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In a moment of silent reflection on the train home from the country, Holmes recalled the past week's investigation, and thought to himself that it had really been a fascinating state of affairs, and no inconsiderable waste of his talents as he had first suspected it would be. It was the tail end of November now, and one woman would be gone to hang for the murder of her family by the time the frigid chill of December had taken its hold of London.
Holmes would scarcely think to confess it, but he often found the merits of Watson's appreciation of the countryside most apt after having the satisfaction of ridding the sparse land of its most hideous felons. Maybe it would not undo the crime committed, and maybe it would not prevent future terrors, but for at least one moment, he could breathe easily knowing someone had not evaded justice.
The skies were darkening now, and as the train whistled its intention to begin the slow chug toward London, Holmes turned his thoughts to his long-suffering companion, who had trudged behind him with an uncharacteristic gloom for most of the case. He had sat himself opposite Holmes, and had practically crawled into the very corner of their compartment, flush against the window.
"Oh, yes, Watson," Holmes began, "this has been a case for the books, that is for sure." He glanced at his companion's weary expression. "I hope that the excitement has not been too much for you."
"Well, it has certainly been a long journey," Watson grumbled, absently rubbing the old wound on his thigh. "I will be much glad to see the comfort of my own bed once again."
"Yes, yes," Holmes yawned, stretching his arms above his head, "it has been a long while without regular sleep."
"And without much consideration on your part."
A curious eye fell on this acerbic remark. "Now, Watson, what is that supposed to mean?"
"Well," huffed his friend, "I mean to say that you have been positively thoughtless as to my personal welfare this weekend. Perhaps you can go without food or sleep for prolonged periods of time, but I am a man of regular habits, as you well know, and I admit that I was not well-pleased with our long wanderings in the countryside following after those God-forsaken horse tracks until the small hours of the morning."
"Oh, come now, it was all in pursuit of a great cause."
"Hmph." He crossed his arms, looking petulantly out the window. "That may well be true, but it does not necessarily excuse this frankly intolerable neglect. And that is not even mentioning your manner this whole trip, often treating me as though I were not there at all!"
"Well," conceded Holmes, tapping a finger to his chin, "I suppose I do have the tendency to become somewhat absorbed in my work."
"Certainly, when you are on the trail, and that I may understand, but you have not confided in me at all this whole case. You have gone through the entire thing yourself and left not a single clue to me as to your intentions! You have flouted my inquiries at every possible juncture, and you have certainly not sought my advice regarding the medical aspects of this case. Nor have you condescended to explain to me the most perplexing aspects of this problem."
"Come, Watson, now this is simply not true. Why, I told you all about the victim's sister's affair with the step-father, the whole reason for their mother's jealousy of them both, the entire motive behind the poisoning!"
Watson turned back to Holmes, and in his expression was the full extent of his displeasure. "No, Holmes, you have not told me that until just now."
Holmes balked. "Oh, um, I see."
"How on Earth am I supposed to chronicle your cases if you will not even relay to me even the most basic facts in the first place?" He furrowed his brow, a sudden darkness coming over his expression. "Unless, of course, you are so unimpressed with my writings that you wish me to cease entirely."
"Watson! What a vast leap of an assumption. My opinions on your writing have nothing to do with my excessive distraction these past few days."
There was a beat of silence, in which Holmes began to think he had erred somewhere along the way.
"So you do admit it, then, that you are unimpressed with my work?"
What a pit I have dug myself, thought Holmes. If I throw down the shovel now, I may just escape it.
"I am not unimpressed," he cooed, eager to calm Watson's indignation. "And it is not that I lack trust in your abilities."
Watson gave him an expectant look.
"And," Holmes added thoughtfully, "I am sorry that I have disregarded your needs with such little consideration."
This sentiment appeared to ease the tension in his companion's shoulders, though his weary expression remained unmoved.
"When we return to Baker Street, I will answer every question you have, and more."
Watson hummed in response, not entirely satisfied. After a short silence, he added, "You'd given the whole tale to that young inspector fellow before you'd given half of it to me."
Ah, thought Sherlock, there is the true purpose of this choler.
"It is customary, as I understand it, to give the facts of the case to the lawmen when in pursuit of justice."
"The facts, certainly, but it seemed to me that you took a more personal interest in the man."
"Did it?" Holmes tried to suppress his smirk. "Well, he is willing to learn my methods, and I was willing to teach him. Certainly that is not objectionable?"
Watson faltered, utterly caught out.
"I have objected to nothing," he resisted, a sheepish blush creeping up to his ears, "except for your thoughtlessness toward me."
