Summary: Holmes watches Watson.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of ELEMENTARY
Pairing: Holes/Watson
Rating: T+
WATCHING:
Holmes, in bare feet had come up the stairs to Watson's room intent on rattling off some insane idea he had but came up short upon seeing her sitting on the edge of her bed, back to the door, wearing not a single scrap of clothing. The only thing obstructing his eye line to the curve of her behind was the subtle rise of the sheet. Holmes could see the accent of her spine, the clean plains of her back; slightly muscled from being in good physical shape. She had her head angled, hair over her left shoulder as she toweled it dry. Holmes noted that she had missed a few droplets of water. He fought the urge to stay rooted to the spot, his eyes intent on the water, not watching his lovely companion as the muscles of her shoulders moved. Holmes clenched and unclenched his hands. Instantly his brilliant, often wicked, mind took him back to Watson in the shower. She was leaning against the stark while tiles, water cascading over her plastering her long black hair to her back making it longer than it was. He could see her resting her forehead against the wall breathing in and out slowly taking in the steam floating on the air. There was a primal urge in his brain that wanted him to moan in pleasure just at the imagined sight of her.
Watson toweled the water out of her hair as she tried to fight the urge to turn and see if she was being watched. She swore she could feel Sherlock's eyes boring holes into her back. For two weeks she had to deal with him watching her, studying her, and she had gotten used to it. Now, she felt that penetrating gaze rove over her back. Joan was certain that if she turned, faced the door, she wouldn't see him standing there watching her. Though, there was the small fear that if she turned she would see him staring at her. What would she do? Would she be outraged? Would she sit frozen to the spot? Joan tried to use the reflection in the window to see if Sherlock was really there or if it was her imagination running away with her. She twisted just a fraction of an inch, but still she couldn't see anything. Joan knew he was there though. It was the feeling racing along her spine that confirmed it. She knew his stare.
Sherlock had to hold his breath as he continued to watch his companion drying her hair. She moved just an inch and it was enough that he could see the delicate curve of her right breast. Instantly his heart beat faster and faster. His brain filled him with different images of him and Watson locked in a passionate embrace. One scene presented him, had them down stairs in the over stuffed chair with Watson above him taking charge. Another found Holmes with Watson against the fogged window; her hands to the glass, him behind her striving for release inside of her. Then he saw himself restrained, tugging at his bonds, and Watson had her tongue traveling down his chest, around his navel, and on down to torture him. The imagined sensations felt so real that he could feel her flexing and clamping down on him. Again Sherlock clenched his hands, this time biting his tongue to keep a moan bottled up inside of him. He knew he should leave, should let her have this modicum of privacy while under his roof, but he couldn't make his feet work. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her.
Joan still convinced that he was there, stopped drying her hair and wrapped the towel around her body. She stood up making her way to the dresser where she pulled out a pair of low rise bikini underwear in cherry red and a matching bra. Setting the bra on top of the dresser Joan tried to keep her movements loose, natural, as she leaned down to slip the red material up her legs and into place under the towel. Any minute she thought he would be like all men and give himself away, but not Sherlock. He was still as silent as a shadow leaving Joan with her next move. The towel came away from her body to pool around her feet. Without looking she took the bra from the dresser and fit it into place as slowly as she could. Joan fought the urge she had to turn on him, to yell at him, but she found this oddly thrilling. He was watching her. She was exhilarated.
Sherlock could feel his nails biting into the palm of his hands. If he clenched them any harder then he would draw his own blood. Her skin was the perfect tone for the bright cherry red color of her undergarment. She was now fitting the bra over her perfect sized breasts. His mouth watered, yearning to run his tongue up from the bottom until he could twirl the tip around her nipple like he was eating his favorite ice cream. Suddenly the front of his jeans became painfully tight. He was sure he would have the impression of his zipper upon the engorged flesh of his rapidly hardening manhood. For all of his intelligence, he was still frozen to the spot watching his gorgeous companion as she dressed. Sherlock was able to tell that she knew he was watching her. It has been a split second reaction and then she relaxed. Was she putting on this show for him? 'Oh, god yes,' he hoped.
Watson reminded herself with every breath that she had to remain nonchalant; to give no clue she knew he was there. Though, being the genius he was, he probably already caught on that she knew and now he knew. Joan rested her hips and caught a glimpse of him in the window. He looked drugged, but drunk on the sight of her. It gave her heart a little kick. Casually she went back to the bed and retrieved the t-shirt. It was time to end this show much to her chagrin. Time to turn around; she knew that. So, why couldn't she make her body work to turn and to face him? She was still shaking on the inside. What else would she see if she turned to him? Instead Watson said, "I know you're watching me." Her voice was barely above a whisper; still not enough to break the spell that had befallen them.
Holmes, drawn in by her voice, took a step foreword on instinct, and then he stopped after realizing what he was doing. Was it better for him to say nothing or should he go in there? He wasn't sure and that made him uncomfortable. So he did the next best thing, he walked to her and stood just behind her, just close enough to breathe her in. She smelled of lavender and lilacs. It distracted him so much when they were riding the subway, or walking up stairs, or when they were eating. She distracted him. Joan Watson smelled like heaven; a heaven he would never know. But he could stand in the shadows and marvel at her from afar. All he had to do was be careful not to touch her. Once he had his hands on her, he didn't know if he would be able to let go.
Joan felt the heat of Holmes's body bleeding into her back. It was seductive and it was hard to take that first step away from him. She had the urge to lean back against him, to tuck the top of her head up under his chin; he was the right height when she wasn't in heels. Fisting her hands in her long t-shirt, Joan leaned back a fraction of an inch trying to keep her breathing even. She could almost feel his heart beating against her left shoulder blade; almost. In the silence all there was, was their beating hearts. She could get lost in this sound.
Sherlock angled his head as if she had leaned back against him so he would be resting his chin on top of her wet head. He wanted to have her in his arms so much that he could almost feel her. His arms tingled at the imagined sensation of her clean silky skin against him, the heat of the shirt under his palms. Holmes knew better than to be standing here, yet he was here anyway. He knew better than to be imagining her in his arms locked in pleasures embrace, yet his mind conjured all manner of erotic images to torture him. "We can't do this." He muttered his voice thick with lust from watching her put on her bra and panties. Nothing had seemed so erotic in his life and she was getting dressed.
"You're still standing behind me." Joan replied, her voice just as thick as his had been. Her mind swam with so many things. First image her mind tormented her with was Holmes turning her, pulling her into his arms, and sliding his hands down her abdomen to pull up the edge of her shirt where he would slip his hands into the waist band of her underwear. Then, her mind had them back in her shower, hot water pouring over them, steam billowing around them, and it had Holmes pinning her to the wall pounding into her passionately as she shouted as loud as she wanted. What was she thinking? This wasn't a personal relationship, this was business. It had to stay that way.
"Right," Holmes leaned in more drawing in more of her scent before he backed up. On silent feet he left her room as fast as he could before he did something they both would later regret. Tonight when he was sure she was asleep he would relieve some of the tension he was feeling while scalding himself in a hot shower.