Not sure if this is allowed, but the original version of this story is very much M-rated due to a certain part and I loved the rest of it... so this is essentially the non-explicit version, and I really think I like this better. I'm just keeping up the explicit version seeing as there's some people that seem to like it, and it's not like it's vulgar or anything... I just feel awkward about it. xD
Hope you enjoy!
He bites down sharply on his neck, one hand pinning his left arm to the bed, the other firmly gripping his tousled hair, damp with sweat. Holmes just lies there, muscles tensed and trembling, wanting to move but unable to due to a strong knee pushed into his elbow and a muscular body lying on top of his. He's not sure that he wants to, either - it feels good, so good just everything that he's doing to him.
They'd done this before, of course - several times, if you must know. At first it had happened almost accidentally - though he knew Watson had wanted it as much as he did - but their sexual encounters quickly grew more successive, even if neither of them spoke of it during the day. There were different causes for every time - either Holmes would be frustrated with a case not going to his liking, or they'd just had a lovely dinner at The Royale - perhaps Watson had returned to 221B from a fight with his wife. Or, every so often, they just needed to tend to each other's needs.
Tonight, however, had another reason entirely.
Tonight he'd realized that every feeling he experienced when just being near Watson - and every single moment when he was not within his sight, for that matter - had been caused by a connection between them that was stronger than their friendship. Something better. Something even more pure, despite how wrong it might seem to the outside world.
He hadn't let him know yet.
He doubts he ever will.
Letting himself be overwhelmed by the blissful sensations, he closes his eyes and bites down into the pillow to muffle his groans of pleasure as Watson finds a particularly sensitive spot just beneath his ear. Subconsciously he slightly turns his head so he has full access to the sensitive skin as he continues in their sinful act, chuckling into his ear.
His moaning abruptly stops when breath hitches in his throat, his mind freezing over.
"I didn't know you were so easy."
He doesn't even notice the whimper escaping his throat.
"Holmes? What's wrong?"
Carefully the larger man removed himself from him and rolled aside so he was facing the other man, worry apparent in his usually brilliant eyes.
"Did I hurt you?"
Holmes fails to regain his self-composure, instead smothering a sob in the pillow. Inwardly he curses himself, tries to force himself to just blink back the tears and tell Watson that everything's fine.
He can't.
Not now. Not tonight.
Not when he's this vulnerable.
A large hand reaches out to gently stroke his bare back, but with reflexes even faster than when he's in the fighting ring he violently slaps it away. This truly has Watson worried; before him lies the man he cares so much for with all his heart, but all he can see is a wounded animal, ready to attack if it senses danger.
Danger.
He's danger.
What the hell's going through his head?
Holmes can't deny anything, nor can he tell him what's wrong; he simply cannot speak at all. He just lies there, completely naked, but he's unable to cover himself up or protect himself in any other way.
So he just lies there.
Watson has never been so terrified in his life, except for the times when Holmes almost died - and one time he thought he did. But really, even while still breathing, his figure shaking, this occasion is no different - he might as well be cold and still.
He can't touch him. He doesn't know what to say. How's he supposed to comfort him? What if it's him that's causing him this pain?
No, it can't be. After all they've been through, this can't be because of him.
And so he sits up and settles on just talking to him, even if it doesn't make any sense. Even if it's just whispering his name. He talks to him about their adventures, about silly conversations they shared. He talks about how he's always held a special place in his heart.
He doesn't tell him he loves him, even if it's true. He saves that for another time.
"Holmes, do you remember? Remember when you lost that one match in the fighting ring? You were so angry, I couldn't stop you. You were sure the referee had been biased, that you'd seen him accept money from the other contestant. I've never seen you that mad before. You were raging all the way upstairs and I tried to calm you down, but you were so overcome by adrenaline that you just shoved me onto the bed and yelled at me. And as I was looking at you, I just couldn't contain myself and I dragged you along with me - and then your lips crashed onto mine and I finally knew what I was missing. Holmes… I don't know what I'd do without you. And now I'm lost. Let me in, tell me what's going on..."
Holmes doesn't think he's ever heard the doctor be this gentle before. He still doesn't know what to do, he just wants to curl up and cry, let sleep overcome him and take him away to the darkest, faraway places and never return. He's sure he can't ever look at him again, look at the man that made him relive this all over.
But it's not fair.
He can't shut out Watson.
He doesn't think he'll live if he does. And despite the ominous temptations, he finds himself slowly sitting up, his gaze still turned away from him.
Watson doesn't speak.
Neither does Holmes.
He'll wait for him to be ready.
Minutes pass as they sit there, both naked, Holmes' arms folded around his knees as he slowly rocks himself back and forth. Watson watches him from behind, his eyes for once not scouring the well-defined muscles of his back, but watching him for a sign of approval. Anything that will allow him to hold him and take care of him.
Holmes needs him to. But at the same time, at this very moment, touching him will only make it worse.
"I suppose we can't just let this slip by."
He's startled by the fragile tone of his voice. Next to him sits a broken man, his ingenious mind crushed to nothing but mere tiny fragments.
"I understand you don't want to talk about this, but -"
"For both my sake and yours, I must. I'm just..."
"I know. I'll wait. Can I get you anything?"
"No." A loaded silence falls again between them, but Watson waits. He'll wait forever, if he has to. He would for him.
"Just... hold me."
He knows questioning him, assuring himself of this request, will only cause him to retract it. And as such he draws closer to him, putting one arm tentatively over his shoulder, the other around his waist. He stretches out his bad leg on his left side, allowing Holmes to slightly lean back into his chest. He can still feel him shivering, but he knows it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
He feels a moist substance dripping onto his arm and the smell of salt enters his senses. His heart breaks even further and he thinks the pieces are too small to ever really fit together again, but he can't even begin to imagine what Holmes' must look like now. He can only cradle him gently, eventually realizing the firm grip the man has on him. His hands are holding onto him as though he were a lifeline, his face buried in the warm flesh of his arm.
Whatever Holmes had been through, it had to be more evil than all the enemies they've chased together.
He swears that if someone did this to him, he'll personally hunt down and kill whoever was responsible with his bare hands.
His attention is diverted back to this dreadful reality when he feels the body in his arms shifting. He looks down to see Holmes resting his head against his scarred shoulder, stubble grazing his skin.
They sat like that for what could be hours. Eventually the sun set and covered the room in darkness. Watson didn't turn on the lights, nor did Holmes; they just sat, secure in the safety of each other's arms - Holmes more so than Watson - until the first broke the silence again.
"Watson -"
In all this time he'd never called him John, and Watson didn't need him to. Especially now. He would patiently wait in front of any wall he pulled up until he felt comfortable enough to let him in.
"Could you turn on a light, please."
Not letting go of him his right arm reached out to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. Its soft, dim light cast their shadows on the floor and he couldn't help but look at them. They were one. One figure, one form. Nothing, not even light, an untouchable, elusive phenomenon separating them.
He felt fingers caressing the hand that was resting on his stomach. He knew the time had come.
"Anytime you want," he breathed.
The fingers closed around his, and he gave them a light squeeze.
"It happened one night in London..."
If you have no clue and want to know what happened on that one night in London but don't want to read the actual scene, you're welcome to just ask. ;)