had held his quicksilver temperament in check; the black dog had seemed to have receded into the dank brackishness within the deepest parts that few seldom tread.
He’d lain his top hat on the tall breakfast table, his cloak already on the second higher of the two brass hooks that were mounted to the wall. The drape of his coat against the chair was a midnight expanse of blue with black piping. He’d paired it with his most decadent inkish trousers to match the virginal colouring of his shirt, peeking out from the aubergine lapelled waistcoat; the paisley set against the field of pewter satin, was of muted tones in olives, goldenrods, as well as the deepest purple that seemed to catch the doctor’s eye. Even his cravat was in the same snowy silk, tied loosely in a Byronic sort of bow; the lure of it was, of course, to have it touched and tied properly for their evening engagement.
Sherlock could hear the footsteps of said doctor one floor above. Most certainly finishing his own dressing; possibly fretting over the military cut of it all. He, however, couldn’t wait to see John in the finery. Struggling with his thoughts as they took a more lascivious bent, Sherlock crossed over to the cold plate and tea setting that Mrs. Hudson had left for them and poured himself a cup of the strong evening brew to fortify himself. Possibly should have been a brandy, but starting down that lane with nothing in his stomach would not be wise. The steps on the treads slowly making their way down to the center of the house let him know that perhaps John was unsure of this evenings planned activities as well. A small smile crept across his lips that he quickly tempered, replaced by an almost outright gawp at how his friend was attired. It was only his strength of will that stopped him.
John was attired in very close-cut ensemble that clearly did wonders for his form. The trousers and jacket over his arm were charcoal in colour, woolen to combat the cold, but finely crafted; his waist coat was of a higher cut with overlapping lapels and a double row of buttons in all navy brocade that set off the oceanic blues of his eyes. He’d popped the back of the garment up jauntily to whisper at his neck. The shirt under was a modest ivory that also showed off his obviously bespoke ensemble giving it the snowy background to highlight the warm kiss of the sun that still yet was held on his skin; the bold cravat a silken deep grey that was perfectly tied. What else would one expect from a field surgeon? John stopped at the entryway and schooled his own features. It seemed as if I was not the only one affected by the sight of the other. Although I could not mark his pulse by sight, the fact that his respiration had changed and the colouring of his cheeks had gone more rosy without the aide of the fire was obvious.
“Holmes.” The doctor’s voice held the warmth of a nipped brandy. The depth of the tenor dropped to honeyed tones. “You are... well appointed this evening.”
My gaze slid slowly away from his form and toward the fire.“I have the hopes of winning someone.”
“Indeed?” John’s eyebrows rose; or rather his hairline lowered in that comical way.
“It is a distinct possibility.” I felt the curl of a wicked smile cross my lips. “I hope that you will not demand that I act within the bounds of propriety.”
“It is a given that you are in want of a companion-”
“You are my companion,” John turned towards our merry fire as his own eyes brightened, attempting to search out the meaning of my words. “In all things of import, are you not?”
I could hear the dear doctor stride calmly toward me, stopping by the small table just beside. The run of fingers against the polished wood, then tap of a well manicured finger.
“All things?”
The depth and gravity of his words made me want to lean into them. “If I were to say yes?”
My voice was well modulated and quiet in the space, nothing more then a possible turn and a few breaths between us. As a static thrill moved through my person I could not help but to think that this could be either a grave error or the making of us. The sweet arc of electricity turned tender as I felt a tentative touch against my shoulder blade, warming me through to my very skin.
I say tentative, but yet it was not. It was certain, yet very chaste. John was touching me as if I were a woman that needed the pains of courting and soft turns that would become the supplication of a lover if allowed. Decided, I leaned into the touch, allowing a soft exhale of noise, a soft tisk that vibrated deep through my chest.
“Would it be... with all things? Between us?” The heat of his voice belied the gentleness of his unbroken touch. John pressed his fingers into my shoulder in a soothing manner. “Do I understand your meaning, Holmes?”
The turn into his touch was of such speed that his hand seemed to stay in contact until it rested lightly against my chest, my heart just beneath it from the initial jostle. I could now smell the woodsy undertones of his breath within the intimately close situation in which our bodies had aligned.
“John.”
The drop of my own voice into his Christian name surprised even myself. I had not yet uttered it in his presence; the sound of it made the unruly organ beat wildly against his steady touch. No, it had been reserved, until that moment, for the latest of hours and sweetest of benedictions until this moment. I found myself not able to look my dearest of friends in the eyes.
“Holmes?” John stated firmly, then dropped his own to barely above a whisper. “Sh-Sherlock?”
The only movement I could make was to nod in agreeance.
