A/N: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, hopefully this chapter is just as well received as the others.
Disclaimer: Don't Own
The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed
Ch.3
Mary's worried, she's frightened, she's concerned, but most of all she's heartbroken. Her ever loving husband was gone upon her waking this morning, no note, nothing. She clutches her chest as she stares out into the street, quickly glancing over the men that pass by the window, hoping, praying it's her John; dear, sweet, doting John. Mary lets a tiny sigh escape her lips, her eyes fluttering at the thought of her husband, when the door is roughly thrust open, startling Mary from her reverie. She runs to the entrance hall to see Watson, tossing his coat onto its rack, muttering under his breath.
"John," she sighs, Watson turns to her, his eyes wide, scared. Mary furrows her brow, unaccustomed to that look, Watson quickly recovers.
"My darling," he tugs a smile onto his slightly puffy lips, "I am so immensely sorry for leaving you all alone this morning. I had an emergency, a patience had taken a turn for the worst; his wife called and said that I should rush right over." The doctor ducks his head, an attempt to appear dismayed by the unfortunate turn of events, Mary's convinced, "awful case of pneumonia." Watson leaves it at that, and heads to the bathroom to clean up; he can't have Mary smelling the distinctive brand of tobacco, which only a certain detective seems to be prone to smoking. Mary relaxes, she breathes, she sits; her John is home, she laughs at her silly notions of deception, her John is a good man. She smiles up the stairs that lead to the bathroom and shakes her head, she has no reason to worry over her husband, he's a doctor.
Watson grabs a wash cloth hanging near the vanity, wipes it over his face, and looks at the light shadow of stubble growing along his jaw. He lets his hand glide over the slightly ruff skin, thinking he needs a shave, lest he wants to look like a disheveled mess, like his friend. The thought of the detective brings a wiry grin to Watson's mouth, his lips still tingling from their heated kissing earlier. John lets his mind drift back to Baker Street, to the detective, to their encounter; it was lovely, it was detestable, and most of all it was wrong. Watson's lips turn downward in a disgusted frown; the doctor can't believe himself, his own actions, he drops the wet clothe on the vanity and looks himself in the eyes, unable to see the John Watson that use to be behind the blue irises.
There's a ruff tap on the door, John straightens himself up, tugs at the collar of his shirt brushes down the wrinkles in the front. He opens the door to Mary, his mind blank, his stomach churning, and all he can think is she's hovering, that it's suffocating him, that he needs to put some distance between them. He gives a little cough, and shuffles past Mary. Mary just follows her husband to their room, like the lap dog Watson never wanted, never desired in a wife; but did he ever desire a wife, honestly? Watson gives his head a shake, he can't be thinking like this with Mary around, he can't have her suspecting anything; she has to remain pliant to his wishes, to his touch.
Mary leans against the bedpost; Watson shrugs off his shirt, turns and sees her stare and advances upon his demure wife. Mary gives a shy smile, ducking her head, Watson pushes her chin up with his fingers, giving her a genuinely fake smile, making Mary's heart stutter; the doctor feels his heart stop. Watson, can't help the sickness that always overtakes his body and mind when he has to touch his wife, the way she just falls against his touches, the way she smiles up at him, the way she bats those gloriously long eyelashes at him, or the way that all these things fail to bring anything but abhorrence out of him. Watson leans his head forward, tilts Mary's chin up, and so very delicately presses his lips to her cheeks, then a small kiss to the corners of her mouth, then centers on her lips.
"John," it's a faint whisper, a puff of breath, "John, why do you smell like-" the landlady breaks the moment with a most timely interruption; Watson can only thank the lord.
"Sir, there is a police man at the door requesting your audience. I showed him into the parlor," Watson releases Mary's slight chin and gives the landlady a curt nod. Mary lets her body sag in dismay, loving every moment that she can spend in her husband's company, and relishing his blissful touches. Watson smiles down at her, trying to reassure her, even though it's all forged, their marriage and life, all artificial.
Watson grabs a clean shirt from his wardrobe, quickly buttoning it up on his decent towards the parlor room. He enters to see Lestrade standing rigid, waiting for his reprieve. Watson smiles apologetically at him.
"Lestrade, this is certainly unexpected," Watson replies, pleasant as ever.
"Well, I was sent here by Mr. Holmes request," Lestrade gives a deep sigh, obviously annoyed by the detective's childish haberdashery. "Mr. Holmes said he could not further his investigation any further without your assistance. So, he said that you had to be summoned." Lestrade gives another dramatic sigh, and Watson can't help but to notice Lestrade's rodent-like appearance becoming more prominent in his annoyance.
"Sounds like Holmes," Watson gives a snort of laughter, lips curling in the corners, "but why couldn't you just send Clarke? I know that you would be more help at the scene, you are the head of police." Watson's smile grows a little at Lestrade's dark look.
