Pairing: Holmes / Watson
Word count: ~2100
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: A study in seduction.
A/N: wtw kissing fic. Eternal gratitude goes to nodbear. Bestest beta reader ever.
They could taste each others breath, so near that Watson could see the spit on Holmes’ lower lip. Gazes locked, Watson saw his lips twitching, the long lashes hiding the dark eyes almost shyly. Holmes’ face carved in light and shadows turned away from his own, in an instant he was on his feet again. ‘Like a cat,’ thought Watson and he heard the hoarse voice whispering:
“Come on, old chap,” Holmes outstretched arm, helping Watson back on his feet, still breathing heavily from their long hunt through the foggy London night.
“We nearly had them.” Watson cursed under his breath.
“Not yet, Watson. But it is only a matter of time. This way!” His slim figure vanished into the night. Watson sighed, rubbed his eyes, clutched his cane and followed the black – clad man blue eyes fixed on the swaying fabric of his trousers, hardly to be seen in the dim light of the gas lights.
That night, under the rooftop in his bed, above Holmes’ own, while stroking himself into paradise he felt the lush lips on his. Biting and sucking at his digit finger, hard, he pretended it to be ‘his’ lips, his tongue, his spit, his sweat running down his face… He moaned and dared not open his eyes when he felt his seed moistening his belly, hot and sticky.
‘It is only a matter of time…’ he thought. Just a matter of time.
It turned out to be a bleak, rainy evening. Watson returning from his practice exhausted, tired and not in the mood to argue about anything that might come up. He knew Holmes was at home. He grinned involuntarily.
Home. Baker Street.
Slowly he went up the seventeen steps, opened the door to their living room and was greeted by a warm draft of air. A fire was crackling in the grate, a fine scent of cinnamon and oranges filled his nostrils. He relaxed, slipped out of his coat, hat, set his cane aside and heard the familiar voice saying:
“Watson. You are late. Like some tea?”
“Holmes, I don’t know how you do it, but sometimes your deductive abilities are more than welcome. Tea would be fine.”
Holmes, standing in front of the book shelf opposite the fire, looked at him, smiling, the dark eyes sparkling with delight.
“Dear doctor. To know that you day had been full of unexpected events, amongst them one of your assistants spilling the iodine glass, a man with a profoundly bleeding wound seeking immediate help and a dog’s owner, who was so thoughtless to let his beast made its natural performance just on the spot where you nearly stepped into it, it needs not very much deductive skill to see from the frown on your forehead and the deep rings under your eyes, that you are tired, exhausted even and you are craving for your deserved quiet and a good nights rest. But please – can you fetch me the annual club report? Your arm reaches a bit higher than mine…”
Watson, who’s eyes had grown bigger and bigger the further Holmes’ speech went, said nothing. Instead he stepped over to him, fetched the book from the shelf and, rewarded with a nod and a whiff of Holmes’ scent, he was dismissed to sit down and enjoy his tea and later his dinner.
The chair creaked, but the sound was muffled by the doctor’s sigh when he settled himself comfortably.
“You don’t want a cup too, Holmes?”
“No, I’m in the middle of an experiment… just wanted to check something…” The rest was an inaudible grumbling which made Watson smile and in silence the evening went on.
Setting his cup down he watched Holmes’ slim figure, made of light and shadow in front of the fireplace.
“How did you know?” He asked finally.
Holmes just smiled and Watson cut him short saying: “No, don’t tell me. Let me try myself. You noticed some stains I am not aware of or no longer aware of, because it happened in the early morning that… the iodine…” He sniffed at his wrist where the liquid had hit him smelled strongly of the chemical and he wrinkled his nose, “…you have smelled or seen, same for the blood that must have left some marks unable for me or my assistant to see…” Holmes glance went from the doctor’s face a tad to the left to his collar where some dark marks could still be seen.
“In the dim light she must have overlooked it when I left the practice Holmes. Why must why do things happen all at once? How did you know about the dog’s performance?”
Holmes smile widened.
“A wild suggestion, dear Watson. You mentioned something similar a week ago.”
“I see. So you too are reliant on suggestions?”
“Not very often, but yes. Now and then.”
With a sigh Watson stood up and filled two glasses with Scotch, went over to Holmes, handing the glass over he proposed a toast:
“To Stamford,” Holmes agreed, “…and absent friends.” They both took a sip, then Holmes, setting the glass aside, begged:
“Watson, would you be so kind? Your arm is still…” With a chuckle Watson took the proffered book and sat it back on the shelf. He missed Holmes closing his eyes for a second, swaying towards him, inhaling deeply.
“Why do you put them up that high, Holmes?”
Looking back at the man standing so close to him he met the dark eyes and noticed something flickering in their depths. A certain longing… He felt Holmes’ hand gripping his shoulder and face to face he could only stare at the moist lips, the smell of scotch and tobacco on Holmes’ breath.
“The devil knows, Watson.” muttered Holmes and slipped past him with an elegant motion.
“And the devil is in you, Holmes,” Watson muttered and then, yawning, made an early retreat leaving Holmes to his studies.
Alone under the clammy bed sheets he wished he would have the courage to kiss those lips, inches away from his own. Despite his tiredness, he increased the speed of his hand but fell asleep before he could finish.
