Work Text:
Sometimes, when I am bored, I like to get Doctor Watson drunk. Not when I am so bored that my brain feels as though it will leak out my ears, and I am descending into those black moods which Watson tries so valiantly to prevent me from entering. Nor so drunk that he embarrasses himself— us— in public. Simply when I am without a case for a few days and the weather is good, and just drunk enough that he thinks he is seducing me.
We walk to his club on a fine, clear, summer night, arm in arm, chatting genially, meaninglessly, about our day spent apart. I bothered Lestrade in the pursuit of cold cases; he visited patients across town. He is a fine humour tonight, laughing at my little jokes, beaming at me when I catch his eye, squeezing my hand where it is tucked into his elbow. His walking stick barely touches the ground, and he hums to himself when there is a lull in our conversation.
They greet us warmly at the club, glad to see him, honoured to be graced with my presence. He nudges me in the ribs and laughs, and I play the part of the cool detective, deigning to be out in public. His audience loves to think I am above all this, and I encourage the assumption. We share a drink, and Watson makes nice with his fellows: club members, physicians, readers of his literature. I sit beside him and allow him to be the focus of the evening, the centre of attention, the one they come to see. It is a relief, to not be in demand. His hand finds my knee but once, checking to see that I am still there, and I brush his elbow with my fingers as I reach once again for my glass.
Our supper of lamb and potatoes is accompanied by a bottle of Beaune that Watson favours, and I drink less than half of it. He drinks slightly more. He holds his liquor better than I, and anyway, the purpose of the evening is to see him past the point of tipsy and well into knackered.
Watson is not ignorant of these plans. He embraces them, and finishes the wine with a saucy little lift of his eyebrow that has me biting my lower lip to keep from giving us away. I want to kiss him, and I want to do it now. My whole being aches for wanting. I never knew such torture before I knew him.
I accompany him to the billiards room after supper, and place a whisky and soda at his elbow when he accepts a challenge from a man— physician of thirty years, spent time in America, asthmatic, Freemason, owner of a long-haired cat— whose name I do not bother to remember. Watson sips it through the game, and hands it back to me when he finishes. The game too is over soon after, and Watson collects a round of congratulations as his prize. He is a shark, my boy, and he makes me proud.
Another room, another drink, and we are sitting by the fire in the library, elbow to elbow, arguing about Horace's Odes. The content of the argument doesn't matter; I can't even remember what position I take, or how I defend it. What matters is Watson's warmth against my side, his definite increase in volume, and the bright flush on his cheeks.
One more, I think, and fetch him another.
The last drink leads to the start of his unmistakable physical affection— fingers insinuated into my waistcoat pockets, the lightest touch of his lips against my ear when he whispers an observation, a discreet but unbelievably arousing check of my pulse at my wrist— and the clock strikes a definitive ten. A perfect time for a exit, and so we make our excuses. Watson leans on me, allows me to help him into his coat, tucks his walking stick under his arm.
I flag down a hackney.
In the darkness of the coach, Watson takes off his hat. We jolt into motion. We only have a few minutes, ten at the most, and Watson is determined to make the most of it. He leans in, and I cup his face with my hand. I echo his coy little smile, enchanted. He brushes his lips against mine. He tastes of whisky and smells of ships' tobacco, and I breathe it in deeply as we kiss. His hand is warm on my knee, hot sliding up the length of my thigh, positively volcanic as it cups me through my trousers. I spread my legs, welcoming him, and he murmurs his pleasure softly into my mouth.
My prick is already half-hard, and at his touch it stiffens. I sigh. My fingers find their way into his short hair; his moustache tickles my upper lip. I kiss him deeply, and am kissed, the tender flicker of his tongue mirrored by the stroking of his hand between my legs.
The rattling of the coach jostles us closer together, and Watson's other arm slips 'round my shoulders. I melt into his embrace, my blood pounding in my ears, my hips rising of their own volition. I want him here, now. My body sings with the desire, and I am glad for the hour, the darkness, the empty streets; all of these make our illicit liaison in this very public place possible. They also make our ride shorter than I could wish, for just as Watson begins to think he ought to open my trousers and get his hand inside, we pull to a halt.
Watson and I part quickly, reluctantly, and Watson tips his hat back onto his head. I wrap my overcoat around myself and climb out after him, payment for the cabbie in my hand. My legs tremble, and my cock throbs.
I do not watch the cab drive away, for there is a man unlocking my front door and I am required immediately in his bed.
We creep upstairs, careful not to alert the household that we are returned. Not that Mrs Hudson or Billy would come to see to our needs at this hour, but I do not like to disturb them. Better that we are not overheard.
