Disclaimer: Neither the characters nor their fictional location belong to me and I make no profit from this whatsoever. Etc etc and so forth.
Watson watched Holmes step over his fallen opponent and out of the dusty boxing ring, a casual shake of his head sending perspiration raining down onto the defeated man. The detective moved in an oddly graceful swagger to the owner of the Punch Bowl, collected a bottle of wine, and with the words "I will return in precisely thirty minutes," continued on to the loft of which he was inexplicably allowed free use.
He'll return? Watson repeated internally, angrily as he swiftly followed his friend. After that beating! Holmes would have to be very lucky not to have received any cracked ribs during that match. And that last blow to the head...?
"He's not coming back," Watson said to the owner when he reached the counter. The man merely shrugged (there were plenty of men to fight) and handed the doctor his winnings. Watson took them, stuffed them into a pocket, and made his own way to the loft, arranging his expression into a severe frown as he went.
"Ah, there you are Watson," Holmes greeted him as he opened the door. He did not bother asking how the other man knew it was him, not wanting, at this moment, to hear anything about the "angry scuff of his shoes" or his "abrupt hand on the latch." He was not in the mood for it. "I expected you would follow," Holmes added, picking up a towel and beginning to wipe the sweat from his upper body.
"Stop," Watson said, putting all the authority he had, as a doctor and a military man, into his voice.
"Stop drying myself, Doctor? I might catch a chill?"
Watson's lips tried to twitch out of their severe line at the flippant words and the mischievous twinkle in those brown eyes, but he kept his will firm and the frown in place. "Just stop, Holmes. Stop everything and let me examine you."
"If you must," Holmes replied, carelessly dropping the towel to the floor. "I assure you, though, no bone of mine is cracked or broken. You should be tending to that poor brute whose collarbone may be cracked and whose jaw is most certainly dislocated."
"He's being seen to," Watson snapped, response sharper for his pricked conscience. "Now sit down and allow the medical professional to decide if you are fit for another round." With a small shrug, Holmes, for once, followed instructions. Watson knelt down in front of the chair and looked over his friend's chest and abdomen. Darkening bruises mottled the fair skin here and there, including a particularly livid one over the lower left ribcage. Gently at first, then more firmly, Watson probed the ribs there. Holmes hissed in pain and winced away a bit, but the doctor could find no indication of greater damage than the bruising. "Take a deep breath... and another," he ordered, eyes sliding slowly up from diaphragm to breastbone. No sign of trouble there, he thought with relief before his eyes were caught by a glimmering at the edge of his vision. He moved his gaze to the source and found himself unable to move it away again, mesmerized. Droplets of sweat beaded on Holmes' pectoral muscles and on every inhalation, they caught the lamplight, refracting it into infinitesimal rainbows all over pale skin flushed rosy with exertion. Beautiful... Of their own accord, Watson's fingers - still on Holmes' flesh - glided upward to catch that glittering moisture.
"I say, Watson," the detective murmured, amusement tingeing his slightly breathless voice as his skin once more rippled under the doctor's touch. "This is becoming a rather unorthodox examination."
With a small start and a flush, Watson jerked his hands back. "You were correct," he conceded slowly, lifting his gaze to meet his companion's twinkling eyes. "Nothing is cracked or fractured, but-"
"You see?" Holmes cut him off, rising to his feet. "Fit as a fiddle and in fine fighting form!" He began moving around Watson to the door.
"Stop!" Watson said again as he jumped up, turned swiftly, and grabbed Holmes from behind, hooking his elbows under the other man's armpits, locking his shoulders. "You may be fine now, but one more fight could see those ribs cracked, if not broken."
"Then I shall be extra careful, my dear Watson. One more fight could see our finances fully recovered from your losses at the gaming tables."
He meant to sting Watson, goad him into allowing another match, with this comment, but the doctor would not let it work. He was going to win this argument, no matter what, he decided, taking a deep breath. Holmes' warm, musky scent filled his nostrils and Watson became aware of how hot the body pressed against him was. Finally, a smile curved his lips. If he will not listen to his doctor's orders, I shall have to try another means of persuasion. It was time to play dirty.
"Holmes," Watson breathed against the man's ear, voice pitched low and mustache just grazing the shell of an ear. Holmes shivered against him. "I believe I said, 'stop,'" he continued in the same tone as he shifted his hold, moving his hands to splay over the detective's chest.
"Just... just one more..." The protest was breathy and weak.
"No." He ran his hands slowly down Holmes' chest and torso, loving the way his fingers glided in the perspiration there... And the way Holmes whimpered ever so slightly at the irresistible pleasure and pain, shivering back against Watson. "There are... other things we could be doing now..." In his own voice, he could hear the same lust that was beginning to pool deep in his abdomen. Holmes heard it, too, and with another delicious shudder, he lifted his arms to reach behind and grip Watson's head and shoulder. The doctor continued his caresses along Holmes' flanks and down over his hip bones, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of his trousers, before sliding back up. He spread his fingers across the other man's lower abdomen, moving them in small, teasing circular motions as he pulled those thin squirming hips back against himself.
"Fuck," Holmes breathed, hands tightening on Watson.
"Yes, Holmes. Exactly," Watson agreed as he repeated the long strokes of his hands down his lover's hip bones - this time under the fabric. "Exactly."
The roar of the crowd below as two other men entered the ring effectively masked the noise from above as the lovers vigorously savored Watson's victory in their private match.