Watson reached out, taking hold of Holmes' wrist, and pulled the other man in. He looked at the red markings on the detective's arm and pressed his cool lips to the cuts, making them sting. Holmes shivered. Then Holmes remembered what he wanted to say, and he gently pulled his arm back, stepping away from the doctor. "I will not ask where you have been," he said, his voice wavering but then getting stronger, "I will never question you, and I will always be here so long as you return. But tonight, dear Watson…" he lowered his voice. "Tonight, I know your secret."

There was a silence. Watson broke it. "I should have known- nothing escapes the great detective," he said almost mockingly. "I trust you did not…ruin the surprise," Watson continued, pulling his jacket off and dropping it on the floor. He closed the distance between them and held Holmes close. "And if you did I will damage you beyond repair," he whispered sensuously into the detective's ear.

"I told no one," Holmes whispered back, eyes shining. "I considered it. But I did not." "Hm. Well. Such…consideration…is the first step to…disobedience," Watson said, a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And disobedience must be…punished."

Holmes whimpered. "Watson," he said, his voice pleading, sounding most unHolmes-like. "Ah, ah, ah," Watson chided, tilting Holmes' face up with a guiding finger under the detective's chin. "You're not getting out of this one by batting your eyelashes at me…Sherlock." Watson allowed himself a grin and Holmes knew that the doctor wasn't kidding. His eyes widened and he tried to scramble back, but he stumbled and fell back onto the floor. In a flash Watson was on him, pulling at the detective's vest, his shirt, whatever the doctor could get a hold of. Soon, a fully clothed Watson straddled a shirtless and shivering Holmes. Watson let his eyes travel across the porcelain skin, drinking in every minute detail, every flaw and blemish marring the otherwise perfect flesh.

Watson mapped out an intricate pattern of roads and webs across Holmes' body, following the routes he traced with his tongue after he pulled his long-fingered hands away. Holmes was moaning, his eyes shut tight. Finally Watson pulled out his scalpel once again. As he moved his head away and sat up, Holmes opened his eyes, unsure of what was going on. "Watson? What are you-" Watson shut the detective up with a hard kiss, biting his lips and murmuring a warning: Don't speak.

Holmes was only too willing to comply as Watson bent once again and kissed a spot on the detective's chest, somewhere under his right nipple. Holmes then howled as the doctor cut a deep, horizontal line across the same place. Holmes hissed and bucked, his back arching, and Watson's hands dug into his waist; Watson was watching him writhe with an expression of amusement.

Watson allowed that for a moment, but when the detective had calmed down a bit and lay panting, the doctor licked his own finger and slid it into the wound. Holmes yelled, in pain or pleasure; Watson wasn't sure which anymore. He pulled at the skin, making the wound drip blood. "Would you be a martyr?" he whispered softly, almost gently, into Holmes' ear. "Would you die for my sins?" Holmes was unable to answer. Watson pulled his finger from the cut and licked at the blood on it thoughtfully. "I think not," he said and stood up. He pulled his coat on and walked out, leaving Holmes, bleeding, on the floor. Holmes stayed there until he had decided. He would change the answer to Watson's question. No matter the cost.