Title: Wants and Complaints

Author: AnitaB

Author's notes: The slash simply screamed off the screen in the new Sherlock Holmes movie. And while they didn't tell me exactly how Watson and Mary broke off their engagement, I think she came to her senses about just what the relationship between the two men should be.

Set sometime soon after the end of the movie, the boys are still recovering from all of the close calls inside the film. And they're getting more comfortable with certain new aspects of their relationship. Watson/Holmes romantic smut. NC-17 ahead, be warned.

I own nothing and nothing I do own would be worth winning in a lawsuit. No infringement intended. So let's get on with the show.

Wants and Complaints

By AnitaB

Chapter one: Complaints

//Yes, Holmes, when have I ever complained about your playing the violin at three in the morning…\\

Dr. John Watson rolled over in his bed, well… their bed and glanced at the grandfather clock just visible in the light from the open doorway. //So sometimes it's at four am.\\ Though the cool air on Holmes' side of the bed did indicate that the practice session had started earlier. He folded his arms under his head and listened to the so-called music for a moment.

This was no ordinary practicing of the violin. Neither was it the cold, decidedly analytical playing that Holmes did for the various insects he lured in one by one. This sound was far more… pained. The sound of the violin carried the weight of heavy emotions and even the pang of loneliness. Sighing in the back of his throat, Watson found himself again going to the man's rescue. //Just like always.\\

Throwing back the blankets, he climbed out of their bed and headed for the room he still called the armory. The lamps were turned low enough to shadow the night musician's face. Holmes was never that easy to read anyway, but Watson was well practiced at the art of it. The weight of the world so often rested on those lean, strong shoulders. So rarely would Holmes let him bear some of the burden beyond kicking open doors and playing logic sounding board. Maybe tonight…

"Holmes?" That scruffy chin lifted off the violin enough to angle his eyes into the lamp light. Watson's heart ached at the look on that precious face. His hands clenched on their own, hidden in the pockets of his robe.

"Yes, my dear Watson." Strong hands laid the violin down and tented under his chin. Lean muscles rippled under the smooth skin of that upper body. The man never seemed to get cold and he never put on a shirt for his late night wanderings. But then the social rules never played a role in Holmes' decisions.

"Aren't you cold?" He shook his head and answered his own question. "No, of course you're not." Watson pushed away from the door and took a seat next to Holmes on the floor. "And you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's bothering you, now do you?" A few nerves in his back loosened when the private detective leaned lightly against his shoulder. Even now, Holmes was sometimes reluctant to reach out for him.

"With your mind on the problem, I shouldn't have to say a word. You've got it all sorted out to that last letter, haven't you?" Holmes leaned his head down to rest against Watson's shoulder, brushing the side of his neck with soft, dark hair. The doctor sighed a little and slid an arm around him. If one was quiet long enough, sometimes Holmes talked just to fill the silence. And when the trouble was on his mind enough to drag him from a deep and, if he might say so himself, exhausted sleep, the talking would usually be on the right topic. Eventually. Pulling him closer, Watson dropped a kiss on the top of his head and waited quietly through several more deep breaths. "It was the explosion, on the river. But…"

"But the nightmare ended differently?" The stubble on Holmes' jaw scratched just a little against the robe's cloth as he nodded. That was a problem with a logical mind like his. His nightmares were incredibly detailed and entirely possible changes to real events. Holmes had probably seen exactly the kinds of fatal wounds that explosion could have caused. Had probably felt his heart stop in his chest and heard his last, shuddering breath in startling, dramatic, accurate detail.

And instead of waking him up for comfort, he'd crept quietly out of their bed and hidden in his violin. It made Watson want to hit him. Or hold him. Tonight, though, one response outweighed the other easily. "Holmes," curving his hand around that scruff-lined jaw, he lifted Holmes' chin up off his shoulder. "Come back to bed, old boy, and I'll show you just how alive we both are." Those dark eyes locked to his own, a silent look of need burning in them. Watson couldn't hold back for even one more second before that heat, pressing those agile lips under his own. The man in his arms responded wildly, hands clutching at his back and tongue dancing with his. Those arrogant fingers were shaking as they stroked over the ragged scars along the back of his neck and shoulder, outlining them perfectly even through more than one layer of cloth.

With a last shuddering little sigh, Holmes pulled back and licked his lips. "Lead the way, my dear Watson." It took a moment to untangle their arms before he could pull Holmes to his feet and close against his chest. Watson claimed his hand and solidly wrapped their fingers together, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

"Don't I always?"