Watson struggles out of his coat and yanks me out of mine. Neither of them make it to their hooks behind the door. Instead, I am stripped also of my jacket, and my Watson takes me in his arms and crushes me to him.
For a moment, we are motionless, embracing tightly in the middle of our little room, his head on my shoulder, my arms around his. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. He breathes slowly, evenly, and I tuck my nose into his hair. This is not as close as we can get— not when we two can become one flesh, later— but it always catches me off guard how my stomach swoops and my soul soars in this moment. Other men have caressed my body, but none of them have held my heart.
Watson pulls back just a fraction and smiles up at me. He blinks slowly, his gaze shifting from my eyes to my mouth. He licks his lips. I lick his lips. His smile widens, and he skims his hands up my arms as we kiss again. He cradles my face, holding the angles of my cheeks and chin between his broad, square palms. His fingers brush my hairline. His tongue presses smoothly between my lips, licks deep to tease and tempt me, and I cling to him. His shoulders are strong and firm under my hands, his skin warm through his shirt.
"Upstairs," I whisper, and he nods. We spend many a night together in my bed, just off the sitting room, and are secure enough. But one of the many reasons that I like to get Watson drunk on occasion is that, when intoxicated, he has a much looser rein on his vocalisations. I love to tease it out of him, make him whimper and moan and beg, and I suspect he doesn't mind it so much either. But we retire to the second floor on nights like this, so that I can push him to the peak of his endurance and reap the benefits.
We slip up the second set of stairs and I close the door to Watson's bedroom behind us. He is already undressing, though he is not doing a particularly skilful job of it. I push his hands away and take over, unbuttoning his waistcoat, unfastening his collar. He submits to my ministrations and returns to his earlier objective, which is most distracting. His fingers on the placket of my trousers are taunting me, and he knows it. He traces the line of my cock and rubs his thumb over my swollen head.
"Stop it," I scold, tilting my body away, trying desperately to get him out of his shirt. He grins and takes me again by the hips, walking me inexorably backwards into the wall. When he has me pinned, one thigh between mine, his abdomen against my prick, he begins to grind himself into me, rubbing his own cockstand into the groove of my hip. My fingers won't work. He kisses me deeply, licking sweetly between my lips, taunting me with the promise of fucking, thrusting against me with hips and tongue. I groan, made as uninhibited by his aggressiveness as he is by the liquor.
I let myself be carried away on the slow, suggestive rhythm of his hips, and am soon panting into his mouth, body aching with want. I could come like this, fully dressed, with only his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my ribs. God, no— there's so much else I want tonight.
I push him away and keep him at bay with a look and a forefinger. He subsides, licking his lips, and retreats to sit on his bed. He unties his boots, so I kneel to help. I pull them and his trousers off with less struggle than the shirt buttons were, and he soon deals with those as well. Then he is naked and spread out before me, glorious and unashamed in his masculinity. My mouth is dry. His cock is magnificent, long and flushed with a fat head that fits beautifully against my palate. I can taste him already.
I settle between his knees, sliding my palms up his bare thighs, ruffling the hair the wrong way. Watson folds his hands beneath his head and watches me from underneath his eyelashes. Everywhere on his lovely, tanned body he is dusted with golden hair, and here in the triangle of his groin the hair gathers in thick, soft curls. I bury my nose in it, breathing deeply, and his cock twitches against my cheek. One of his hands settles gently on the back of my head, fingers threading in my hair. I turn my head and breathe out hotly against the base of his cock, and then drag my tongue up its impressive length.
Watson's moan when I finally take his slippery head between my lips is like a revelation. His hand tightens in my hair, and I push up on my elbows to engulf him. He curses under his breath, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as his head falls back. I always try to take too much at once, and I feel him laugh as I pull off to cough.
"Easy," he murmurs, pushing hair out of my face, "no need to rush."
"Nonsense," I protest thickly.
"I know how you love a challenge," he says, thumbing my lower lip. I nip him. He winces and grins. "Suit yourself."
"Thank you." I bend again to the task and he sighs his appreciation. With one hand on his belly and the other around his prick, I keep him from thrusting too deep when his hips begin to rock up to meet my mouth. I close my eyes to heighten my other senses. His skin under my fingers is warm and soft, and the muscles of his abdomen are taut and firm. My mouth is full of his slick salt flavour, and my nose of the familiar musk of his arousal. His breathing is shallow, but controlled. His toes curl against my thighs. My cock is trapped in my trousers, wilfully ignored.