Holmes could not help but be impishly pleased at the sight of Watson's ruddy cheeks and nervous eyes. It was one thing to inspire his jealousy, but it was a much more exciting thing to have him squirm under it.
"I had noticed, of course, your standoffish behavior toward our good Inspector."
"I admit," Watson huffed, watching the world slide away as the train churned to life, "I was not well-pleased with his overeager nature."
"He was rather straightforward in his admiration, wasn't he?"
"One may perhaps say unprofessionally so." He added, after a moment of consideration, "It did not appear entirely unwelcome on your part."
"Should I have scolded his praises? That would hardly seem proper when he has shown us such generous hospitality in this dreary little village."
His nonchalant manner ruffled Watson. "It is no less improper a thing than accepting another fellow's flirtations in front of the one to whom you have sworn yourself!"
Holmes stood abruptly from his seat opposite Watson and approached the door, and for a moment he caught a flash of fear in his companion's face. His nerves were soon settled, though, as Holmes shut the curtains tight and threw the latch.
"Well, you are right, of course," he relented, voice low. "It is no way to treat so old and dear a friend."
He sat back down, this time next to his flushed companion, who tensed with anticipation.
"Poor, long-suffering Watson," purred Holmes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I have neglected you these past few days, I will admit that."
He laid a lingering hand on the man's shoulder.
"Surely," he breathed, leaning so close that he could smell Watson's fading cologne, "you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"
"Well," Watson sputtered, unable to pry his eyes away from Holmes' lips, "I am not an unreasonable man."
"I would be loathe to lose my most treasured biographer." He leaned forward, pressing those soft, pink lips to his ear. "I surely could not replace your companionship with that of some naïve little inspector."
Watson melted into the affection. "Do you truly mean that?"
"I say nothing I do not mean." His long, slender fingers spread across the man's waistcoat, resting at his hip. "I have no interest in anyone other than you. I love no one, excepting yourself."
Watson swallowed thickly. His thoughts were already beginning to lose their sharpness, and he was left with the vague yet gripping need to have Holmes as near to him as was possible. He slid his arm around his companion's waist and pulled him into a close embrace, mouth latching instantly to the underside of his jaw.
This eagerness earned a chuckle from his friend. "You are delightfully impatient at times. It is most charming, Watson."
"You have made me this way," he responded between fervent kisses, "with your infernal teasing."
"Teasing? I shouldn't dream of doing such a thing to you, my dearest Watson."
His lips grazed against Watson's cheek, soft and pillowy against the well-grown stubble, and occasionally he chanced a loving bite here and there across the plane of his jaw.
The tender sensation of skin against skin went straight through Watson like a lightning bolt, and he could not help but grasp at Holmes like a man drowning. It was most gratifying to feel the solidity of his body against his own, his hands working their way over Watson's chest as he laid kisses all down the side of his face.
He wriggled with impatience, taking any chance he could to kiss Holmes on the mouth. His own hands were equally as exploratory, finding more vulgar positions as their bodies came closer together.
"I want to have you, Holmes," grunted Watson, "right here, damned be the risks."
It did not take much strength for him to pull Holmes underneath him, into a sort of straddled position, one where he could feel the full effect of Watson's arousal pressed against his thigh.
"My word," he moaned, briefly losing his own sense of discretion.
He gripped the edge of the seat for stability as Watson began to rut savagely against him, the combination of friction and guttural growling beginning to stimulate his own baser instincts.
It was a struggle to pull himself from the madness of their shared passion, but he knew that this contemptible little bench would scarcely hold the weight of such an act without significant protest, and in the likely event that he could not keep himself silent, it would be most undignified to be caught in such a compromising situation.
"Patience, Watson," he scolded. "We are in no position for such an ambitious coupling. I think I have a better idea."
He extricated himself deftly from his lover's grasp, much to the man's immediate disappointment.
"But, Holmes—"
"Sit back against the wall," he commanded, going so far as to maneuver him by the arm, "and let us see if I cannot try to satisfy your desires."
Watson obeyed, as was so often his custom when it came to his friend's demands.
"You can sometimes be disagreeable when your more carnal desires have not been tended," said Holmes as he undid Watson's trousers with his carefully practiced fingers. "But I will say that it gives you a certain enthusiasm which I admire."
His lips curled as he beheld the prize which awaited him under the cotton fabric. His lover's cock was already at full attention, thick and throbbing and peony-pink right up to the tip. It was a beautiful sight, one that Holmes had never imagined he could appreciate until Watson came into his life.
