A/N: This has probably got typos in it because I had to re-upload it. I apologise most profusely! If you notice any glaring ones, please tell me! And enjoy.
Disclaimer: No.
Chapter Twenty-five-
Holmes glanced up from his newspaper to Watson's sleeping figure. He'd finally fallen asleep after an hour of tossing and turning and complaining. He'd said that the blankets were too stiff, his pillows weren't plump enough, his arm ached, he was cold and he couldn't possible sleep like this. Holmes knew it was really because he was afraid to sleep, he was afraid to dream. He only slept when exhaustion completely overcame him.
But he looked peaceful now. His bound arm was resting on top of the blankets, the rest of him was tucked in up to the armpits. His hair, a little long now from neglect was strewn across his pale face. His lips were slightly apart. His bottom lip had a little bloodied scar on it; it had been hurt when he'd fallen 'that night', as Watson called it. He'd scratched his cheek too. But those inconsequential wounds were nothing. Even his broken collar bone, even the bullet wound that would never completely heal were nothing. He was alive.
Holmes yawned and stretched in his chair. Almost simultaneously he felt a dull throb in his lower stomach. He forced himself to sit still. He had been able to ignore his discomfort, his frustration this entire week Watson had been in hospital. He thought he had more self-discipline than this.
They hadn't slept together for a week. For obvious reasons. They couldn't get anywhere near each other in a hospital crawling with people; nurses lurking at the door and doctors bursting in at all hours of the day. Watson's bound arm was also promising to render fornication rather difficult and certainly would for a while.
Holmes sighed. It was impossible to ignore or disguise his rudimentary desires. He wanted Watson. He wanted to fuck Watson. He wanted to make Watson orgasm right here in his hospital bed.
But that would be highly inadvisable. He sighed again and slumped in his chair.
He glanced down at his crotch. The constant dull ache of unfulfilled arousal was becoming insufferable. He gritted his teeth and folded his newspaper. He'd have to wait. Just a little longer. When he got Watson home, had him all to himself he would do no small number of filthy things to him. To punish him for all the anxiety he'd put Holmes through lately. Not that it would really be much like punishment...
"Ugh..." He mumbled, rubbing vaguely between his legs.
Watson groaned slightly in his sleep and moved restlessly under the hospital blankets.
He stared intently at Watson's calm, still figure. The two pornography books were lying innocuously on the table underneath the box of cigarettes and the pie wrapper. Watson had flatly refused to read them. He had blustered on about Holmes's lack of taste, while steadily becoming redder and redder. Holmes had expected such a reaction. He was not going to force Watson to read them. Certainly not. Watson could read them if he wished. Which, Holmes grinned wickedly, he would. Because Holmes was not going to remove them until Watson did and if Watson didn't want one of the nurses to eventually find them, he would eventually have to acknowledge them.
Watson groaned again. He struggled against the cacoon of bedcovers. He was frowning in his sleep. It escaped Holmes's notice; he was still gazing unfocusedly at Watson's face, lost in his own sexually frustrated thoughts.
Watson gripped at he blankets desperately with his hands, tossing his head to one side and then the other. He whimpered slightly, his frown deepening.
"Uh." He moaned. "P-please-
Holmes jerked where he sat. Watson looked paler than ever, beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Holmes got hurriedly to his feet. After a week of waking Watson from dream after bad dream, he knew the signs.
He bent over Watson's writhing form, taking him firmly by the shoulders. "Watson." He said loudly. "Wake up." He shook him slightly.
The doctor's eyes flickered. "S-top- He moaned. "I can't- I need-
"Watson, it's me. It's alright. It's just another dream." Holmes pushed Watson's hair back from his damp forehead.
Watson's eyes flew open. For a moment a look of total confusion and fear came across his features, his eyes darted wildly about the room. His chest was heaving with desperate, unsteady breaths. Holmes pressed his hand to Watson's head. "Shhh, it's alright." He said softly. "You're alright."