It happened so swiftly, I did not have time to fully appreciate the warmth of scotch-stained breath against my own. My mind whirled instead. What was it that caused my lips to silence? My hands to grip at John’s forearms in such a manner? As if my life depended upon the action. Perhaps it did. Then, slowly, like treacle, the kiss, the brush of whiskers against my own shaven face, trickled down into my cognizance. My doctor, my Watson, had brushed his mouth upon mine and was imploring such a rare treatise that I could not refuse. I could never deny him, not given the gentleness of caress; the way his mouth both commandeered my heart and ravaged my soul.
“Say it. Again.” His words against my heated mouth. “Say it, Holmes.”
“John, my John?”
I could not hide the quiver in my voice, nor the roughness of it.
“Yours? Oh, Sherlock.” John wrapped his arms firmly around my thin middle. “Sherlock, you are mine.”
No truer words were spoken in the whole of the world than those seven spoken against my cheek. I melted, not unlike a woman would; I would never speak ill of the gesture or the fairer sex, as the movement brought me flush with his body. Ingenious. John’s mouth captured mine again, a rough hum of wanton tone reverberating in his chest. My fingers gripped into the handsome midnight bluish waistcoat; the brocade was rough against them, but I did not care. Let my calluses do me good this once for other than playing a lofty tune. He stole my breath then, forcing his advantage and pressed me against the roman couch we’d moved from downstairs to reside closer to the grate, my back forcefully meeting the slope of it.
He held me closer still, if that were possible, our breathing moved in tandem which made the air between us heady. The blend of our libations still on our tongues created a miraculous want which pooled low within my stomach. It was rare, as I was in such control of my faculties that passions such as this were often diverted; ignored. Especially since most would see my inversion as subversive if practiced outside of the clubs or infamous bathhouses. I had tread as lightly as I could, and yet still, here John was, his arms tightened around me, body aligned with my own luxuriously laid out beneath his body, mouths entangled vying for dominance. I would give it to him of course. He was asking so very sweetly.
My hands released his waistcoat, leaving him deliciously rumpled, to make their way into his hair and to lower to his blessed sacrum, yet still above clothes, in askance for more as my hips rolled wantonly without care beneath him. I could hardly catch a breath as the heated warmth of his facial hair was against my throat, commanding all of my attention as John spoke of acts, used words that forced a blush to my cheeks to know that he knew of these things as well.
He chuckled, feeling my insistence. “Keen are we, darling man? The scent of you-”
“Sandalwood... you recognise-”
“Must I shut your mouth with my own, or may I use it in more clever actions?” My doctors voice would be the undoing of me. I could do little else but moan as one of his hands undid my cravat and his teeth met the tender skin. “Let me undo you, Holmes. Be your undoing.”
I remembered that we were not alone in the house, nor was the parlour locked against further entrance. “My rooms, John.”
“No, here.” He kissed me breathless, then stood momentarily, pulling the olive oil from the breakfasting table and placing it from view on the warmed side of the couch. “My hands have not been busy enough. You are too put together.”
I could do nothing but laugh. The soft, merry sound was so unlike my usual nature it broke a beaming smile across John’s face. His fingers became wicked and pressed and pulled, but there was no loss of buttons as I watched him voraciously, searing everything to my memory. As always, he was expedient; militarily minded in his conquering.
“I will do whatever it takes to hear that from you more often, darling Holmes.” The words were spoken against the firmness of my gut as his mustache tickled against the dark auburn hair that sparsely flecked above my trouser line. His clever fingers undoing the stay, then pressed both my trousers and smalls low as his mouth hotly pressed tender kisses further along the hairline towards my firmed cock, its corona slick and exposed already. “Fucking gorgeous.”
The crassness of his words were shocking. “John! Dear God, have pity!”
In answer, his tongue found my slickness and swathed a wet stripe down the length of me leaving my cock bobbing as I groaned like a drunkard, my hips gyrated so that John sought to still them with a firm, callused palm against the tender paper-thin skin of my hip.
“Hush, my dear man and let me have a look at you.”
My eyes found his, the firelight glinting them to almost cobalt in depth. I could not help but to reach out and touch the side of his face; the soft hair against his temple. I nodded once, slowly, to prove that I had mastery still over my faculties and watched as he lapped once again bringing the tip of me, then more into his mouth in a obscene kiss. My mouth parted in a sympathetic ache. I had to swallow my own saliva as, I too, became hungry to taste of him. Of his palate and the change that occured with my muskiness against it. Longing filled me to the brim.
After a short baudy twirl, he popped me out of his mouth, his lips now ruddy as he yanked at my shoes, then removed my evening attire, leaving me in my bracers and stockinged feet as he reached for the oil. His fingers soon were slicked with the aromatic fluid, his own eyes burning into me. The silky fluid dripped from his fingers onto my cūlus his thumb trailing after, rubbing gently against my ring as his fore and secondary fingers shot downward against me; my own thighs parted as I heaved a breath.
