^&^

Days passed. Watson had somehow expected to be tortured daily, but Blackwood hadn't been joking about being busy it seemed. Instead, the wait for the next incident seemed to be part of the torture, but at least he could pass the time in the adjoining cell talking to Holmes through the grate or listening to him hum, old tunes from the days when he'd play the violin for Watson on Baker Street.

"Still trying to put me to sleep?" Watson teased gently, his whisper a quiet echo off of the dungeon's stone walls. "Wagner is hardly lullaby material."

"You confuse intention with necessity. It's the only one I remember how to hum at the moment." Holmes seemed to have a bit more energy, at least that's how it appeared to Watson but God only knew how long that would last. "I do miss my violin."

"I will get you a new one when we are free. I swear it," Watson replied passionately. "All will be as it was."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. "I doubt that, Watson. But for now, let us keep as many pleasant thoughts as we can. Why don't you hum for me?"

"I can as easily carry a tune as I can an elephant, you know that." Watson sighed and turned onto his side before touching his hand to the grate, relieved when Holmes mimicked the gesture, their fingertips pressed together. The warmth from that small touch permeated his body, causing certain breathless - as well as indecent - reactions over the past few days. Vaguely, he wondered if Holmes knew what was going through his traitorous mind, but accepted that the man knew everything and, thankfully, had decided not to say nothing.

"Surely you can think of something we can do. Why don't we play one of those analysis games you're so fond of?"

"Word association?" Watson chuckled. "Supposedly it's not a game. But here, I'll go first. Grass."

"Chlorophyll."

"All right, rule number one: no reciting of chemicals for every answer. Try again."

Holmes sighed. "Meadow."

"Sunshine."

"Picnic," Holmes replied, his fingers sliding down to touch the center of Watson's palm, causing him to shiver.

"Blanket," Watson replied. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Holmes' touch, as tiny and fleeting as it was. It felt like a spark of pure fire, coursing its way through his veins, straight down between his legs. Dear God ...

Holmes whispered his reply. "Bed."

Watson inhaled sharply as Holmes traced the lines of his hand. "You," he replied hoarsely, his voice betraying him, but Holmes didn't seem to mind.

"Us."

God, his body was a complete traitor, his prick suddenly as hard as a rock. He had to bite back a moan as Holmes kept touching him, even if it was barely so, the presence of him was so intense that Watson felt the familiar knot of orgasm, improbably -- impossibly, edge its way down his spine. "Want," he panted, his hips arched in delicious agony.

"Take," Holmes rasped, his voice like a caress. "Take whatever you want, John. I'm yours. I've always been yours."

And, oh god, that was the end of him. Watson groaned helplessly and stars were seen, exploding behind his closed lids as he came and came, his nails digging into the metal grate, the floor, anything he could gain purchase on. Such brilliant pleasure, over far too soon and he felt a flush of embarrassment as wetness spread over the front of his not-exactly-clean pants. "Holmes ..." he stammered, not sure what to say.

"I'm not going to take it back," Holmes replied, in the same tone he'd use during a case when he'd made up his mind about something. "So don't ask me to."

"I wouldn't want you to," Watson replied, still fighting for breath. "I just wish you'd told me a bit sooner."

"What is that prosaic little saying you used to employ? Ah, yes. Better late than never."

"My dear Holmes ..."

"Sleep now, dearest. I fear tomorrow our reprieve may be up. He has a pattern of three day stretches before he itches for another round." Holmes took his hand away and Watson keenly felt the loss. "Remember what I said to you. You would do both of us a favor if you'd concentrate on escape."

"As if I could leave you now. You must be mad as a hatter," Watson said fondly. He slid his hand away with reluctance. "How I wish I could kiss you properly."

"With any luck, that will happen once this has ended in our favor. Not before. Now sleep, my John, and remember there is one person in this world who thinks of you and your happiness with all the hope in his heart."

Watson opened his mouth to say more, but Holmes had already drifted off. Staring at the ceiling, Watson tried in vain to fall asleep but his mind kept going back to Holmes and his sweet words, so long in coming. His thoughts then drifted, for the first time, to the very slim possibility of escape.

Perhaps ...

^&^

to be continued ...

Ah, the schmoop before the storm. Thanks for all the reviews and favorites. They keep me typing!