Watson had challenged many of Holmes' preconceptions, mostly without even trying. The gravity of his presence seemed to be enough, and Holmes was helpless to resist falling into his orbit. Within no time at all, he had become attached to this perfect stranger, this serendipitous friend who had not only joined him on his most dangerous adventures without worry or complaint, but had also tolerated his flaws and even admired his personality, far beyond the carefully crafted mask he thought he had perfected.
He had crushed that mask with no effort at all, turned it to putty in his hands, and yet he still had no idea. He had no idea just how devoted Holmes was to him, how possessive he was of his Watson, how foolishly and deeply in love with him he was despite his own single-minded pursuit of mental stimulation.
In many ways, Watson was his stimulation. It took a certain sort of mental prowess to remember the exact techniques which would bring him off in seconds, the right amount of pressure, the correct positioning of the hand, and Holmes secretly relished in the development of these talents almost as much as he delighted in astonishing Watson with his intellect.
To have such a handsome, stalwart, kind-hearted man spilling in his hands at the mildest touch… The thought of it was titillating to say the least.
As he released the heavy prick from its tight confinement, Watson gave a deep grunt and leaned his head back against the curtained window. It was cold from the close contact with the icy glass, and he could feel it gnawing at his scalp. It was this sensation that he focused on the most as Holmes got to work stroking him slowly, one hand clutching desperately at the velvet-padded bench as Holmes' saliva dripped down onto his flexing fingers, warm and slick.
"What a marvelous beast you make, Watson," he purred, giving an agonizing twist to the head of Watson's prick with every pull. "I think I could have you mad with hunger, like the wolf who stumbles upon a field of lambs. I only wish I did not have to deny you the full course, as it were. You don't mind, do you? No, of course you don't… You are much too ardent in your passions. You would have any piece of me you could take, my hands, my mouth, my thighs… Though I know what you truly desire is my full submission. You want me underneath you, in your bed tonight, that you might ravage me to the fullest extent."
The words made his stomach flip as he imagined Holmes flat on his back, spread out like jam on toast, clutching desperately to Watson's shoulders as he whispered vulgar, beautiful things into his ear.
How thick, he would say, and how powerful you are, so hot and wanting for me…
"For you," Watson could not help but moan, curling a fist into Holmes' perfectly-kept frock coat.
"My darling boy," Holmes said warmly, leaning in to plant a kiss on the open plane of his neck. "How could I have ever neglected you? You are purely inimitable."
Watson welcomed the sensation with much gratitude, keening with pleasure at the adulatory words of his companion. He tilted his head to the side to allow Holmes better access, lost to the sensations he had long been yearning for.
He could feel the warmth and wetness of Holmes' tongue gliding over the crook, the heat of his panting breath, the slow drag of his sharp, white teeth along the rugged surface. It would not be so bad, Watson thought with staggering arousal, for those beautiful teeth to grip my throat much like a rabid wolf himself.
If Holmes was a wolf, however, he was a merciful beast. He kept on with his gentle nibbling, leaving a rash of pinkened skin under his nicotine-stained canines.
He paused his lips over a singular patch of skin by Watson's collarbone, and smiled. "Your pulse is practically hammering out of your throat."
"I can scarcely catch a single breath," Watson managed to respond.
"Your breathing has indeed become quite erratic," Holmes drawled, punctuating every other syllable with a firm stroke of his shaft. "I take this to mean you are enjoying yourself?"
"Yes," Watson groaned, grasping desperately at Holmes, "yes, my darling."
"You certainly understand now that I would not do this for just any old fellow who caught my eye, don't you, Watson?"
Watson nodded, and tried to speak in the affirmative, but a particularly nasty trick of Holmes' wrist rendered him utterly speechless mid-vowel.
"Oh, there's my good man. You won't go jumping to silly conclusions anymore, now, will you? After all, I have always tried to impress upon you the importance of valuing facts over theories."
These last words he hissed into the shell of Watson's ear, and Watson nearly drew blood biting his lip to stop the sudden threat of an untimely climax.
"I can feel you twitching in my hand," Holmes grinned, keeping his relentless pace. "Perhaps I shall take you in my mouth, too, eh, Watson? We wouldn't want to make a mess of you in this fine cabin, now, would we?"
The thought of it made his hips buck prematurely. "Holmes—!"
"Ah, ah, ah," he chided, laying a hand on his chest. "You must stay still, old man, or else our cabin neighbors will wonder why you are flopping about like a fish."
Watson watched his lithe companion lower himself onto his knees, and, with a mischievous flicker in his eyes, take almost the whole length of his prick into his mouth in one smooth motion.