This shameless movement curled a smile onto his face as John brought his mouth back upon me, filling it with my engorged sex. Those damned knowing fingers pressed against the most intimate of spaces and I closed my eyes against the oncoming tidal feel of it; the primal need forced me to bite at my own cravat otherwise my rough cry would have surely had the constabulary on us. The thickness of my doctors fingers, even as they eased in with knowledgeable expedence, had me bearing down and flushing from stem to throat, my eyes pricking with the urgency at which he moved.
“That’s it, take it.” He spoke arduously; words passing over my heated skin. “Open for me.”
His mouth freed from the weight of me once again set a winding path to find my bitten lips; to suck on them and reclaim them as his. It was intoxicating. Forcing my mind to clear some of the lustful haze, I began working at his own shirt, waistcoat, my hands rubbing luxuriously against his tawny cropped curls scattered upon his chest down to his trouser line.
“John, mine own,” I begged, my voice hoarse from muffled cries and ragged breath.
My own fingers skating along the line itself, watching the obscene outline before my head fell back against the roll of the couch, John pressing in further and harder with his fingers. Relentless. I could feel his hardness against my palm; the roll of his hips as he sought friction against my hand. John moved away from me then, undressing with one hand as quickly as he could, unwilling to leave his exploration. His clothing shucked to his knees, then kicked off, his other hand spilling oil onto my stomach before pressing against it, then slicking his cock. Oh how I wanted to taste of him, but with a twist and removal I now felt empty. Needy.
“Sherlock, God, my God...” John pressed into my body and kissed me hard; I swore I tasted blood and did not care, my mouth just as lively against his as I cried into the desperate meeting. Him on his knees, me spread, open and wide, a leg akimbo.
The care was there as the slide was slow, but steady. There was no retreat from this, nor did I want one. I felt as if the fullness of him were not quite pleasant, but again it was as he thrust shallowly. Almost a feeling of too much wine filled my senses as our clean sweat from our exertion mingled. Finally I was able to nip at his neck, kiss his throat lovingly; I have no shame in saying so. I was bare to him, ewe to his ram and wild with the taking. Pleading for all of him as my own thickness lay between us, our combined sparse hair giving me delightful friction. My doctor pulled me onto his lap in one swift move, holding my hips fast and meeting me fully. There was but a breath of space as his fingers found and fondled my testicles, pillowed against him as my cock dipped and wept between.
“My John, my dearest man.” My words were more moaned than spoken.
His whiskers tickled along my throat as he sipped at the base of it.
“That’s it, darling.” Once again, the same words. So much softer. Meaningful. “The feel of you.”
John bucked gently, rocking more than thrusting really, his hands coveting me. Holding my body close to his. The heat of us, of the fire, of the moment found me emotional. Versicolour. My own hands finding him, his hair, his back. The downy softness of his thighs as I tipped backwards slightly just to experiment on the angle. He sipped at my chest, the little nibs harder than they had ever been. Sensitive. Alive. I could feel the build once again within me and whimpered as his hand took me to task as if we were of one mind. My heart raced against its cage as I reached my tipping point. His lips were on mine a moment after as he laid me back down. Reverently whispering my name, he used me as his vessel, until he himself met his own crisis; his seed spilled within me.
I was overcome with it all. Needy. Our licentiousness barely seeming to scrape at the desire that had been both sated and stoked by the honourable man currently holding me gently once again; our bodies intertwined without shame. Or remorse.
“Watson?”
The question was in the name. I did not know how intimate I should be. It was unwise of us, but could not be taken back. It seemed as he felt similarly, as all my doctor did was half-bring his head up. Just enough to meet my own eyes, and smiled so dearly. As if I were the most precious thing on this earth. Perhaps in this moment I was to him. I knew, with a certainty that I felt the same.
“Sherlock,” He replied. “Holmes. Whatever it is that you will allow.” John laughed then, low and gruff and knowing. “We need to get you up and into a heated bath. At the very least a hot towel run over your body.”
“My brother’s party?”
“Mycroft may deal without us for the evening. We will go, however, to a late dinner. You will eat.”
I smiled then, raised and kissed at his brow. “Can we not just spend tonight behind our own doors?”
“As much as I wish to take you to bed,” My doctor’s words were measured out in soft doses. “We do need to eat and we need to be seen out... as we would.” Kissing me softly, he sipped on my lower lip as he eased himself out and slightly away from me. “Come on, let’s get cleaned.”
I had nothing but wonder in my heart for this man. He was correct, the fine point he was making was quite sharp against the tender organ. “Cleaned up. Then dinner at The Café.” The cheshire grin spread across my face.
“Fine. Yes. The Café. Now kindly get yourself to the bath, I’ll run the kettle. Both of them.”