Author & Artist: longleggedgit and reallycorking
Word Count: 3127
Summary: When all else fails, Holmes takes matters into his own hands.
Warnings: Slightly violent (consensual) sex; sex in a semi-public space. Art is not worksafe.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to shes_gone and reallycorking for betaing and being awesome and fun and supportive throughout all of this! And just for loving Sherlock Holmes a lot with me. :) Also, apparently British people call suspenders "braces." What will they think up next!
Artist's Note: Ahhh, this was so ridiculously fun! :x I love this pairing madly and I LOVED doing this collaboration. Upon leaving the theater after seeing the movie, we said "We are so doing a collab." AND SO WE DID. :D
Holmes feels bad for what he's about to do to Watson even before he begins, which is unusual as guilt comes rarely to him even after the fact. But with matters involving Watson, he learned years ago to anticipate a certain unpredictable streak rising from somewhere deep in his gut, so at least it doesn't take him by surprise.
"Let's get going, then," Watson says, setting his hat on his head, managing not to look too annoyed even though Holmes has woken him in the middle of the night claiming to have had a breakthrough in the Burford case. He hasn't, but that's only because he solved the Burford case a week ago, has only been pretending otherwise for an excuse to spend more time poring over evidence cramped next to Watson in his office. It used to be he didn't need to invent excuses to keep Watson by his side, but these days, what with Watson's new respectable lady friend, it's all Holmes can do just to convince him to earn an honest week's living.
"Let's," Holmes agrees, holding the door open for Watson to exit before him, locking it behind them when they're out in the dark and relative quiet of the street. A block away he hears a pair of men bickering, the friendly, slurred sort that arises from an evening of drinking and heated conversation with a good friend, nothing worrisome. He swallows down his jealousy and focuses instead on the other sounds: a dog circling in some rubbish for a place to sleep; a baby crying and being ignored in the flat across the way; to their right, a man and woman returning home from a late night out, likely at the opera from the clatter of her fancy shoes, chattering excitedly about the show.
"This way," Holmes says, turning left. Watson follows without a word.
He takes them in the direction of the docks, not positive when he's planning to stop or what his story is going to be.
"You're going to marry her, then, I suppose," Holmes says after a few blocks of silence, taking Watson by surprise; he can tell by the way his steps falter. Watson recovers quickly and exhales through his nose, which is what he always does when he's contemplating how best to talk Holmes down from one of his moods.
"I suppose," he agrees after a moment. Then, to appease him, "It's early yet."
Holmes was going to keep on in the direction of the bay, quite liking the idea of catching a glimpse of the full moon on the water, but he veers a sudden right into the nearest, dingiest alley, Watson keeping step right behind him.
"It's nothing like the last girl, then. What was her name?" Holmes stops to lean back against a wall as he digs out his pipe and a match, lighting up with exaggerated care. He offers Watson a puff, but Watson only frowns.
"Who. Jessica? That was ages ago."
"Right." Holmes sucks on his pipe greedily, longing for the days when it still brought a buzz to his head. "So nothing like her."
"No." Watson's voice has turned to ice. "Nothing like her."
"Good. I never liked her."
Watson seems to change his mind and snatches the pipe from Holmes's hand mid-puff, taking a long draw. "You don't like anybody," he says through a mouthful of smoke, less playful than Holmes was expecting. The line of conversation is already making Watson cross, but Holmes has no intention of letting up.
"I like you," Holmes says, cocking his head as if to reconsider. "Most of the time. When you're not gambling away our rent or bringing undesirables home or behaving like a great girl." He plucks his pipe back out of Watson's hands while he's occupied with being outraged.
"You—" Watson stammers, knuckles whitening from the death grip on his cane. "Are you really—" He stops himself there, closing his eyes in what Holmes thinks is a rather unnecessarily dramatic gesture. "Is this the game we're playing, then? Shall I go next?"
"By all means."
