A/N: I'm currently on my Easter uni break so between doing assignments and gorging myself on my 60th Anniversary boxset of Peanuts (*fangirlsqueal*), I'm trying to update as often as possible. After that brief trip down Mary-POV lane, we're back inside Watson and Holmes's heads. Things are going to get worse for our heroes before they get better unfortunately xD

Anway, enjoy and thanks for the wonderful reviews.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Chapter Twelve

Holmes carried Watson to bed. Watson didn't know if he could stand up. His legs felt weak. His whole body felt weak. He was coated in sweat, he could feel it on his forehead, in his hair and especially between his legs. The inside of his thighs were rubbed raw and were slippery with sweat and semen.

Watson's bad leg was aching at the pressure he had unthinkingly put on it throughout his and Holmes's passionate display.

"Holmes..." He had said meekly, bringing them both out of their dazed afterglow. They were still wedged into the armchair. "My leg..."

Holmes jerked, staring down at Watson's bare legs, still pressed into his thighs. "I'll carry you." He said, without further explanation being needed.

Before Watson could protest, Holmes had scooped him up into his arms and the doctor found himself face to face with Holmes. His trousers and underclothes, which had been pooled about his ankles slid off completely and fell in a pile. Watson blushed at his vulnerable position, now completely half naked but Holmes did not seem to notice his discomfiture.

"I really should return home..." He said weakly, knowing it was true but glad for the argument Holmes would undoubtedly put up against it.

"Unless you plan to crawl home, I'd say you are very well trapped here for tonight." Holmes said firmly. Watson tried not to shiver at the authority in Holmes's voice. He was suddenly very aware of his bare chest and his nipples stinging slightly from the cold and from his recent deluge of passion. He pressed closer to Holmes to stop them from twinging.

He felt silly clutching onto Holmes so helplessly, but the detective did not quip. He held him tightly, one arm under his knees and the other clutching him possessively around the waist.

Holmes felt Watson nestle closer into his chest and looked down at the doctor's ruffled hair, resisting the urge to press his face into the thick tresses, knowing they would smell divinely of sex and Watson's own unique musk. That smell drove Holmes wild. It was a mixture of tobacco, soap, cologne, alcohol rub and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Holmes..." Watson murmured into Holmes, feeling drowsy and heavy headed.

"Hush," Holmes said softly.

He pushed open the door to his bedroom with little difficulty and took Watson to his bed, lying him down gently on the covers. He stood back, his eyes roaming over Watson's divinely bare figure. He had completely shed his trousers. His shirt was hanging loosely around his arms.

Holmes knelt by the bed and brushed his lips slowly down Watson's chest and stomach, relishing the sharp intake of breath from the doctor. Watson let out a small moan, he arched his back, his fingers curling and uncurling around the bed covers. "Ho-olmes." He stammered.

Holmes smiled. Watson was dazed from their violent lovemaking. He was very suggestible. Holmes quite liked having him at his mercy. He writhed slightly on his back as Holmes trailed his lips down to the sensitive area over Watson's pubis. Holmes gently nuzzled into the skin.

Watson bucked his hips. "Holmes..." He murmured.

Holmes moved back up to the head of the bed. He looked closely at Watson's features. He looked peaceful. He looked calm. Holmes brushed his hand slowly through the doctor's hair, finally daring to do what he had always wanted to. Watson did not swat his hand away as he had half expected, he blinked slowly, eyes heavy.

He wondered whether Watson was even still aware of what he was doing or where he was. Holmes watched Watson's chest rise and fall gently. His legs were slightly parted. Holmes helped himself to a good eyeful of his lover's endowments, feeling a faint ripple of desire pulse through him even when he his own privates were still sore from being thrust so violently in and out of Watson.

Watson mumbled something incoherent and moved his head slightly from side to side. His eyes closed. He seemed to be drifting.

Holmes couldn't help raising one eyebrow with a slight smirk. He wondered what the doctor might tell him if he coaxed him. After all, at present, Watson was very suggestible.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at Watson on his back. Watson slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly at Holmes. He smiled sleepily.

"Watson..." Holmes began, smirking wider. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Mmm." Watson said vaguely, half-closing his eyes.

"Do you like it when I... take the lead?" Holmes said in a low voice, watching Watson's face closely.

"Yes." Watson mumbled. "I like it."

Holmes was delighted. He didn't know when, if ever, he'd have such a candid insight into Watson's usually very guarded thoughts so he pushed a little harder.

"Did you ever think about it before tonight?" Holmes said, putting a hand on either side of Watson on the bed and leaning over his figure. "Did you ever fantasise about us being together?"

