Title: Experimentation
Summary: Watson dabbles in experiments, too.
Characters/Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Count: ~500
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None, really.
Notes: kinkmeme prompt that I can't find any more: Watson experiments on Holmes and Holmes lets him/doesn't mind because he just doesn't want Watson to leave.
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For all the world knows, it is Holmes who is the one with the predilection for experiments. And for the most part, that might be true. But on nights like these, when Holmes is laid out on the sheetless bed with his hands languid at his side and body almost paralysed by anaesthetic, Watson returns to his days as a medical student and he uses Holmes' body as his cadaver.
Only, Holmes is sure Watson never did any of this to cadavers. Or at least, he certainly hoped not. It is nights like these that Watson lives up to his Scottish roots and dallies in a little enlightenment of his own.
And because Watson lets Holmes do pretty much anything he wants, Holmes returns the favour on these sporadic, infrequent nights.
So he lies still, dazed and half unconscious as Watson rakes kisses from one shoulder to the other; from his chest to his hips and down lower across the highly sensitive skin of his inner thighs. The doctor is careful to avoid the bloody wounds on Holmes' side and neck but when he leans over Holmes' face in search of lips, Homes can taste the faintest hint of blood on the doctor's tongue.
As their tongues duel, Watson's hands skim his body finally alighting on the object of his experimentations. Watson wonders how much it will take for Holmes' body to stop responding to him – how much pain, how much drink, how much solution – but it never does. Or, rather, it always does because Holmes can't fathom a world in where his body would not respond to John Watson's touch.
His body twitches in a pale imitation of a jerk as Watson's hand wraps around him firmly, gripping him in a slick, warm hand before stroking languidly up and down. Watson knows Holmes' body is too paralysed to hurry his motions and Holmes blinks his eyes open to stare at the bleary image of Watson who he can just about make out to be smirking.
He lets him away with that, simply because he has to.
He comes not long after, at least some of his muscles responding to touch and command and he is aware enough to acknowledge another spurt of warmth dripping onto his stomach. He tries to speak, to congratulate – or is it condole? – another failed experiment but the words come out as a slur and he can feel Watson's smiling lips against his forehead. He says something but Holmes' senses are too fogged up for him to understand what it was but it doesn't matter.
Watson cleans him up – blood, sweat and come – before leaving the room. Holmes tries to wait, tries to stave off unconsciousness but he knows that this is just another one of Watson's experiments. He doesn't mind.
He smiles – or thinks he does, at least –, proud of his doctor's innovativeness.
And then there's blackness.