Watson seems almost taken aback by Holmes's immediate concession, as Holmes new he would be, but he grasps for something anyway. "What about Irene?"
Holmes snorts. "Talk about ages ago."
"Yes, but she's certainly more undesirable than any of the women I've brought home. At least Jessica didn't steal my finest sterling."
"Our sterling." Holmes has finished off his pipe and wants to pack it again, but he left his tobacco at home, and anyway he knows he's just trying to stave off the inevitable. He's about to get cruel, which he hates, especially when it's Watson. Which is funny considering Watson is the one who seems to inspire it in him the most.
"It was a gift from my mother," Watson mutters, but even he seems to realize this is a losing battle.
"For both of us," Holmes says. "At any rate. Irene might be a thief, but at least we have no delusions about one another."
Watson has begun kicking at a grimy brick in the wall, but he stops now and levels Holmes with a challenging look. Holmes rather enjoys the chills it sends up his spine.
"What," Watson says, weighing out his words, "is that supposed to mean, Holmes?"
He still has no idea where they're going, but Holmes abruptly pushes away from the wall and starts walking again, deeper into the alley instead of away from it. "Nothing," he says with a shrug. "Just that I accept she's completely mad, and she accepts that I bugger men."
For a moment, Watson is so still Holmes can hardly even detect him; that stillness is one of the few things Holmes never had to drill into him, something Watson learned in the service and has been able to flawlessly slip into ever since. It can be disconcerting at times. Then his footsteps are fast and loud on the cobblestone, and Holmes has barely begun to turn around before Watson is fisting his hands in his collar and shoving him hard against the wall.
"Goddammit, Holmes," he snarls. They're close enough that Holmes can examine the angry vein jumping in his temple. "Where do you get the gall—"
"But it's the truth, isn't it," Holmes interrupts, hating himself a little. "Does Mary know?"
Watson's cheeks flush a brilliant shade of red at the very suggestion. "Of course she doesn't—"
"I just think it's a lady's right to know if her gentleman buggers other men or not." Holmes can't help it; he slides his hand into Watson's coat pocket and lets it rest there, a reminder. "Are you planning on telling her before you propose?"
"Holmes," Watson says, warning.
"Come to think of it, there's lists of things she should probably know about you beforehand." Holmes has never been very good at heeding warnings. "That annoying way in which you always push apart your food when it's touching, for example. Or how bloody late you sleep in most days, or your snoring. Or even the noise you make when—"
"—When you have your mouth around someone's cock," Holmes continues. "Like you're so desperate for it you're nearly in tears."
Holmes closes his mouth, having deduced he's gone quite far enough, and counts in his head: Five, four, three—
Watson hits him on two. Then, unexpectedly, he hits him again.
"You son of a bitch." Watson steps back after he's done it, chest heaving and eyes wild, and Holmes takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him, wondering if this is what Watson looked like when he saw action in Afghanistan, consumed with the heat of battle. Holmes touches his cheek where Watson dealt the first blow—it's not serious, but it'll bruise within the hour—and licks at his freshly split lip.
"I'm only saying, my dear. These are the things I appreciate about you." Holmes can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, and he wonders if Watson is observant enough to take note of this, if he's caught on at all to how Holmes is, in fact, the desperate one here.
If Watson has caught on, it doesn't ease his rage any. Striding forward with renewed purpose, he takes hold of Holmes's coat and flips him around so he's facing the wall this time. Holmes lets him, reveling in the weight of Watson's body pressed close behind his and the feel of his cock, already hard, against Holmes's lower back.
"You don't appreciate a damned thing beyond yourself," he snarls, shrugging out of his coat.
Holmes wants to argue this point, but fears if he does so he'll end up saying all manner of things he will regret later on, and Watson simply cannot know the extent to which he is wrong. Instead, he arches his back, rubbing against Watson's dick in just the way he knows drives him mad. Watson shudders, going still for a moment before dropping a hand to Holmes's waist and beginning to unsnap his braces with rough impatience. With his other hand, he tucks his cane under his right arm, and for some reason this strikes Holmes as immeasurably arousing.
