Work Text:
"Is this – are you – "
Holmes hasn't heard Watson stutter at him like this since they first took rooms together, back when he was the kind of middle-class English gentleman who would be shocked by indoor target practice, or recreational drug use, or finding his housemate dressed as a barmaid, or –
"Harder, yes yes, come along," Holmes growls impatiently, shifting his thighs where they're pinned between Watson's, heat pooling between them, sweat glistening on naked skin. Above him, Watson blinks twice and flushes red, and his hands on the rope are slow and tremble slightly as he cinches it tighter around Holmes' throat, leaning down with his hand to add pressure to the constriction.
– or the practice of erotic asphyxiation. Watson thrusts forward as if he cannot help himself, and Holmes adds still more evidence to the data set – arousal, certainly, and some initial hesitance, definitely distraction, but the hand on Holmes' throat is hard and unforgiving now, no trace of hesitation there. He allows his eyes to slip closed for just a moment, to enjoy the sensations: Watson's weight holding him down, the punishing abrasive surface of the rope where it digs into the soft skin of his neck, and now - yes, just so - Watson's free hand wrapping around him and stroking, once, slowly.
The hard pounding of blood in his head crests, then eases off again as Watson allows him some air; Holmes grasps his fingers in the sheets and pushes up into his hand, into both of his hands.
"I must say I rather like this new blushing reticence of yours, Doctor," he says, when he's had some air. "I hardly knew that you could be such an innocent still. I should introduce you to a new deviant sex practice every week, if it has this effect on your virginal spirit. In fact, I have heard of a club in the East End where – "
Something dangerous flashes over Watson's face, and yes – there it is – exactly the outcome he would've predicted from the facts at hand. He ruts down against Holmes' body and tightens his grip again, pulling the rope taut and baring his teeth in a glinting grin.
"One," Watson begins, finally, and the blood starts to pound in Holmes' head again, taking over from memory and thought, replacing them with this overwhelming sensation of denial and pleasure. He would cry out, but, mercifully, he cannot.
"Two," so slowly, several seconds between each number, as Watson continues, "Three. Four."
His mouth opens soundlessly, breathlessly, and this time he does not allow himself the indulgence of closing his eyes. He stares up at Watson as the pressure within him builds, until by nine and ten he is shaking with it, tantalizingly close to orgasm but denied completion when Watson's hands slacken again, loosing the pressure on his prick and on his throat.
As he gasps, Watson rises up a bit on his knees and reaches for the nightstand, picking up the glass of water there and taking a long, slow, swallow. Then, without asking, he slips a hand under Holmes' head and pours a little into his mouth, too, forces him to wet his throat.
The swallowing hurts only a little. "God, man," he manages, his voice rough and croaking. "What – " he thrusts upwards, bringing his hands around to grip Watson about the hips, "do I have to do –" he digs his fingers in as hard as he can manage, thrusts again, "to get you to – "
Watson leans down again and this time his breath is cut off immediately, the rope secondary to the tight grip of Watson's fist.
"The things you make me do," Watson groans, only half-smiling, and now he takes them both in hand together, stroking swiftly, ruthlessly, efficient and precise as only a military man can be. The pressure within him is overwhelming, distracting, so that it takes him a moment to realise that Watson – Watson isn't counting this time –
"The things you make me want," Watson whispers.
Holmes is lost for a moment as his muscles convulse and light flashes behind his eyes, blood pounding louder than ever and conscious thought abandoned as he spills wet and hot and helpless into Watson's hand, into Watson's hands. There is a word on his lips and he is gifted with the absence of breath to put behind it so he allows his mouth to form the soundless syllables, turning his head away so that Watson doesn't recognize the shape of his own name.
As he comes back to himself, he manages to move his hips a little, provide some resistance against which Watson can hump himself off like a dog. The hand on his throat eases slowly, allowing him air again, but is not removed. There are bruises, he can feel them there under Watson's blunt fingers, feel where they'll bloom to the surface one by one over the next few days. He brings his hand up and uses it to cover Watson's where it cradles his throat.
"Again," he whispers, urging Watson's fist to clench once more, "again, please, John – " and he has the satisfaction of seeing another hypothesis confirmed as Watson shudders above him and tightens his hand desperately around Holmes' throat, orgasming helplessly, mouth open and head tilted back.
When he collapses and rolls over, Holmes sits up and lights a cigarette thoughtfully. "Perhaps not once a week after all," he says, eventually, coughing a little on the smoke. He still can't manage much above a whisper. "Though entertaining, it could be too much for your delicate sensibilities."
"Bugger off," Watson mumbles angrily at the pillow beneath his face.
"If you insist," Holmes agrees equitably, and hands over the lit cigarette. Watson takes it with a baleful glare, and Holmes takes his time about lighting another for himself. "Though frankly it sounds a bit pedestrian."