A/N: Did I mention that the characters in this story are a little OOC? (to me at least)
Disclaimer: Don't own.
The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed
CH.2
Nothing about their exchange is innocent or gentle, it's ruff and vulgar; they're in heaven, or as close to it as two men in their situation can get, at least from Watson's perspective. Their tongues battle against one another, creating a heady staccato rhythm that has both men dizzy with lust. Watson's hand pulls at the detective's hair again, eliciting another guttural moan, gaining the upper hand on the intoxicated detective. Not one to be out done, Holmes pushes Watson back against the door to the sitting room, reaching around with one hand to effectively lock the room away from any unwanted interruptions, god forbid.
Watson lets a low growl escape his lips, between their heated kissing; he tries to push against the detective to switch their positions, Holmes just pushes his front more firmly against Watson's. The action only brings their clothed groins together in a delirious rush of friction and heat, Watson throws his head back against the door, a silent exclamation on his red swollen lips; the detective fairs no better, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder, biting his lip in an attempt to stay silent. Both men leaning heavily on the door for support, their legs suddenly weak and trembling; Holmes a man of action starts a slow rutting against Watson, earning hoarse moans and whimpers to glide from the doctor's throat. Holmes lifts his head from Watson's shoulder, to gaze into the dark blue of the doctor's lust ridden eyes, Watson can only look back, breath coming out in short, incoherent pants, that waft over the detectives lips.
Watson brings his hands up to the Holmes' shoulders to try and push the detective back against the ruff wood of the door, wanting the higher ground; Holmes is having none of it. The detective grabs hold of Watson's hands by his wrists and brings them up over the doctor's head, leaving the doctor at the detective's mercy, and Holmes is not in a mood for leniency. Watson feels the pressure in his groin slowly building as the detective speeds up the thrusting of his hips, pushing harder and faster against Watson's straining need, pushing against the fabric of his trousers. Watson can hear the string of exclamations leaving his mouth before he can coherently stop them; the words only spur the delirious detective on, till Holmes is resting his head against the door, panting and moaning in Watson's ear; the breath of air sending shivers down Watson's spine.
"Holmes," it's only a ghost of breath from between Watson's parted lips, but it's enough to send the detective over the edge, clutching Watson's wrist tighter, pushing against him harder, and biting down on Watson's shoulder, to try and stifle the low groan that emits from the detective's chest. Holmes climax sends the doctor reeling and to his release in close succession with the detective's, both men sated and invigorated all at once.
Watson is the first to fully return to reality, his mind washing back ashore to the aftermath of his and Holmes' situation, it has him shoving the detective full bodily off him, Holmes staggering, trying to get his bearings back. Watson lowers his arms back to his sides, the look of a lost man stirring in his blue depths; Holmes can only share the good doctor's sentiments through his own dark gaze.
"Watson I-I," Holmes stutters, unable to find the right words, his lack of articulation only making Watson give a vicious bark of laughter. Holmes blinks, caught off guard by the sound, Watson pushes himself away from the door, glaring daggers at Holmes; the detective just watches his friend's approach with weary eyes, till Watson is standing in front of Holmes, his posture rigid and tense.
"Holmes, old boy, we have just damned ourselves," Watson converses in a hushed tone, the detective still unable to find his voice, stays silent, "do you understand the gravity of this situation Holmes? The vulgarity, the depravity of what we have just succumbed to?" Watson hisses through his teeth, a harsh sound that makes Holmes recoil under its assault.
"Watson," finally regaining his melodic baritone back, Holmes continues, "I am the absolute last person you should be lecturing to about vulgarity and depravity, as that is the world to which my mind is forever wondering." The detective finishes deflated, all prior dominance whisked out of him like the breath of words issued from Watson's lips.
Watson steps back from his friend, his co-conspirator, his partner, a look of indignant shock plastered over his fine features. Holmes can only implore his friend through his sorrowful depths to understand, to know that he never meant to take it this far, to the point of losing each other. Watson sees, he feels, and he knows, boy does he know. Watson can only turn and leave grabbing his cane and coat that had once again taken residence on the floor in the frenzy of their meeting earlier, pulling the wool fabric tighter around his middle, to hide his most obvious sign of his pleasurable release. Holmes just stays where he stands, for he can't find a reason to stop his doctor, he hears the tap of Watson's shoes descend the seventeen stairs rapidly and the slam of the front door upon his exit. Then silence, devastatingly so.
Watson arrives home in a flourish of coat tails and trembling limbs, Mary is there to greet her husband, the ever doting wife. Watson is repulsed, he can't take the care she has to give, her cheeks lightly flushed with color and her light hair, falling in open curls around her shoulders; he wants to destroy the pretty picture she makes, to strip her down to a savage thing, to kill the innocence that resides in her. He feels his lips turn up in a cruel snarl, when he crashes his lips upon Mary's coy ones, it's the torrid contact that has Mary stumbling backwards and grabbing her chest and covering her mouth, looking upon her dearhusband like a wild beast. To Watson that's what he feels like, an un-caged animal, he needs to be locked away, locked away till he can control his unnatural desires.
