Sherlock Holmes is a force of nature, relentlessly surging forward in pursuit of the next case, the next experiment, the next experience. He dominates his environment and those within it. He is the sun, and everything else merely orbiting objects. He absorbs anyone who enters his world, pulling them in with his personality and dragging them forward in his next endeavor, completely oblivious to whether or not they wish to be involved. He simply assumes they do.
Dr. John Watson has been at the center of this maelstrom for far too many years. He has accompanied Holmes on every mad quest, dangerous case, every half-cocked experiment and narcissistic adventure. Watson has shared Holmes's triumphs and tragedies, and he regularly shares his bed. However, despite the frequent physical couplings, and Holmes's insistence on Watson's constant presence, the one thing Holmes has never shared is his heart. At least, not as far as Holmes is aware, and not the way Watson wants him to.
The first time they'd had sex had been unexpected and awkward. They had been investigating a case in Whitechapel, when the warehouse they had been in was ripped apart by a vicious explosion, killing two police inspectors and the warehouse foreman. Watson had instinctively thrown his body over Holmes, and they had been spared serious injury. In the aftermath, the fire brigade commander had sternly sent them both home to await further instructions. Later, as they shut their own front door, Holmes had leaned heavily against Watson, placed his head on his taller friend's shoulder, and sighed quietly.
"Hm...um...thank you, Watson," Holmes murmured, to the utter astonishment of the other man.
"You'd have done the same," Watson replied, attempting a light tone.
"I believe I will," Holmes mumbled cryptically, before pulling Watson into an intense, and nearly violent kiss.
Watson had found it rather amusing that Holmes had never even considered asking for consent. He had long suspected that Holmes operated on the assumption that everyone wanted him, and Watson had to admit, it might be true. On the other hand, Holmes was an observant man - nearly supernatural in his powers of deductive reasoning. Perhaps Watson hadn't been so adept, after all, at keeping his emotions and desires hidden from view.
At any rate, the sex had been sudden, frantic, and destructive. Bodies still aching, and faces still streaked with soot, they had simply collapsed onto the carpet of the front room and devoured each other, quickly, thoroughly, and nearly silently. As they lay side by side on the carpet, breathing heavily and utterly spent, Watson had assumed that it would be a one-time event, a proof-of-life fuck meant to banish the panic of a near-death experience. When Holmes had arisen, dressed, and left in silence, Watson hadn't been surprised.
When Holmes didn't come home that night, Watson had vowed not to go looking for him, but in the end, he did. He always did. He had found Holmes slumped in a nearby doorway, dazed and incoherent, under the influence of something more powerful than alcohol.
Since that day, Watson has dragged Holmes back a hundred times, soothed the wounds of both body and soul, and ceaselessly implored Holmes to fight his demons. However, there is a dark part of Watson's mind that knows Holmes will never win this fight, and an even darker part that doesn't want him to. For ever since that night so many years ago, it is only when Holmes is like this that he speaks his true heart. Only when he is unstrung, unraveled, barely conscious, and drowning in darkness does he take Watson's face into his hands and whisper all the tender endearments that Watson longs to hear. Only when he is at his undignified, unkempt worst does he allow Watson's hands to wander tenderly and freely over his body, sighing and encouraging as Watson loses himself in full sensual indulgence. Watson sometimes feels slightly guilty for this secret revelry, although it isn't the physical action that bothers his conscience. It is the uncomfortable feeling that he is sneaking deceitfully into the most private places of Holmes's soul. But, God help him, he cannot stop.
And so this night plays out like so many have before. Holmes naked and on his back as Watson straddles his hips, leaning forward to press his face into the soft dark hair behind Holmes's ear, breathing him in before tasting his lips, neck and chest. He slides his hands over relaxed muscles, sensitive ribs, and many, many scars. He knows by heart the roadmap of his lover's body, knows the origin of each scar and how many stitches he himself had put into it. He knows how to touch the places that make Holmes sigh, and the places that make him moan.
"Holmes, look at me," Watson whispers as he takes his friend's face in his hands.
Holmes slowly focuses, fixing his brown eyes on Watson's blue, and languidly sliding his hands over Watson's arms, shoulders, and face.
"Tell me, Holmes. I need to hear you say it," Watson implores, as they rest with foreheads touching.
A lazy smile touches the corners of Holmes's lips, and a sound that is not quite a laugh escapes.
"I would be dead without you; I need you so much. You are my soul and my conscience. I love you, John, you know I do. You're all I... hmmm..." whispers Holmes, before he slips back into the haze.
Watson falls forward into the soft place between Holmes's neck and shoulder, letting silent tears soak into soft curls. He knows Holmes won't remember in the morning. He never does.