"Don't drop it," Holmes says. Watson just shoulders him against the wall harder, breathing hot on the back of his neck as he abandons Holmes's now unfastened braces for his own. Holmes presses one hand to the brick—he's started to get scrapes on his chin and forehead from when Watson jostles him particularly violently—and uses the other to reach into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a small vial of oil. He lets Watson finish with opening his fly before dangling the vial over his shoulder.
"You bastard," Watson says, taking the vial from his hand with instinctive care. "You planned for this."
It's true, so Holmes will allow him to believe it's the whole truth, rather than reveal that he always carries a vial of the stuff in hopes of something like this taking place.
"Bastard," Watson hisses again in Holmes's silence, but he starts kissing the back of Holmes's neck as he slips the vial into his own pocket, and his hips buck forward as he finally tugs Holmes's trousers down enough that the curve of his arse is exposed. The grind of Watson's dick against his skin makes Holmes moan, and as if in response, Watson twists a hand into the collar of his shirt, tugging almost as if on a dog's leash. Holmes hopes Watson doesn't see the way it makes him smile.
"Come on," Holmes begs. He's ready to beg now, as hungry for it as he was the first time they fucked, Watson having had a bit too much to drink and Holmes having had a bit too much of something stronger. They'd talked some, then fought, then fallen upon each other almost simultaneously, and after a little coaxing Holmes had finally convinced Watson to bend him over his desk, whispering reassurances and instructing him on how to use the oil until they were both coming too hard and too soon.
"Watson," Holmes begs again, even though he can hear the sound of the bottle being uncorked, the telltale wetness of a cock being slicked.
"Shut up, Holmes," Watson says, and when he's through with the oil his hand is suddenly at Holmes's neck again and he's forcing him to bend lower, almost to a perfect ninety-degree angle.
Holmes just has time to realize the bottle has been put away now—Watson has no plans to slick anything other than his cock this evening—when Watson's cane smacks across his backside, hard. It's so genuinely, stunningly unexpected that Holmes gasps, knees buckling, scrabbling at the brick to keep himself upright.
"You were begging for that," Watson murmurs in his ear, just before his cane clatters to the ground and he's lining his cock up against Holmes's arse.
"Yes, yes," Holmes says, although whether agreeing or begging further, he's not sure.
The burn when Watson starts to push into him, maddeningly slow and measured, makes Holmes gasp again, but not in pain as much as appreciation. He doesn't mind the pain, not when it's like this; not when it's Watson hitting him or stitching him up, or fucking him against the wall of an alley with too little lubricant for comfort but just enough that he'll be right again in a day or two.
"Goddammit," Watson grates out once he's all the way in, echoing Holmes's sentiments exactly. Normally, he'd stay like this for a while, letting them both get used to the feeling, letting Holmes grow impatient almost to the point of it being torturous. Tonight, his hand tightens around Holmes's neck, nails digging into the skin, and he starts to thrust right away, both of them groaning with the sensation.
Holmes has to fold his arms and cushion his head in order to prevent further abrasions from the wall, but once he does he can focus more fully on the feeling of Watson inside of him, still an ache but one he relishes, lifting his hips as much as he can to meet Watson's thrusts. His own desperately hard cock goes unattended, very uncharacteristic for Watson, who is ever the considerate partner, but not, he supposes, uncharacteristic of the evening. Even through his feverish arousal, Holmes hears a man passing by in the street to their right, either not noticing the sounds coming from the alley or, more likely, choosing to ignore them and quicken his pace.
Then Watson says "Pay attention," in a tone of voice Holmes has never heard him use before, and Holmes has to choke back a strangled moan, his dick twitching inexplicably at the knowledge that Watson noticed, he can actually tell when Holmes's attention is focused entirely on him or when it has drifted elsewhere.
