Pain Like Drugs (A Holmes/Watson Story)
Holmes was awoken one night to the sound of running water. The sink in the kitchen was on. He detected a strange combination of scents that were at once both revolting and alluring- the scents of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, a silvery metallic scent that the detective believed to be blood, and the scent of Watson that Holmes knew so well.
Holmes rolled out of bed and walked to the kitchen where Watson was, of course, washing his hands of blood in the sink. Holmes crept up and slipped his arms around the doctor's waist from behind. "To what do I owe this late-night pleasure?" he murmured into Watson's ear.
Watson closed his eyes and smiled; a tight, secretive smirk, as he leaned back into Holmes' chest. "Ah, Holmes," he said. "Do not concern yourself with such petty details; I am here because I enjoy your company, is that not enough?" He turned to face the detective, and drew their bodies closer. "Hmmmm," Holmes breathed. "It would appear that you are withholding something from me, dear Watson…" Watson stretched languidly. "And what does it matter? Every man has his secrets, even you and I…" and he affectionately leaned over and ghosted his lips over Holmes' neck as an indication of their shared secret.
"Dear Watson, secrets are my business and my lifestyle," Holmes replied. As he said it, Watson pushed the detective against the wall roughly, pulling a scalpel from his pocket and pressing it ever so lovingly to Holmes' neck, drawing a single drop of blood. Holmes' breath hitched and his breathing became erratic. "Don't question me," Watson hissed. "Don't ask me where I've been- only be here when I return." "Ahhhh," Holmes moaned softly in agreement, and Watson nodded, pleased. "That's better," the doctor said, satisfied, taking the scalpel and moving to return it to his pocket- but Holmes grabbed his wrist.
Holmes brought Watson's hand, still holding the scalpel, up to his neck once again, tracing a thin red line down his neck from his ear to his shoulder. "I am yours," he whispered. Watson bent down and licked at the blood on the detective's neck. "Yes," he replied, voice steady, "you are mine."
Watson meticulously undid all the buttons on Holmes' vest and slid it off. He did the same with the detective's shirt, dropping it unceremoniously in a pile on the floor before pushing Holmes up against the wall again, harder this time. Watson grabbed Holmes' arm, twisting it so that he could see the pale flesh on the underside of the detective's arm.
The doctor picked up his scalpel again and began to carve something into Holmes' arm. Holmes shuddered with pleasure as warm blood trickled down towards his hand, Watson stopping his work every few seconds to catch it with his tongue before it could fall and stain the carpet.
Finally, Watson finished and stepped back. A bloody "W" was etched into the detective's flesh, a symbol of Watson's possession. Satisfied, the doctor grabbed Holmes and pulled. They fell to the floor together, Watson rolling them over so he could be on top. He began to kiss Holmes hard, biting at the detective's lip hard enough to draw yet more of the lovely scarlet nectar from Holmes' veins. Watson trailed his lips down the detective's neck, licking and nipping at the flesh, leaving marks. He dug his nails into Holmes' chest, and Holmes arched his back in pleasure.
"Dear Watson," Holmes practically moaned. "You are a monster…to enjoy inflicting such pain…" He hissed as Watson bit down on his earlobe. "Then you are even more a monster, dear Holmes, to enjoy receiving it," Watson answered, in control. He stood, pulling Holmes up with him, and then the doctor practically dragged Holmes into the bedroom and shut the door.
Holmes awoke the next morning fairly unable to move due to the handcuffs binding his wrists. He sat up with some difficulty, and noticed the key sitting thoughtfully just out of reach on the table next to the bed. He stood up, noting Watson's absence, and struggled a bit before finally breaking free of the cuffs and stretching.
The detective examined his body, appreciating his numerous new cuts and bruises and admiring the traces of dried blood on his chest and arms. He turned his arm over and traced his fingertips lightly over the clearly defined "W," shivering at the lovely stinging sensation his touch caused. Holmes then cleaned up and got dressed, walking outside as he unfolded the newspaper and began to read.