Watson didn't reply. Holmes watched him, he seemed to be half asleep. Holmes bent down lower over him, drinking in every detail of his lover's face, unable to express the feelings which finally possessing Watson had sent bubbling and oozing through his entire form in warm, slow waves.

He thought that Watson had fallen asleep. With a resigned sigh, he went to move away.

"Mm." Watson said suddenly, in a very slight but clear assent.

Holmes looked back at him. His form prickled at this information. The thought of Watson fantasizing about being made love to, of Watson on his back whimpering and sighing and indulging himself sent a shiver of electricity up Holmes's spine.

He lowered his lips to Watson's ear. "Did you touch yourself, my dear Watson?" He had often thought about Watson, ever the neat, orderly army man, pleasuring himself. It seemed almost impossible to think that he would indulge in such earthly desires as masturbation but Holmes thought he would die of ecstasy if his fantasies came to life and Watson said he had played with himself.

"Holmes," Watson suddenly growled, opening his eyes and making Holmes jump. "I know what you're doing."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, unflustered. "Whatever do you mean?" He said archly, his face very close to the doctor's.

Watson rolled his eyes and closed them again. "Let me sleep."

Holmes sighed in disappointment. He would have liked to hear Watson talk about his self-pleasuring exploits, however he was content with the fact that he had finally succeeded in bedded him. And done very, very well, he thought smugly, if he didn't say so himself. If Watson's impassioned cries had been anything to go by.

He gently kissed the doctor on the mouth. Watson's eyes flew open again but he did not push him away. Holmes gently plied open his lips, kissing him deeper but keeping his eyes firmly on Watson's. He felt like he could have drowned in them, happily, blissfully.

He had never felt anything close to what he felt for John Watson. He hadn't been able to feel anything close to affection or regard for anyone before him. This feeling of utter need and tenderness for another human being almost frightened him with its control over his emotions. And Holmes rarely allowed himself to feel such an illogical sensation as fear, let alone the totally and utterly ridiculous sensation of love. It was all Watson's fault, he was sure.

He broke away from Watson's lips and lay down beside him. He lay there silently, listening to the doctor's breathing beside him. He closed his eyes, a heavy tiredness settling over him.

"Watson," He said at length.

"Mm." The doctor barely managed to mumble.

Holmes felt heavy and drowsy, pleasantly so. He hadn't felt so calm or so content for a very long time.

He exhaled heavily.

"I think I'm in love with you, Watson."

Watson was already asleep.

...

Watson awoke the next morning with Holmes in his arms, his head resting on his chest. Holmes was fast asleep. It was strange to see him looking so peaceful and still. He was almost childlike when he was asleep. Watson smiled, gently pushing a hand through Holmes's hair. The detective made a low mewing sound and rubbed his face deeper into Watson's chest.

Watson glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was already ten. He realised with a pang that Mary would be at home by that evening and he would have to return home. He tried to shoo the feelings of dread which were circling in his stomach.

It was not right that he should dread seeing his own wife but he was unable to resist the sensation.

He was beginning to realise that he was not in love with Mary. He wondered if he ever had been. He had felt smitten with her when he first met her. But perhaps he had been forcing himself to be in love. Perhaps he had felt that he no longer wanted to be Holmes's plaything, to be used and abused and tossed aside whenever he pleased. Now he was in control. Holmes was the one who needed him. He tried not to feel satisfied with that state of affairs but he could not help it.

He moved out from under Holmes's warm weight, gently shifting him onto the covers. He sat up and found himself half-naked with his shirt twisted uncomfortably around his waist. He pulled it up around him and buttoned it. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately regretted it. His bad leg gave a painful twinge, and so did his arse. It stung and ached. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised after the abuse he had put it through the previous night.

He stood up and saw that there were blood spots on the bed covers. He gently rubbed himself and winced at the tenderness.

"Ouch. Bloody hell, Holmes. What have you done to me?" He hissed, hobbling out of the bedroom, trying not to put too much pressure on his legs or jolt his stinging entrance.

He found his trousers and underclothes in a pile by the armchair they'd used the night before. The seat was soaked in blood. Watson cringed. What would they tell Mrs. Hudson? He supposed Holmes would think of something. He always managed to think of some excuse for the singe marks on the floorboards, the holes in the walls, the tears in the curtains, the mysterious stains on the bed sheets...

Watson plucked his underclothes from the floor and pulled them on but the seat of his trousers was covered in blood and he could not return home with them in such a state. He would ask Holmes for a spare pair.

