Pairing: Holmes / Watson
Word count: ~1850
Warnings: Blood, sex and tears.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Holmes can't accept defeat, but Watson can.
A/N: For delorita and my lovely beta nodbear !!! Special thanks goes to Jan Josef Liefers which appearance in this picture inspired this fic. Special warning: Don't look at it if you have no stomach for some blood on a half nude handsome guy... He resembles Holmes a bit...
“Yes, I can!”
“No, you can’t!” Holmes gave an undignified glance over to Watson, who sat calm and stern in his chair. He wasn’t quit sure how their quarrel had begun. But Holmes’ odd behaviour of late, his total lack of social graces sometimes really had upset him. They were bantering about fighting abilities, more so fencing in particular. Not backing away an inch Watson had told him, that it was absolutely unnecessary trying to convince him that he, Holmes, could defeat him in a duel. As far as Watson knew Holmes had no proper education regarding the high art of the blade. Stubborn as he was they hardly spoke a word to each other this evening. Watson tried to read the news while Holmes made him nervous with his running up and down behind his back like a tiger in its cage.
“I could do it.”
“No, you can not!”
“A duel then, Watson.”
Watson sighed, lowering the newspaper.
“A duel, Holmes. If there is no other way to convince you…”
“Tomorrow. In the morning. Don’t forget your weapon.” And with that he retreated to his bedroom. With a loud bang the door fell shut. Watson sighed again and continued his reading.
“Never fear. I won’t forget it.”
The next morning the ringing of steel sent a high note into the sky. The two bodies moved quickly and with much elegance in the foggy morning. In the dim light the skyline of London slowly appeared at the horizon. The air was dense, close to rain, hardly a sound was to be heard, just a crow’s wings flying over the two sweaty heads, and the wind whispering in the willow’s leaves.
“First blood.” He had said, a stern look in his dark eyes, his chin high, the steel of the blade flashing when he got into position.
“First blood.” Blue eyes, cold as the steel in the doctor’s hand, they had begun. What first seemed to be a kind of a dance soon became a real fight. Watson couldn’t believe how determinedly Holmes would try to defend himself. He had no chance. His fighting style and ability couldn’t compare with that of a once trained and skilled soldier in the service of the British Empire, even out of practice. He knew it, but he tried with all the vehemence he could muster. Watson frowned, easily binding the blade, getting under Holmes’ guard, forcing him to step back, and finally let his weapon drop. Breathing heavily, he felt the dark eyes piercing his own. This was not the Holmes he knew. This was a fierce animal, eager to kill him.
He lifted his chin, Holmes fetched up his blade again, and again they fought. This time he had to be very quick to escape the attacks. His leg hurt like hell. He gritted his teeth. He could feel the sweat soaking his shirt, the damp ground was slippery, the air cold in his lungs. It started to drizzle. Holmes, sweating like he was, attacked again. He too had difficulties standing and holding his ground. But hold it he did.
“Not bad. For a detective.”
“Not bad. For a doctor.” Their smiles mirrored on their faces the blades rang again. A few minutes later it happened. Holmes slipped, losing his balance, Watson’s blade slit his skin open, just above the left elbow. A sharp hiss and the dark head vanished in the dense fog covering the floor.
“Holmes!” In an instant Watson was at his side.
“It is nothing… Just a scratch…” Examining the wound, he tried to get back on his feet.
“A scratch that is bleeding very acutely I may say. Come. Let’s go back. You have proven your skills properly. I don’t think it is necessary…”
“One more round, my dear doctor. Just another five minutes.” Watson helped his friend back on his feet, holding his gaze as he did so.
“If you wish it.” A short nod, Holmes turned to fetch his blade, and again the high note filled the air. Another five minutes passed by, and as much as Holmes tried to defend against Watson – it was in vain. ‘He’s a sight to behold’, thought Watson. Dressed in his usual black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat, Holmes fought with feline grace. His black hair plastered to his head and temples, he looked like in one of his fights in the Punchbowl. A second time the blade hit the floor. This time Holmes accepted his defeat. Holding his hand, bleeding from a small cut on its back, he bowed to get the blade back. Watson stood upright, leaning on his cane, that now hid the blade inside, proud, but also a little concerned about his friend’s health. Without any word they fetched their coats and went back to Baker Street. The rain started to fall more heavily.
Drenched to the skin they arrived, entering the house carefully not to disturb Mrs Hudson. Holmes, Watson in tow, slowly climbed up the stairs, opened the door without making a sound. When the door clicked shut behind them, Holmes tossed aside his hat, coat and the blade and vanished into the lavatory. Watson lifted an eyebrow. Depositing his cane in his usual place he slowly shoved off his gloves, finger by finger, arranged his hat, coat, shoes, and followed Holmes to the bath.