"Well, your friend said that he had to make sure that the message was delivered by the least mentally inept member of the police force," Lestrade's eyes burn in rage, but his voice stays even, Watson internally praises Lestrade on his emotional restraint; Holmes is definitely not an easy man to work with, if you aren't Watson of course. Watson can only laugh, Lestrade can only seethe.
"So, how about we be on our way, best not keep Holmes waiting," Lestrade can only nod his head in assent, because boy does he know. Both men make their way to the door, Watson grabs his coat from the rack near the door, he never once looks back, never once sees his wife standing at the top of the stairs, never once notices her eyes clouding with tears, and he never sees the anger in her reticent depths.
Holmes is looming over the body, or what is remaining of the once human looking figure, now only a pile of internal organs and severed limbs. Holmes maneuvers around the body with deadly precision, pulling out his magnifying glass to look at the blood splatter here, and the type of serrated edges of the severed arms, or the configuration of the of the organs. The detective hums and stands back, his eyes darting around the crime scene, picking up evidence and storing what most would declare trivial in his forever expanding mind; synapses firing, messages being received, thoughts coming into a conglomerate of theories and solutions. This is when Watson and Lestrade arrive, Holmes looks over to his colleague, and sniffs, because that just doesn't justify what they are, does it? Holmes doesn't allow himself too much time to ponder on that thought, there is a case to solve, a criminal to be caught, and this relationship with Watson is far beyond him.
Holmes meets Watson half way between the hansom cab and the 'body', smiles at Lestrade and utters, "come along Watson, " and snatches the cab before it has a chance to make an escape. Watson gives Lestrade a rueful look, Lestrade just gapes, and Holmes just smiles. Watson strides up next to the detective, "there is nothing more of interest here, the real clues are where the rest of the body is," Holmes answers Watson's silent question.
"Right and I'm assuming you know where the rest of the body is located?" Watson asks, but really he already knows the answer to the question, but out of good humor asks it anyways.
"Most definitely," Holmes looks over at him and gives him a dashing smile, and climbs up into the cab; Watson follows and sidles up next to Holmes.
"Moriarty then," Watson turns to regard his friend, Holmes just shakes his head negative; his eyes looking out into the street, his mind buzzing with information, with clues, with his conclusions.
"Highly doubtful my dear Watson, but good guess, but a guess none the less." Holmes turns to stare back at Watson, an arrogant gleam glimmering from his eyes, Watson huffs in irritation.
Watson and Holmes pull up in front of Baker Street; Watson gives Holmes an inquisitive look. The detective shrugs his shoulders. "I have to process all the new information I have obtained before dashing about London, I have two theories, both could be correct," Holmes slides out of the cab mumbling all the way up to the door, and up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Holmes grabs his pipe from the small side table next to his chair, and stuffs the pipe with his favorite tobacco, and with a flick of his wrist and the light of a match, smoke starts to lazy drift up from the lit pipe. Watson shuffles over to the detective's desk and pours himself a small glass of brandy; he needs something to calm him while being so close to his friend.
Both men sit in contemplative silence, Holmes running over his new case, and Watson running over the lines and angles that make up the detective's body, Watson can't help but think it's all shameful really; he would never ogle Mary like this, never. The doctor locks his gaze on the nimble fingers that are gently handling the pipe that rests in their dexterous grip, the way they can cause so much misery while in a fight, but can feel so heavenly floating over Watson's body. Watson gives a slight shudder, he berates himself for such self disparaging thought, they will do no good, especially with Holmes fixated on a case, they are just trivial.
Watson glances up to Holmes' face and sees that light sheen in his eyes, knows that he's far away in thought; Watson sits his glass down and stands. He walks over to the window, and peels open the curtains to let in the gloomy London sky, covered in clouds. He just stands and watches the people walking down Baker Street, he may not be able to deduce the strangers jobs, if they are cheating on their spouses by their coat tails, or if they have just left from an illegal business transaction by their gait, but he does enjoy just watching. His vision sticks to a couple walking down the street hand-in-hand, and watches the soft touches, the secret looks, and intimate whispered words between the two. A part of Watson feels anger towards the obviously happy couple; Watson wants the love they share, not this lustful macabre life that he feels trapped in.
His thought instantly come to a halt when the doctor feels warm air ghost over the back of his neck, his muscle tense, his blood thunders through his veins, and his mind reels. Holmes drops his head down on the crook of Watson's shoulder, his untamed hair, tickling the sensitive skin of the doctor's neck. Holmes carefully maneuvers his hands around to the front of Watson's coat, undoing the buttons one by one, and then playfully unbuttoning the tidy dress shirt underneath. Watson's body relaxes into the feather light touches, the trace of finger over his exposed abdomen, the gentle glide of fingers over his collarbone, then the soft caress of the fingers working their way back down to the hem of the doctor's trousers. Holmes lets his fingers skim over the skin right under the waistband of Watson's pants, eliciting a quite sigh from Watson.