"Already ten o'clock." He mumbled to himself, suppressing a yawn. "I'd best wake Holmes. He might have business to attend to." He felt a slight pang. He remembered the days when he would have accompanied Holmes on such business. Nowadays he spent his time discussing the most flattering shade of wallpaper for a room, where he and Mary would go on holiday (Bath or Cornwall?) and always, always, always children. Children seemed to occupy his wife's thoughts day and night, night and day. He was beginning to despise the unconceived spawn which dominated his life already.

He went to wake Holmes. He stared at Holmes's still form, resisting the urge to run his hands all over the detective's taut, muscular figure.

Instead, he went around to his side of the bed and put his mouth close to Holmes's ear. "Holmes." He said softly. "Holmes, wake up."

He shook him gently. The detective's eyes flickered open. He stared up at Watson, blinking the daylight out of his eyes and rubbing at his face like a child. "Wa-Watson?" He stuttered though a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Ten-fifteen," Watson said, straightening up and going across to the chest of drawers. "You don't happen to have a pair of trousers I might borrow? Mine are a little... dirtied."

Holmes sat up and rubbed at his eyes again. He followed Watson with his eyes. Watson looked delicious. Dishevelled and ruffled, his hair stuck up all over the place, his shirt was wrinkled and his legs were bare. He was so drenched in sex that it was all Holmes could do not to take Watson again where he stood. His flaccid cock gave a twinge at the idea but he scolded himself for having such unchaste thoughts first thing in the morning.

"Why, Watson," He couldn't help saying. "You look as though you've been lost in the woods for a week."

Watson raised an unamused eyebrow at him. "Thank you so much." He said flatly. "A fine compliment to receive at this time of the morning."

"On the contrary, I think the look rather suits you." Holmes said silkily. "You look as though you finally removed that pole which has been residing up your arse since we first met."

Watson spluttered. "Holmes!"

"Why, Watson." Holmes said fondly. "Still so bashful? Even after you so nicely begged me to... what was it? Sodomize you last night?"

"Just tell me where the bloody trousers are." Watson snapped, irritably opening every drawer as roughly as possible to hide his embarrassment.

Holmes smirked but took pity on his blushing lover. "In the bottom drawer, dear Watson."

Watson found a pair and pulled them on. Holmes watched him from the bed, looking thoughtful. "Will you be going home immediately?"

Watson glanced at him. "I really think I must, Holmes. Mary will be back this evening and I'll need to prepare everything for her return."

Holmes tried not to feel disappointed, but losing Watson so soon after they had made love was a sore blow. "Of course." He said mildly, hoping Watson wouldn't be able to sense the immense displeasure in his voice. "Your wife."

Watson turned abruptly to him. Despite Holmes's upmost efforts to avoid badmouthing Watson's marriage, he always seemed to spur the doctor into an angry defence. "Do you think I want to leave you?" He demanded.

Holmes shrugged, deciding that if Watson wanted an argument, he would give him one. "You like being able to come and go as you please."

"Nonsense!" Watson snapped, though he knew it was true.

"Absolutely!" Holmes cried, sitting up straight and staring hard at Watson. "You love being able to flit between your comfortable little domestic sphere and the filthy den of your depraved lover."

Watson gave a derisive shout of laughter. "Really, Holmes. You are so dramatic. "Depraved lover" indeed." He shook his head. "Well, actually, you're quite right. You are depraved and this den of yours is utterly filthy but that is not why I return."

"Why do you return?" Holmes asked, narrowing his eyes.

Watson faltered, realising he had been cornered. "I return because..."

"Why do you return?" Holmes repeated, his eyes blazing.

Watson could have told Holmes the truth but what good would it have done? It would have ended up hurting Holmes even more in the end. No good would come of it at all. "Look, Holmes. I don't have time for this. I have to go home. You have to get up."

"Why?" Holmes snapped, sinking back down into his pillows. "I have nowhere to go and no one to see. No case worthy of my notice. No friends worthy of my attentions." The last words were so pointed, Watson almost flinched.

For a few moments, both were silent. Holmes stared straight ahead, his face hard with anger and hurt. Watson stood by the drawers in the slightly-too-big trousers, watching Holmes and feeling the guilt pump through his veins like poison.

"I'm leaving." Watson said bluntly. "I'll speak to you later."

He left Holmes where he was and walked through the front room, plucking his trousers from the floor and his fallen coat and hat on his way to the door. He walked slowly, his whole body was aching, he leant heavily on his cane and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his broken entrance as he hobbled about.

He pulled his coat on, pressed his hat onto his head and left, wondering how many times he would walk out on Holmes like a coward before he was man enough to admit what was in his heart.

To be continued...