There he found him, shivering from the cold, trying with clammy fingers to open the buttons of his shirt. Hot steam rising from the tub made the scene a bit unreal, the sound of the water still running filled the tiny room.
“Here, let me.” Joining his friend on the edge of the tub he successfully peeled him out of his clothes. Without any warning Holmes grabbed his face between his hands and kissed him. He broke the kiss as suddenly as he began it. Watson sat if frozen. The dark eyes holding his gaze made him weak.
“Why?” He asked. No answer, only these dark eyes. Carefully he examined the wounds, wiping them clean with a wet towel. Holmes, sitting still and obviously in deep thoughts, said nothing. He now avoided his eyes, watching the tender strokes applied to his skin. The towel’s white turned pink. Blood. His blood.
“You always defeat me, Watson, and I hate to admit defeat.” Slowly Holmes stood up, his trousers falling to the floor, a heap around his ankles. He stepped out of it and into the water. Watson sat motionless. He stood up, slowly, like an old man, while undressing himself he left the room, leaving his wet clothes in his wake.
Deep in the night he awoke suddenly. A heavy weight pressed him down onto the mattress.
“Holmes…” He moaned. The only thing he could see was a dark shadow, hovering over him like a vulture. He noticed that Holmes was naked. His fingernails left red marks on his skin as the detective began to unbutton his nightshirt, then, very quick and remorseless, he pulled down his pair of pajamas, too. Watson said nothing. He thought it wise not to hinder Holmes in his doing. He lay absolutely still, wondering what would happen next
He could feel Holmes breath on his skin. Hot and mixed with the scent of tobacco and port they had had after dinner. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breath. His response to Holmes’ being so near made him dizzy. His prick started to get rigid. Holmes moved his palms over his wrists, his arms, his breast, his ribs, down to his navel… deeper… His hipbones, thighs. His legs were lifted up, his arse exposed.
“Holmes. What are you doing?” The detective said nothing. Something wet was applied to this most sensitive part of his body.
“Holmes?” Then there was a finger, then two. They slipped into him, hesitantly at first, then deeper. They touched the sweet spot inside. Watson couldn’t suppress another moan. Another minute went by. Watson could hear his own heartbeat. Nearby a church bell rang midnight. He wondered, if Holmes could hear his heartbeat, too…
Then something thicker entered him. Holmes. Another moan, Watson touched the detective’s face in the dark. It was hot, a little sweaty. Holmes was angry. He smiled. Perfect. His plan had worked.
“Holmes…” His husky voice encouraged the smaller man on top of him. He started to thrust. Deep thrusts right from the start. Watson gritted his teeth, his fingers in Holmes’ hair. It was a hard ride, but Watson took all he could get of his friend’s rigid flesh. Holmes sank down onto Watson’s chest, his breath heavy in his throat, his arms holding him with all his strength. Watson closed his legs around his waist, his arms around the tense form of his body. They were both covered with sweat, and still Holmes pounded into him like a merciless machine. The more force he used, the more Watson’s body relaxed, arching into this… punishment. He smiled, kissed Holmes’ forehead, mumbling senseless words. He could feel his friend reluctantly loosing control. The thrusts became gentler, the moans mixed with the kisses Holmes’ now bestowed upon his doctor’s lips and throat. They found a perfect rhythm, Watson noticed. ‘In unison…’ He thought. Smiling he kissed Holmes’ mouth. Licked his chin, shivering as Holmes’ touched his aching flesh.
“Holmes! No…” A strong hand squeezed his balls, a thumb running over the tip of his prick… “No… Holmes!” He spent his seed, a scorching heat filling his veins, fire rising up behind his eyelids. He could feel Holmes’ grin against his skin, when suddenly a sharp bite at his neck and a sound like a small kitten distracted him. The detective shivered in his arms, releasing his seed in the depths of Watson’s body. With a sigh Holmes’ body lost all tension, melting into Watson’s tight grip he relaxed completely.
Watson said nothing. His fingers buried in the dark hair he enjoyed the other man’s presence. After a while Holmes spoke:
“You always defeat me, Watson.”
“Yes. But unlike you I can accept defeat.”
“That’s why I love you. You are my saviour and I am your downfall…”
“Sshh, Holmes. That’s not true, and you know it. It’s your pride…”
“My pride is my downfall?”
“In a way. I love you for it. It makes you vulnerable. You act without regret. No mercy, whether for your enemies nor for yourself.”
“You know my heart, Watson. That’s your gift. To protect me from myself…” A deep sigh and then something wet at his throat.
“Holmes. Are you crying?”
“No, Watson. I’ll never cry…” Said a weeping Holmes.
“But you do. Don’t cry. You don’t want to break my heart, do you?”
“You see. It’s all right. Everything is fine. I’m here. I’ll hold you … Holmes…” In an instant the detective was deeply asleep. Watson dreamily held him close, drew the sheets over them and joined Holmes in his dreams, too.