"Mary, please forgive my crudeness, I never meant to frighten you darling." He steps forward cautiously, reaching out a reassuring hand to his naive wife. She immediately falls against his chest and clutches the lapels of his coat and cries, she lets her husband rock her gently, whispering soothing words into her ear, apologizing; Watson is the only one who knows they're all lies, Mary relishes in them.
Watson walks his wife upstairs to their bedroom, he lays her gently down upon their bed, and looks at her, lying with her hair spread behind her head, pale skin, and light eyes; he notices the eyes are all wrong, the hair color to light, to fine, and the skin to delicate. He closes his eyes and takes a seat beside his wife on the bed, gently tracing his fingers up and down her bare forearms; he leans down and softly, oh so softly presses his lips against hers, Mary submitting completely to her husband. Watson moves so that he is lying above her, deepening the contact of their kiss, resting his body weight over his knees and forearms. He takes his time, trying not to think how she's too passive, lips to soft, and too quite; the silence is deafening in his ears.
Mary breaks the kiss first, looks upon Watson and smiles kindly up at him, "you must be exhausted from a long day at work, let us get ready for bed my darling," Watson can only nod, the false display of affection making his stomach ill, but he commits to them because that is what is expected of him. He heaves himself off the bed and turns his back to his wife and discards all his clothes, careful in hiding his ruined trousers, and pulls on a long nightshirt. Watson turns back around and strides back over to their bed, hurriedly situating himself on his side, making sure to face away from Mary, he can't look at her sleeping form, ever. Watson closes his eyes in an attempt to gain ground on the sleeping world, but his mind racing to fast to settle; he feels the bed dip, and Mary's hand running lovingly through his short hair. Watson is sure if he had eaten dinner, he would be vomiting it back up at the touch, he just shrugs his shoulders and moves his head further to the edge of his pillow, and Mary lets her hand fall away and they're sleeping, well Mary anyway.
Sleep eludes Watson for another night, the doctor knows that he should just get out of bed and go down to his study, go through some paperwork, at least be productive rather than lie around when he knows nothing will come of it. So Watson meticulously gets out of bed and tip toes down the stairs and collapses against his office chair, the leather cool, permeating through the thin clothe of his nightshirt. He grabs a stack of papers, old patient reports that need to be filed, looked over, but he can't think about anyone other than the misanthropic detective. He plants his elbows on his desk and clutches his hair with his fingers, curling and uncurling his fingers over his scalp; when the air becomes to stifling, the racing of his mind to much, the need to dire, Watson pads back up stairs and dresses again.
He makes sure to pick up his discarded coat from the bedroom floor, as he will need it on his journey out in the night, the weather draping a chill over the city. Watson takes a deep breath and looks back up the stair, to his dozing wife, and flees. He walks the whole way, it seems he's walking forever, but then forever never seems long enough, for he has arrived on the stairs of Baker Street once more. He raises his fist to rap against the solid wooden door, and dear Mrs. Hudson opens the door a minuscule inch to peer out into the dark, her robe wrapped tightly around her petite frame, eyes blurry with sleep.
"Dr. Watson, is that you?" She opens the door wider, ushering him inside, with his positive response, because who else could it be at this time of night (well morning now, as the clocks have already ticked past midnight, though that seems like a fortnight ago). Watson apologizes to the aging landlady and excuses himself up the stairs to the sitting room.
The door is shut, Watson takes another deep breath, remembering his awfully disastrous departure earlier, he gently turns the door knob; it's unlocked. He eases the door open, and sees the glow of a fire, and the smell of tobacco. Finding himself shaking he pushes the door open further and steps inside, Holmes is folded over himself on the settee, his eyes transfixed by the embers and sparks spitting from the fire. The doctor pads over towards his friend, the sound of his shoes against the floor drawing the detectives attention to the intrusion, a look of shock passes over his features, smoothed over to a look of anger, then soon replaced with blank indifference. Holmes pushes himself up, his robe billowing behind him; he meets Watson half way across the floor, and regards his friend with a cautious air.
"My dear Watson, I did not believe you would be returning back to Baker Street so soon, or ever for that matter. I presumed that our earlier encounter had most definitely-"
"Shut up Holmes," and with that the doctor once again grabs his friend's face with both hands, and brings their lips together, almost brutally so.
Holmes instantaneously allows Watson's tongue entrance to his mouth, their tongues meeting in a fury, Watson gently sucking Holmes' into his mouth, then alternating to gently biting the detective's lips, the actions only cause Holmes to groan. The detective clasps his hands on Watson's hips, slipping his fingers under the fabric of his shirt, thumb making lazy patterns against Watson's skin; Watson just sighs into their kiss.
Holmes lets the doctor stay the night, of course he lets him stay the night; the detective can never deny his doctor anything, especially not when his hand is palming him through his trousers.
TBC