Title: Once More, with Feeling
Author: ELLE
Pairings/Warnings: John/Sherlock, John/Mary, mild sexual content, implied infidelity
Notes: Written for Miss Murdered's and I's "Twelve Days of Christmas" prompt challenge. The prompt was "silver." I really struggled with this, infidelity isn't something I typically include in my writing, and I don't feel like I had enough space to really expand this - but I needed to post it and move on to the next piece. I hope I get to revisit these characters later.
"Well you know, I fancy a man in uniform."
It was an innocuous comment made over canapes at Mrs. Appleby's luncheon, some silly little relatable tidbit that had the girls laughing – but Watson knew well enough that nothing Holmes ever said was without implication. And it wasn't that Mr. Appleby looked particularly dashing in the austere military portrait over the piano – oh no. Watson knew that.
But to him a uniform was nothing. Half the time his own was splattered in blood or halfway off as he drug a wounded soldier through the trenches. To Watson, the acts a man accomplished were far more important than the clothes he wore. He was aware this was not the opinion of the military at large but he didn't much think of himself a military man – he was a doctor. And so pulling out his uniform once more was uncomfortable for no other reason than that he didn't see the point. What about this particular article of clothing made him more attractive than any other distinctive coat?
Still, he was aware of Holmes' little games, and he indulged when it suited him – and now, it quite literally did.
Holmes was sitting at his desk when Watson walked in and he didn't even look up to greet him, just threw him a casual "good morning." So Wason cleared his throat.
When Holmes looked up he tried not to blink but Watson knew all of his tells, saw the way his jaw twitched (twitched like his dick hard against his thigh, wanting, needing, waiting to be touched), the way he hesitated just a moment before he turned back to his paper and shot out a reply.
"A wedding or a funeral, eh? I suppose you'll expect me to be attending." Holmes' voice was that quick, carefree lilt Watson knew was for show. "A funeral is far more interesting than a wedding, I won't be attending a wedding, I –"
Watson had stepped forward quickly as Holmes rambled, snatching him by the collar and pulling him out of his seat, pulling him to his lips (lips that were full and pink, ceaselessly moving, moving, moving, over his words, his teeth, his skin.) They locked eyes, ferocious and hungry, but there was reluctance there, in Holmes' kiss – reluctance Watson didn't want, couldn't stand. What it meant...
Holmes drew his lips back just enough to speak, the slant of his eyes somehow judgmental (judgmental like the way he raked them over his body, naked and vulnerable, but finding nothing lacking) even so close.
"You said never again," he murmured, lips brushing Watson's in a way that was singularly erotic, those same lips having brushed along every inch of his body.
"You promised not to tease," Watson growled before he devoured his mouth again.
Holmes' fingers ran down the silver buttons of his coat and Watson could hardly breathe. He wanted his body pressed against Holmes, wanted to feel him, the heat of him, the hardness – wanting to be possessed by him (utterly, fully, without question, his body his.) It had been so long and he had told himself never again a thousand times but always they ended up here. Taking it this far had been a mistake from the start – it was just sex, it didn't mean anything, he loved Holmes but not like that, not like he loved Mary. It was just sex – but that made it nearly impossible to stop.
"I have not teased," Holmes replied with mock offense, the jest in his tone making Watson want to wrap his hand around his throat – as if it meant nothing to him that he could command (command him with little nudges, pointed words, whispers in his ear, making him cum) him in this way.
"You have done nothing but," Watson snipped, biting his lip and eliciting a little gasp of shock and pleasure as he pulled away to look Holmes in the eye. "The way you look at me as you boast, the way you toast my good health, the way you walk –"
"The way I walk?" Holmes laughed, cutting him off and Watson and Watson retaliated by scraping his teeth down his jaw, biting into the sensitive skin beneath his ear.
"I fancy a man in uniform," he whispered, feeling Holmes shiver as his fingers caught and gripped at the waistband of his pants.
"Statement of fact," Holmes argued lamely but they both knew the truth.
Watson fisted his hand in Holmes' hair, biting his neck before dragging his head back into another blistering kiss (kissing his neck, his chest, his fingertips and thighs, dark eyes watching, wanting, waiting for more.) Holmes' fingers were in Watson's waistband and his dick strained against his uniform pants, desperate for Holmes' touch.
For a moment they were lost to the intensity of their passion. Falling into Holmes after so long – it felt better than Watson wanted to admit. He was all hard planes and raw passion and he knew Watson, understood him in a way no one else had. It made him feel unguarded – it made him feel brash. Like nothing he wanted was wrong, that Holmes would indulge him anything (quick and desperate handjobs in the coach, his mouth on his dick in a coat closet, wrapped between his legs in bed with the curtains open and the morning sun shining through.)
"Watson," Holmes mumbled against his mouth, hands on either side of his face, stroking it with his thumbs, fingers trembling just slightly. "John. John – stop."
Reluctantly Watson slackened, eyes closed, lips lingering against Holmes', not wanting to face reality.
"I daresay I want it as badly as you," Holmes said softly as Watson grimaced, not wanting to be patronized. "But I am your friend, and I love you – and I wouldn't want you to regret it."
Watson tried to force a laugh to save face but it came out strained and ineffectual and Holmes pressed his forehead against his, trying to force him to look at him.
"I wouldn't regret it either," Holmes joked, biting his lip on his sincerity, but he was right – Watson knew he was just trying to protect him.
He adored Mary and losing her would devastate him – even more than losing what he had with Holmes. But he wanted it – God how he wanted it. His body ached to be with him, memories of Holmes' skin against his (stroking through the shock of silver in his hair, tucking it behind his ear, kissing him slowly, savoring it, pressed up against him naked in bed) and he didn't know how to fight it, he didn't know that he could.
"Difficult," Holmes murmured, smile faltering, hand hesitating before stroking along his cheek again. "I'll try to be better."
Watson leaned into the palm of his hand (hand that was soft yet strong, that slid along strings, scribbled across paper, touched him in the deepest, darkest places), kissed his fingertips, and let him draw away.
"Better," he repeated quietly, feeling ridiculous now in his uniform, not wanting to be better right then, just wanting to be felt.