Watson gazed at Holmes. Holmes wondered for a moment of he was awake or was still trapped in his nightmare. Then Watson closed his eyes with a sigh. "Almost three hours without a dream, that must be some sort of record." He said dryly.
Holmes sat on the edge of the bed, still stroking Watson's forehead. "What was it this time?"
Watson looked pained. "Oh, the usual." He said airily. "Reliving my dead wife's final moments whilst you lie dead on the floor in a pool of your own blood."
Holmes swallowed. Watson's attitude to his dreams was one of irritation and resentment. He just wanted them to go and he didn't understand why they were haunting him or how he could rid himself of their constant presence. "Perhaps we should ask the doctor for a drug to-
"No." Watson said sharply. "I'm fine. They're just dreams, Holmes. Dreams can't hurt me."
Holmes wanted to say 'but they are hurting you', but he refrained.
"You can take your hand off my forehead, Holmes." Watson said mildly. "I promise I'm not about to expire."
Holmes withdrew his hand, unabashed. "Are you going to try and sleep?"
"I- Watson faltered. "I don't think so."
Holmes remained silent for a moment. "Are you thirsty?"
"No." Watson said calmly, lying back in his pillows.
"Hungry?"
"No, Holmes. I'm fine-
"Bored?" Holmes said meaningfully.
"It's a hospital, Holmes." Watson said irritably. "Not a fairground."
Holmes shrugged, lowering his eyes.
Watson hesitated. "But, yes. I am a little."
Holmes looked up at him. "Well, you know what to do, don't you?" He said slyly.
"Ask my best friend to buy me a book?" Watson asked hopefully.
Holmes smiled sweetly. "Your best friend already bought you a book." He slid a hand over to the two erotic novels beside the bed. "Two in fact. It's very rude of you to ask him to buy you more." He took one of the books and flipped it onto Watson's chest.
Watson blushed and pushed the novel away. It landed on the floor with a thud. "Oh God, Holmes. Pick it up. Pick it up before one of the nurses come."
Holmes rolled his eyes and slid off the bed to fetch the fallen book. "Prude." He mumbled.
"Pervert." Watson retorted.
"So judgemental." Holmes said solemnly, picking up the book and dusting it off. "There's nothing perverted about pornography."
Watson choked a laugh. "And obviously you would know."
Holmes smiled slyly. "Obviously."
Watson's mouth fell open slightly. "What? You really have... read... that sort of thing?"
Holmes placed the book on the table and shrugged. "Perhaps. You wouldn't want me to spoil that innocent, clean mind of yours."
"You're read homosexual pornography?" Watson said disbelievingly. "When?"
"When I was a boy. Or adolescent rather. Not often. I didn't fancy swinging for it." Holmes yawned, taking a seat on Watson's bed again.
Watson scoffed. "Swinging for it. You'd be lucky to get a slap on the wrists. You were just a child."
"Perhaps. But my father... or my brother would have beaten me to one inch of death if they'd found it. And then likely have carted me off to Bedlam to be cured." Holmes said serenely. "Homosexuality is a disease you know, Watson. And we're both very sick men."
"You've always been a sick man, Holmes." Watson said dryly. "The fact you like to fuck other men just confirms it."
Holmes grinned. "Such language in a hospital, Watson." He pressed a finger to Watson's lips. "I'm not telling you anything." He bent down and pressed a firm kiss to the doctor's lips.
"Whaf?" Watson said in a muffled voice against Holmes's lips.
Holmes broke away and looked down fondly at Watson. "You'll just have to find out yourself."
"Holmes." Watson thundered.
"Now, now." Holmes said soothingly, stroking Watson's forehead again. "You don't want to upset yourself."
He stood up and went back to his chair, plucking his newspaper off the floor as he went.
"Holmes." Watson said crossly. "I'm not reading it so you might as well tell me."
Holmes laughed. "That was a very poor attempt at reverse psychology, Watson."
He hid his grinning face behind his newspaper and left Watson fuming.
To be continued.