VII. BRUSSELS II.
They entered to the Hotel, Holmes staggering a bit, certainly more than Watson, Watson was walking almost elegantly.
They sat on the bed and Watson caressed Holmes's face, which didn't reflect a clear conscience. – "My dear Holmes, you can't take your alcohol."
Holmes laid a hand heavily on his shoulder, lowered his head and turned to face the door, then his head turned to the bathroom's door, Watson took the opportunity to kiss the end of his jaw. As Watson hugged his waist Holmes said: - "You didn't come to see me in Christmas, or New Year."
- "I did."
Holmes turned around then, observed him with drunken eyes and put the tips of three fingers on his moustache, palpating it. – "You did?"
Watson took his wrist and put his hand on his chest instead, to be able to speak. – "Yes I did. You were high my friend. I left you notes both times to invite you come to my house and apparently you didn't see neither of them."
- "How could I miss that?" Holmes mumbled in drunken confusion. – "I never miss anything."
Watson pulled him back with him to lie down in the bed, and caressed his hair until he fell asleep.
It was three in the morning when Holmes woke up again, feeling much more lucid, the objects had sharp edges again, even in the night. He took off his shirt, and pants, and underwear. They were under the bedcovers, which had obviously been Watson's doing; Watson sleeping only with his brown thick pants on was also Watson's doing. Sitting on his side, looking down at him, Holmes pressed his fingertips on the left side of Watson's stomach, sliding his fingers slowly until his palm touched it, awakening him. When Watson finally opened his eyes, on his face, Holmes gifted him a gentle small smile. – "Watson", he murmured. Watson wrapped his waist and pulled him down on him, put a hand on his jaw as he kissed him. It was an uninterrupted kiss and they soon started breathing agitatedly. Their heads shifted up and down, to one side and another. Watson slid his hand to put it on Holmes's left buttock. They continued kissing non-stop and soon they were moaning quietly. Watson pushed to feel more sharply Holmes's hipbone digging into his erection. Holmes separated to rid of those pants, in hasty urgency, with trembling hands; when he was done Watson trapped his shaking hands between his and kissed them, but Holmes took them away with equal fever, plunging to kiss him again. They ensnared each other in their arms, until their stomachs bumped together when they exhaled, the touch torn when they inhaled. Something happened, - Holmes was too rapt in his own sensations to know what -, something that made Watson moan higher, breaking the kiss. Holmes took his throbbing erection in his hand, rubbed it and Watson wiggled erotically in response. Holmes plunged again to lick his neck, long and extendedly like a cat, pecked and licked again, lower, going by his collarbone; then lower again with the back of his tongue, getting to his nipple, which he tapped with the tip, coddled with a sucking kiss; he continued carefully wetting his ribs, gnawing the lower one like a dog the taste of the last of a bone; he laid gentle kisses on that side of his sinking stomach; Watson's moans had been sweet, making his chest flutter once and again. He reincorporated to look down at him again, concentrating his pumping strokes on the head of his cock. Watson opened his heavy lidded eyes to look at him, Holmes's narrowed a bit more if possible in response, he began to clash his own erection against the high side of his thigh; he inclined to gently kiss his lips again, continued apart as before. Watson turned his head to one side, his nose to Holmes's shoulder; Holmes bent his neck to sink his nose behind his jaw and ear; each respective part of their bodies received the steam from their breaths, rooting pleasant chills. Their pleasure was great but Watson wanted more, not for him but for Holmes, he wanted him to see explosions behind his eyelids when he lied with him; so he suddenly turned and then put both his fingers into his own anus. - "Wait" Holmes breathed, taking his hand away with a loose caring grip on his wrist; he substituted his fingers with his own, preparing him more delicately, kissing his nape and his cheek repeatedly, testifying Watson's anxiety; and so not making him wait long he took his cock in his hand to guide it, pushed the head inside, pushed in, bit by bit. The heat and pressure of it made him close his eyes, relish in ecstasy, stay paralyzed for a moment while he enjoyed it precisely. Watson raised his hips from the bed bumping with Holmes, demanded that way that he started sliding in and out; Holmes obeyed, emitting a high moan when he did; he immediately kissed Watson's ear and welded his open mouth to his. The rhythm was faulty, that is, it kept mutating, in that way the sensation was a novelty each time, it was a language. In a particularly strong stab Watson accidentally bit his tongue, making him bleed, but neither gave a damn; Holmes slid his bleeding tongue over the corner of his mouth, tainted his moustache red. Watson heard Holmes was about to reach orgasm and he tensed his body for no good reason, gaped larger when he felt Holmes's ejaculation. When Holmes barely regained some minimal control over himself he wanted Watson to go with him, so he pulled his shaft three times and had what he wanted; they were both for a while on a high together. Watson's spine arched tight like a string, the tension seemed almost painful and Holmes caressed the low of his back, as if alleviating it. After a moment of delight, though it wasn't yet drained out, Watson turned around and pursed his mouth around Holmes's upper lip, parted his legs so that he could find his comfortable place lying between them, let him breath almost in sobs above his shoulder. Had he not been sure Watson would laugh, he would have cried as he wanted to, of passion, of desperation, of soaring bliss which could only come with the notion that he was reaching the point of no return.
When Watson had fallen asleep Holmes couldn't take it anymore, he sat with his back to the head of the bed and looking at him and sometimes at the starry night sobbed quietly, wiping the tears from his face with the heel of his hand over and over again. When Watson woke up there was no trace of it, Holmes's sleeping face was almost against his own and his arm draped across his back, his inner thigh over his buttocks. Watson kissed the tip of his nose to wake him up, pushed his knee down so that his ass would be liberated. Holmes was at the moment reluctant to wake up, he hugged Watson against him and pressed his forehead to his pectoral, wanting them both to go back to sleep. To Watson it was all the same, they slept for another forty minutes.
Next time it was Holmes who woke up. He hugged Watson tighter and combed his hair with his fingers, playfully brushed his upper lip against his moustache; Watson darted his tongue out to kiss him; they kissed for long and finally smiled at each other, their hearts light.
- "What are we doing today?" Watson asked and kissed him again.
- "Whatever you want." Holmes spoilt him and kissed him again. – "What do you want to do?"
- "Walk by Brussels, have breakfast outside, meet a native."
- "Yes."
Holmes was willing to spend all of his money in this spree, regaling Watson with all the world could offer, with everything that he wanted. When Watson found out he had him buy him clothes, not custom made because there was no time, but expensive clothes that the tailor, overpaid, would hurry to have them fixed for him by nighttime, so that they fit him like a glove and he looked like a male mannequin; in that way also Holmes was making up for the lost luggage.
They both inclined their heads right to look at the Manneken Pis perplexed; it was dressed like an angel. – "What do you think of this sculptural piece?" Holmes asked.
- "I'm not sure what to think. On one hand it is small and ugly… on the other hand it is pissing; I appreciate the sardonic style of it."
- "I say the one who made it was a pedophile."
- "Probably."
- "We know that all the pedophiles are in the church."
- "Absolutely. Hey!, by the way how is that pedophile priest, Hendrix that you put in jail?"
- "He's fine. I brought him his stash of pedophile porn."
- "Holmes!"
Holmes shrugged. – "He can't do no harm no more. If he wants to look at his porn I say that's fine."
- "You do realize those kids in that porn were victims?"
- "The harm is done."