I pull back to run my tongue around the tender head of his prick, licking at the frenulum and coaxing open the slit. He makes a noise in his throat, behind his teeth. I want more. I suck softly at his glans and capture his sac in the V of my thumb and forefinger, pulling it away from his body. Now he moans, mouth open, forehead creasing. When I let him pop from my mouth, his cock slaps against his belly and makes him jump.
He opens his eyes. Looking into them, I lower my mouth now to his bollocks, exhaling deliberately to make him twitch, taking them individually between my lips and rubbing them with the flat of my tongue.
"Sherlock."
No answer necessary; it is not a request, but a prayer. I slide my hands along the backs of his thighs and into the crooks of his knees.
"God, all right, yes."
He lifts his knees, and I push them up and back until he can replace my hands with his, holding himself open to me. He only lets me do this when he's soused. He blushes and protests any other time, but now he gives himself up to me with nary a complaint. I put my mouth against the tender skin of his inner thigh and he squirms, panting aloud. I shouldn't tease him. Still. I rest my palms on the bed and bend my head, barely touching him, blowing a stream of air along his perineum and across the secret furl of his hole.
"Bloody hell," Watson says to the ceiling. "Get on with it!"
"Now who's rushing?"
"Shut up and lick me, you deviant."
Well, no clearer invitation than that. I stick my tongue out and lick him from arsehole to bollocks, and he nearly kicks me in the head in surprise.
"Careful!" I grip both thighs firmly and shove him open again, which makes him groan and laugh. I give him a little shake to teach him what-for, and sink back down between his thighs. My mouth is watering so hard it hurts, and his hole is twitching in anticipation. Hell, what he does to me. My stomach is twisting itself into knots, I want him so badly.
I lick him again, more softly this time, giving him a little more warning, and he moans tightly, as if he's trying to keep himself in check. It's not important; I'll have him sobbing for me soon enough. His flavour here is sharper, more earthy, and it makes my blood pound. I lick him slowly, working my tongue against the stubborn muscle, until my face is wet with my own saliva and he is shaking with the effort of keeping still. His hole loosens, the muscle slackening, and he grinds out a desperate, "Please!" The tip of my tongue slips inside him, my lips pressed hard against his skin, my hands locked around his upper thighs losing feeling. He is starting to move against me again, pushing his arse back against my face, writhing on the bed. His inhibitions have all but abandoned him, and he is moaning and gasping my name, pleading with me to put my fingers in him, put my cock in him, anything.
Once, I made him come like this, with his legs over my shoulders and my mouth on his arse. He shouted— actually shouted— and we agreed that, despite how hard he'd come and how I'd nearly died of satisfaction, we might, perhaps, not risk that one again. But, God, it was magnificent. My cock jerks at the mere memory.
"Holmes, please," he is saying, letting go of one leg to grip my hair again, palm awkwardly at my cheekbone, nearly put out my eye with his thumb, "please."
I pull away and wipe my face on the back of his thigh. "Give me the pot," I command, and he reaches for the nightstand. Vaseline has so many splendid uses, and we criminalise all of them. I smear two fingers' worth across the softened pucker of his arsehole and work it into him with those same fingers, while he squirms and moans and braces his heel on my shoulder. He waxes poetic about my hands in his short stories, but never so eloquently or as flatteringly as he does now, with them buried in him to the third knuckle and rubbing firmly at his prostate.
I've made him come like this, too, plenty of times. On one particularly memorable occasion, I had teased him all day, caressing him through his trousers and kissing the back of his neck when he wasn't expecting it, and he'd come off like a rocket at the first touch to his spot. He'd been sober. I credit the liquor with his self-control now. He's gripping the bedclothes on either side of him and working himself on my hand, and I add a third finger, eager to move along.
The angle is hard on my wrist. I let go of his legs and push myself to my feet, whereupon he immediately starts on the buttons on my shirt.
"How," he pants, "can you possibly still be dressed?"
"Bad planning," I reply, opening my trousers. I'd rather tear my shirt apart than take my hand out of him now, so it stays, dangling off my wrist. My trousers, pants, and socks get kicked unceremoniously across the floor, and my cock springs up between us.
Watson strokes a hand down its length and cups my stones in his palm, pressing them against my pelvis and grinning. I shudder, neglected and oversensitive; I have to put a knee down on the bed.
"Fuck me," he says, skimming the other hand up my arm to curl around the back of my neck. "Come on, darling, do it."
I pull my fingers out and shake my shirt off. He shifts, reorienting himself on his bed so that his head is on the pillows, and reaches for me as I climb aboard. His knees bracket my hips and he grips the headboard behind him. With one hand, I guide myself to his entrance, and we groan together as I press inside. His back has gone taut, the muscles in his arms standing out. I give him a moment to become accustomed to the intrusion, and then at his nod of encouragement I begin to move.