"Holmes," Watson murmurs, "what about your case?" Holmes just gives a grunt against Watson's shoulder in reply, because his mind can multitask; and honestly, how can he think when Watson is so close, so willing?
Holmes lifts his head from Watson's shoulder and kisses the back of Watson's neck, right below his hair line, then gently bites the skin, making Watson jump slightly and moan; all thoughts of cases and dead bodies gone. Holmes lips curve into an arrogant smile, because he knows that he is the only one that can make his Watson squirm like this, that he is the only one who can make Watson scream for him ,and oh how he love when he screams. Holmes rubs his obvious arousal against Watson's rear, dipping his hand into his doctor's trouser to grab hold of him, none to gently. Holmes pumps his hand along Watson's length, all Watson can do is flatten his hands against the window for support and moan out the detective's name. Watson can feel the familiar fire building in his groin, can feel his body heat building, can feel his legs begin to shake, and he just keeps pushing into Holmes hand for more
"Do you want to come my dear Watson, do you want to come John?" The doctor gives a breathy moan upon hearing his first name from Holmes' lips.
Watson knows he's close, he's so close, his hips pushing forward faster, harder, because he needs more. Holmes feels Watson's desperation, knows he's close, so he pulls his hand away, steps back and breaks all contact from his dear doctor. Watson almost falls against the window, a low growl escaping from his throat; he turns on his friend, a snarl gracing his fine features. Holmes just smirks.
"Holmes, why did you stop? You can't just stop!" Watson all but screams in outrage, his appearance comical with an obvious tenting in his trousers, his face flushed, and his irate tantrum.
"Would you like me to continue?" Holmes' posture is confident and superior, and damn what that haughty look does to Watson's libido. Watson Just gives Holmes an incredulous look, as if the answer is positively elementary. "Well then my dear Watson, you must ask, nay, beg…nicely," and Watson's face falls into a mask of shock. He looks Holmes dead in the eyes and sees the seriousness reflected there, and Watson can only lean his back against the wall and gape, they have never played this game before. Holmes remains motionless, his cocky smirk still playing over his lips, patiently waiting for his answer, Watson straightens his back against the wall, and tries to regain some modicum of propriety back, but he's beyond that already.
"Holmes," Watson is slightly flustered by the uneven voice that issues from his throat, he clears his throat and tries again, "Holmes, you can't honestly expect me to beg, can you?" Holmes just raises his brow in question, and Watson's body sags again, he knows he's in a battle that he can't win. So Watson turns his gaze to the ground, "Holmes, please…please…touch me." Holmes' smirk becomes a full blown grin, teeth bared and eyes shining, if it wasn't for the smug edge to the raise of his lips, one would assume that he had received the world's most appealing Christmas present, in the middle of summer.
"I'm sorry Watson; I didn't quite catch that last statement. You were mumbling, you know how I hate when you mumble so," Watson brings his head up, sniffs his nose at Holmes, and repeats the words, and Holmes knows that he's just died, that this can't be real, but it is, and he's positively delighted.
Holmes saunters back over to his doctor and cups his face in between his hands and looks into those blazing blue depths. "Well, since you asked so nicely," Holmes chuckles, "how could I deny you?" Watson is pinned against the wall, use to his more submissive position, as it seems he is being shoved against walls on a more frequent basis now; but he plans to remedy that soon, maybe.
Holmes unfastens Watson's trousers and lets them fall around his thighs, and slowly starts his hand's tortuous glide down Watson's cock. Watson throws his head back against the ruff wood and lets a load moan issue from his throat, Holmes takes full advantage, nipping at the newly exposed skin of the doctor's neck. Watson bucks into the hand wrapped tightly around him, and looses himself to the sensation, his eyes close and all he can see is stars.
Watson comes with a violent jerk forward, grabbing hold of Holmes shoulders to help keep him stable, Holmes watches the way Watson's face contorts into sheer ecstasy, and revels in it. Holmes brings his hand away from Watson and licks away the fluid that coats the digits, Watson's eyes blown black, widen and his breathing once again quickens, and he surely can't help the breathy murmur of 'Sherlock' that escapes from between his parted lips. Holmes eyes are just as dark, just as delirious; sneaking his tongue out to run deliciously up and down along his long fingers, to stop and suck coquettishly at the tips. Watson is reduced to staring, and Holmes smirks in victory.
"Well now Watson, you can't have all the fun, I'm not privy to phrases of fancy, but I have heard that you should do unto others as you wish others to do unto you," Holmes eyes are endless black flames, and Watson can feel himself being devoured, "so, what say you?"
TBC