“Watson! Hurry! We are already too late.” Watson cursed under his breath. Leaning heavily on his cane he tried to catch up with Holmes, who, in a long black coat, Holmes covered the ground twice as fast
“And it is your fault, Holmes. I’ve told you to leave the house earlier. It is entirely your fault!” Holmes stopped in mid stride, turned around and regarded his fellow lodger with a bemused glance.
“You are right, old chap. Come! Take my arm. We will be too late. A pity. I would have liked to indulge in Don Giovanni together with you, my dear.” He smiled, and his smile made his solemn features look almost happy. Watson let out a long breath, linked arms with Holmes’ and exaggerated his exhaustion just so much that the worried look re-appeared on Holmes’ face.
“It is your leg, is it? The cold and this slight but dampening rain… I’m sorry, old chap. I’m so sorry. Here, come, let me help you…”
Together they climbed up the steps to the opera house entrance, where they escaped the clamminess and the chilly wind outside, relaxed in the warmer atmosphere, filled with an unusual quietness. They were too late, as Holmes had predicted, and as Watson had feared.
“Let’s find us a seat for a wounded soldier, shall we?” Holmes’ almost apologetic smile made Watson’s heart beat faster.
“Holmes, for God’s sake. Don’t fuss around because I’m limping a bit. Let’s rest for a moment, then call for a cab and go back to Baker Street. I’m not in the mood for anything… pleasurable at the moment…” Closing his eyes and gripping his cane harder he sank back into the cushioned bench Holmes has placed him onto. A deep sigh escaped his lips, and Holmes seemed to be undecided what to do next. To be the cause of Watson’s pain pained him more than anything else.
Listening to the tiny noises around him and the splendid music dimmed by the walls but still audible, he heard Holmes’ arguing with the clerk, whispering in a threatening tone to let them in, although the performance had already begun. He smiled to himself. He wouldn’t convince the man. He knew him. Gritting his teeth as the pain in his leg turned into a slight cramp he straightened his back, sat up and looked around. Where was Holmes?
Startled when the black figure appeared at his right when he had expected it to be the left he saw the grim expression on Holmes’ face.
“He won’t let us in, the fool. The snow, he says, will make it unlikely that a cab will come through in due time… So, come, old chap. He will serve us a hot tea instead and hope we will visit the place again. Stubborn son of a sly….” The rest he overheard, but wondered what curses the detective knew…
He followed Holmes’ to a small door, where the clerk has set up a plate with biscuits and a pot with tea, two cups and sugar lumps in a tiny bowl with damaged edges. It seems to be his private dish. But they didn’t complain.
The room was small and cosy. It was warm, Watson could see the big brown heating radiators; and taking off his hat and coat he sat on the proffered chair.
Holmes inspected the room, as was his habit. While Watson poured the tea he glanced at him and smiled.
“Holmes, sit down. You make me nervous.”
“Watson, this room is extraordinary. I’ve never seen such a decorated ceiling… must be…”
“I don’t care what it must be, Holmes. Now – sit and drink your tea.”
Slightly indignant Holmes sat and took the cup like an old lady with his tiny finger spread out. He took a tiny sip and sat the cup back on its plate.
“Hm. That’s a splendid and very hot tea…”
“It is.” Mumbled Watson and drank in the sight of the man opposite him. His lips clenched for a moment had become a most appealing moist red. ‘Like a rose’s petal,’ he thought. He avoided the curious black eyes and blew on his tea instead, causing a tiny steam cloud to raise up.
With half closed eyes he still could see the detective’s hands toying with the cup. Long, delicate fingers tipping and touching the porcelain like a piano player in time with the distant music.
Lifting the cup again and not noticing that the tea was still burning hot, he took another sip and with a ‘hmpf’ and a hand over his mouth he set it back on the table.
“Burnt your tongue, Holmes?” Watson asked as calm as he could muster.
“Watson… You don’t have some ice in your pocket?” Holmes mumbled. Watson smiled at him.
“Come over here, Holmes.” Watson sat back, stretching his long legs and with a loving glance and raised chin he noticed how fast the detective was on his feet, two long strides brought him into Watson’s reach, and as something long known, long desired and long denied showed on his face, Watson grabbed him by the waist, drew him into his lap and said:
“Come, my dear. I kiss it better…” And that he did. Holmes, reluctantly at first, wriggled on his lap, causing a certain rise in the temperature both in the room and Watson’s groin; but then suddenly limp and weak gave himself over to the pleasure of being kissed by his friend.
He moaned and buried his hands in the doctor’s hair, when his lower lipped was licked and nibbled at, the sensation was all new and sweet and breath taking. The taste of the tea still lingered on this pliant, wet lips.
Watson moaned and pressing harder, coaxed another whining sound out of the detective’s throat. Eyes glued together, trembling and breathing hard, he asked finally:
“Much better. Thanks.”
“Want some more?”
“Much more…” Watson grinned against Holmes’ soft lips. A few more kisses were stolen (or given) from the burning lips.
“Let’s go.” He announced and this time it was Holmes who followed his lead.
The tea forgotten they left not minding their ruffled appearance. The clerk’s eyes went wide when, arm in arm, the two gentlemen left the house as fast as they could without a backward glance.
A sly smile crept onto his face and with downcast eyes he brought the too hot tea back into his own small room. A fast grip into his waistcoat pocket assured him, that the coin was still there.