The first thrust shoves a little grunt out of him, and the next a true gasp. Every breath catches in his throat and is expelled on a noise, and when he opens his eyes to look up at me his pupils are wide and dark. His irises are the colour of a storm at dusk, and his face is flushed with heat. Sweat slips over his temples and behind the curve of his ear. His mouth tastes of whisky and desire. I want to consume him.
One hand moves from the headboard to the crest of my hip and he slows me down. I nearly sob with frustration, my peaking desire suddenly stayed. My heart is racing.
"That's it," he whispers, "easy now."
Between us, his cock is leaking freely, swollen and ignored. He passes a palm over himself and shudders, renews his grip on my hip.
"Would you come?" I ask. My voice is shattered.
"Instantly," he admits.
"And without a hand on you?"
"Very shortly."
I bend to kiss him again, cradling his face in my hands, licking deep into his mouth. He moans and twists under me, hitching his hips up, locking his ankles behind my back and then letting his feet fall, scrabbling for purchase on the bed. I rock into him smoothly, slowly, like he wanted. I touch my lips to his hammering pulse.
When I bite down, he cries out.
"Suck," he gasps.
"But—"
"Suck!" A moment later, "Not there, you idiot: lower."
I bite down on his skin, suck hard until my lips are tingling, and let go to soothe the spot with my tongue. He groans, arching up against me. If I leave a mark here, no one will see it but me. I suck again, worrying the tender skin until Watson is wincing.
"Enough, enough."
"Anywhere else?"
"Other side."
I oblige, shifting my weight and transferring my possession to his other shoulder. He squirms. His fingernails dig into my back.
"Harder."
I suck harder.
"No, fuck me harder!"
I let go, gasping, and he kisses me as I pick up speed.
"I thought you could read minds," he growls against my mouth.
"You're drunk," I remind him.
"I'm thinking about your cock," he says.
"I don't need to read your mind to know that."
He snorts and giggles and jabs me in the ribs for my cheek. I yelp and bite him again, and we wrestle for a moment until my cock slips out of him.
"Oh, God, put it back," Watson demands.
I oblige, and he groans loudly in gratitude. We are done with our games, and I press my forehead to his as I start to fuck him in earnest, now determined to have him reach his peak before I do. He doesn't have a lot of time.
"Touch yourself."
He shakes his head, gripping my shoulders instead, his lips pressed tightly together.
"John!"
"I'm close."
"Yes," I grit out, "that is what I'm hoping."
"Mm-mm," he protests, but when I move to reach between us he gives in and takes himself in hand. The jolt that goes through him rocks me as well, and I press my face into the crook of his neck. He tastes like salt and soap, and I lick the flavour off his skin.
"Holmes," he warns, his whole body tensing.
"That's it," I whisper.
I can feel as the orgasm takes him; from the sudden tautness of his legs and the curl of his toes, to the arch of his back. He cries out, voice ringing in the little room, and the pulse of his seed against my abdomen is like a brand. He squeeze me with his arm and his arse, and I manage a few more ragged thrusts, drawing out his pleasure, until it reaches me as well. I come gasping, grinding deep into him, and he shudders again at the sensation. He moans more softly, gently, against my ear, as I pant helplessly against his skin.
"The room's spinning," he remarks.
"Close your eyes and breathe slowly," I reply, muffled into his neck.
He laughs, and it rumbles through me. "In a good way. God, I feel good."
"I'll get you a glass of water," I say, starting to pull away. If I don't, he'll be miserable tomorrow. Well, as miserable as one can be, when one has been wined and dined and fucked into the mattress.
He clamps his arms tight around me and nuzzles my shoulder. "In a minute. I'm basking."
I subside, settling on top of him gratefully. "If you insist."
"Mm, I do." He brushes his mouth against my temple, and I turn my head for a proper kiss. It's slow and sweet and decadent, in comparison to our deep and desperate kisses half an hour earlier. He holds my hips and kisses me, eyes closed, intently focused on the slide of his tongue between my lips. I feel like melting candle wax, warm and soft and compelled by gravity.
"Never mind," I say, after a long moment. "Get the light."
"You get the light," he replies, but he reaches up and turns down the wick until it goes out. I pull out of him carefully and settle down at his side. He rolls and wiggles until he is pressed against me, back to front, and he lays my arm over his waist. I squeeze him to me.
"Don't complain in the morning," I warn.
"I love you, you old fussbudget."
It catches me by surprise, but I'm not sure why. I kiss the back of his shoulder in reply. He sighs and pats my hand.
"I know," he murmurs. "Maybe I have to get you drunk next time."