"I'm sorry," Holmes says, breathless, surprising himself a little. He reaches one hand back to find something—Watson's thigh, perhaps—and meets Watson's hand instead, grasping at it and overcome with relief when Watson grasps back. "I'm sorry, I—"
"I know," Watson pants, and then neither of them says anything more at all, because Watson's thrusts become erratic and his fingers around Holmes's tighten and finally he comes almost as hard as the first time they fucked, although, thankfully, nowhere near as fast.
For a few seconds, Holmes thinks Watson's going to pull out and straighten his lapel and leave Holmes there with a throbbing hard-on and his trousers, having gravitated downward during the course of events, around his knees. But instead, Watson pulls out, straightens his lapel, and presses flush against Holmes's back again, wrapping one hand around his dick and stroking him off with surprising care, as if to make up for the previous roughness. He kisses Holmes's ear and neck and whispers nonsense to him until he comes, nearly sobbing with the force of it.
"It's not men," Watson says, breaking the silence that follows as they both fight to catch their breath and he shakes some of the come off his hand.
"Pardon me?" Holmes stills; this was not the follow-up dialogue he was expecting.
"It's not men," Watson repeats. "It's you." He sounds actively frustrated with the confession, and Holmes wonders if it's because he knows it's not true. From the day Watson first walked into his laboratory, Holmes deduced two things about him that he did not, at that time, divulge: first, he preferred the company of men, in all things, although he would never admit it, least of all to himself. Second, he was not boring. The latter was far more intriguing to Holmes at the time, although he's come to appreciate the former more and more over the course of their friendship.
The fact that Holmes is the first man Watson ever gave in to is the result of a great deal of hard work and perseverance. The fact that Watson has finally started to back away is not a surprise.
"There's no break in the Burford case, is there?" Watson asks, stirring Holmes out of his reverie and away from the wall. He turns around and admires as Watson collects himself, refastening his braces and smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket.
"It was the maid," Holmes says, pulling up his trousers. "Would've told you last week, but we were getting on so well."
Watson doesn't appear at all surprised. In lieu of a reply, he steps forward and reaches around Holmes's waist, helping him attach the hard-to-reach braces in the back. Holmes clears his throat and stares at his feet, wondering how this small act alone is enough to set his heart racing.
"Oh, look at you," Watson says, regretful, and Holmes nearly jumps when one of Watson's thumbs brushes across his forehead, then his cheek, places where he's been scratched and bruised.
"It's nothing." Holmes doesn't want Watson to look at him that way, as if Watson's the one who just did something terrible.
"I'll fix you up when we get back," Watson promises. He drops his thumb to Holmes's lip, tracing the split, considering it as carefully as if it were going to require surgery.
"I don't need—" Holmes begins, but Watson cuts him off.
"You are the last person to ever know what you need, Holmes," he says, just before he cups Holmes's face in both hands and pulls him in for a kiss.
Holmes makes a noise of feeble protest but melts into it, enjoying the feel of Watson's tongue gliding across his bloody lip, cautious and tender, an apology he doesn't owe. He lets Watson kiss away his guilt on Holmes's cheeks and forehead and eyelids until he can't stand it anymore, grasping at Watson's sleeves and stealing his mouth back for a deeper, slower kiss, hoping that maybe, if he just holds Watson there a little longer, he'll never leave.
Then Watson groans and slips his thigh in between Holmes's legs, and Holmes can't think anymore at all.
"Shall we get the oil out again?" he suggests, doing his very best to remain serious.
Watson gives him his exasperated look, which makes Holmes wish he hadn't opened his mouth. Especially when he suddenly withdraws, taking two steps back and bending down to pick up his cane, very possibly fighting the barest hint of a smile.
"Come on," he says, leading the way out of the alley, and Holmes, lagging only for a moment to collect himself, has to jog to catch up. "On the way home, you can tell me about all my other little annoying habits that you so appreciate."
Holmes ducks his head in order to hide his smile, wondering how Watson doesn't realize that, were he to indulge him, they'd be up all night.