000

Only two things had ever managed to shut his brain off. Neither worked long-term. Sex and combat could, for a few minutes at least, clear the tornado of thoughts from his head and leave him pleasantly blank. But quickly the chaos of logic, facts, and details would flood his mind in continuous waves. Normally, it was something he enjoyed, something that thrilled and delighted him. As he had said many times, he thrived on challenges, on problems, on work.

But sometimes the flood his brain couldn't shut off was something he didn't want to examine minutely enough to see every little detail. Sometimes the logical progression of his thoughts went places he never wanted to go again or places he'd never been and had no desire to imagine. It was at these moments that Sherlock Holmes became desperate to distract himself by any means necessary.

It was only rarely that he had something so delightful to turn his focus on. And even more rarely that the distraction was the same source as the flood. //My dear Watson.\\ Holmes focused on the exact texture of those lips and that mustache against the back of his hand. He tried to lose himself in the heat in those eyes, in the strength and care in this man's grip. He helplessly trailed back to their bedroom behind those strong shoulders and lean back. But the view wasn't what he truly wanted. Watson was covered from above the collarbone to the bottom of his heel. In most places on the tall, lean body, he was wearing at least two layers. Just like always. It was so frustrating. But it did mean that Holmes would get to explore that body, remove each of those layers and run the sensitive tips of his fingers along each and every gorgeous line of Watson's body. He would get to bare and stroke every inch of him from the strong line of that jaw to the high arches of his feet.

"Watson," His free hand reached out before his brain had processed the move, fisting his fingers in the back of that robe to pull the man to a stop. Holmes then found himself pressing Watson's back against the nearest wall and cupping that strong, stubborn jaw in both his hands. He watched those gorgeous eyes drop to his lips, watched a quick tongue peek out to trail over a soft lower lip. It boggled his mind that Watson did indeed want this as desperately as Holmes did himself. It was perfection. "Watson, kiss me."

Those lips that he wanted more than his next breath quirked in a familiar little smile before those hands slid along his bare chest in a soft drag of heated skin. "Always, Holmes, always." That tall body bent down enough to put those lips in reach, making Holmes rise on his toes to meet the motion. A tickling brush of mustache was followed by the soft pressure of lips and the wet plunge of agile tongues. Watson made a delicious little moan against his mouth in the instant before those strong hands clenched against his back and pulled him hard against that chest, deepening the kiss.

He wanted more. More of that moaning, more of that warm wet taste, more of that skin pressing against his own. Logically, in order to get what he wanted so desperately, Holmes had to stop. He wanted Watson naked in bed, not a quick bout against a wall. Weakly pulling back from this delicious kiss, he reached for the belt of that robe to the sound of another sweet moan rasping in Watson's chest. That man was about a half a second from dragging Holmes into another kiss, enjoyable no doubt but it would delay them. "Bed, Watson. Naked on our sheets. Get there. Now."

Those gorgeous eyes fell shut with a tempting sound. Then the rasp of Watson's voice tested his restraint and his planning. "You first, Holmes. And the sheets are mine." Those strong hands shifted against his skin, guiding him almost roughly away from the wall and towards their bedroom door. "While we're at it, those are my pants you're wearing. Take them off."

Now he was in front, warmed more than made sense by the force and strength in the hands that never left his skin. The muscles in his legs stuttered and failed for a second as Watson took that particular matter into his own hands. Hot, strong fingers rubbed down his chest and stomach to open the button and zipper of their pants and slip inside. Holmes clutched at those wrists and leaned back against that chest just to keep his feet under his body. "Watson…"

Those arms tightened and those hands dipped lower. Warm, soft lips trailed up and down his neck, dragging the tickle of a neatly trimmed mustache along with them. "Yes, my darling Holmes?" Those fingers stopped an agonizing inch from his erection, spreading strong and hot ever so low on his torso. His Watson pushed him just a little further by pulling his body back tight against his hips. Holmes could feel it, the hard length of Watson's need, pressing strongly through layers and layers of cloth against his ass. "Did you need something?"

"You, you bloody bastard." If he didn't get that hand on him, right now, Holmes was going to melt into a puddle of love and lust at Watson's feet. Wouldn't that just amuse the hell out of the laughing man at his back. "Now!" Grabbing that strong wrist, he shoved Watson's hand down their pants until his erection rubbed into the heat of that palm. Strong fingers curled and stroked, robbing Holmes of the ability to breathe, or move or think. Gloriously.

000