It was enough to take his breath away. Holmes wasted not a second as he worked his methods, as dedicated and thorough in pleasuring his dear Watson as he was to outsmarting the most eminent of criminals.
"Ngh—! Sherlock, oh…"
The feeling of Holmes long, thin fingers curled around the base of his cock was more than he could handle, and the firm, steady strokes in combination with the warm slickness of his tongue was driving him to climax much faster than he could articulate.
His thoughts were scattered to the wind like falling leaves, and all he could do now was pant and whine and grind his hips into the soft suction.
It was not only the scandalousness and the sensations of the act which rattled him and unraveled his composure, but also the great admiration which he held for Holmes, the enduring disbelief within himself that such a charming and intelligent man could return his affections with just as much passion and commitment as Watson had for him, if not sometimes more.
It was all too much, and yet still not enough. He would be certain to give Holmes the full extent of his repayment for this favor, and then some, when they returned to their rooms at Baker Street.
"I perceive that you are very close to a crisis," purred Holmes, deftly blinking away the involuntary tears. "Am I correct?"
Watson panted, unable to answer with anything beyond a pitifully unintelligible murmur. Holmes would not let up his firm, even stroking, not even as his companion began to tense and grip mindlessly at his shoulder. He merely smiled serenely, continuing the assault with a long, slow lick up the underside of his cock. He kissed the thick, palpitating vein gently, once, then twice, then continued to suck at the very tip of Watson's prick until the man's shudders transformed into great wracking sobs.
"Holmes," he tried to warn, but his masterful lover already had a grip on the situation.
Holmes took him deep in his mouth once again, relishing in the strangled gasp that erupted from Watson almost as powerfully as his completion. He wished he could have seen the way Watson had clapped his hand over his mouth, groaning into his own palm as he stuttered out the last few spurts of his glory.
Holmes swallowed it all dutifully as it spilled down his throat, and, ever thoughtful as he was toward his Watson, took the effort to lick the last remnants of their liaison from his softening prick. He was even considerate enough to do up his trousers, tucking his shirt back in and smoothing out the wrinkles in his vest as the fellow slowly floated back down into reality.
Watson could hardly register any part of it until Holmes was sitting back at his side, fishing into his coat pocket and pilfering his cigarette case.
"Thievery, Holmes," he rasped, eyeing him with a smirk.
"Payment," his companion replied pithily around the cigarette, lighting the end with a freshly struck match, "for services rendered."
He puffed a few times to make certain the burn was even, then took a long, slow inhale, watching as white paper turned to fluffy grey ash. He looked over at Watson, and found the doctor gazing dreamily back at him with the same distracted stare which always seemed to manifest itself during dinners, concerts, and even the most macabre of crime scenes.
Love, he observed inwardly. He loves me.
"I hope that I have earned your magnanimity."
"That and more."
"More, eh?" Holmes smiled and helped himself to another thick inhalation of tobacco. "That shall have to wait until after you interrogate me back home."
"I think we shall scarcely make it through the door when we return to Baker Street."
"You are a stallion, Watson," Holmes breathed, smoke wisping lazily from the curled line of his mouth. "An absolutely ravenous creature. I knew I would be unable to satisfy you with just one fleeting little tryst."
Watson could feel his arousal building once more despite himself.
"I will never be satisfied," he declared, "as long as I have your handsome figure to look upon."
Holmes blushed. "Oh, please," he drawled, waving the compliment away with a swirl of smoke. "You are a serial flatterer, and I will not have it."
Watson plucked the cigarette from Holmes' fingers and took a long drag.
"I have never said anything I didn't believe to be the God's honest truth." He exhaled. "Including my wish that you would be a bit more thoughtful toward me."
Holmes grinned. "Ah, well, I couldn't have expected you to forget your grievances entirely." He reclaimed the cigarette, and took a thoughtful few puffs. "Though I daresay this little performance was my best yet."
Watson hummed in agreement. "You are becoming far too good at this sort of thing."
Holmes smiled. "All thanks to my loyal Watson, who has taken great pains to educate me as thoroughly as possible."
Watson smiled back at him, then leaned in for a languid, lingering kiss. He tightened his arms around his wiry frame and pulled him just about entirely into his lap. It was a comfort, a luxury he never imagined he would ever be able to afford, to feel the weight of Holmes' body against his own, and as the train trudged on home toward London, he could not wait to get him out of his clothes, under his covers, and into the warm embrace of the man who worshipped him like no other would, nor ever could.