Prompt 46: Last
A/n: Did I just write 4k of Victorian porn? Yes, yes I did! Nsfw content ahead folks, tread carefully!
"Here dwell together still two men of note,
Who never lived and so can never die:
How very near they seem, yet how remote
That age before the world went all awry.
But still the game's afoot for those with ears
Tuned to catch the distant view-halloo:
England is England yet, for all our fears-
Only those things the heart believes are true.
A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
As night descends upon this fabled street:
A lonely hansom cab splashes through the rain,
The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety five." -221b,
Snow swirled, pure white and glistening through the cobbled streets of London, blustering around carriages and cloaks to fall silently on the ground and just as quickly turn grey and squelchy under feet. November had been bitterly cold and while most were attempting to remain indoors in so far as one can, the criminal world was not so deterred by adverse weather conditions. Rather a pity, that. For Holmes this was a gift of stellar proportions, chases were made twice as exciting in the navigating of ice on the roads and the general lack of visibility while evidence (or dismembered parts) was preserved beautifully by London itself.
"Must you be quite so fastidious in your note taking Watson? Half the time the most relevant details are forgotten about anyway and you're currently ignoring the actual events you write about occurring, Master Smyth won't reassemble himself you know!" Holmes quipped cheerily as he manoeuvred a lump of what was probably torso at one point a small degree to the left. Watson smiled and tucked his notebook away with an exasperated but fond sigh, pulling his gloves back on before he crouched next to the detective as he attempted to reconstruct the various pieces of the late Mr Smyth they had managed to recover into something resembling a body.
"Well Holmes, now that you have my full attention, what do you make of it?" He asked, gesturing to the scattered bits of flesh around them. Holmes had been rushing about all day to find what they had now before them and there were still a few key... parts... unaccounted for. Few of Lestrade's men had been able to stomach it, a fact that brought Holmes no small amount of pleasure as it meant they were left to their own devices, a rare occurrence in their work for Scotland Yard.
Holmes pointed to a section that, based on it's placement in relation to the rest of the pieces and the hunk of bone sticking out of it, was probably a hip piece and turned to face him with an encouraging look.
"Tell me what you see, and I shall reveal all I have deduced afterward." Watson raised his brow at the request, a not unfamiliar one but one Watson could have gone without. On the rare occasion that he said anything of use, it was unwittingly, a jumping off point that Holmes used rather than a discovery of significance to the case. These small tests of skill were often Holmes' way of checking whether proximity to genius had made him any more intelligent, as the medical knowledge he had alone was quite extensive, there was no reason for Watson's opinion, although he would ask for it each case they took. Potentially to add legitimacy to the endeavour, after all having a certified doctor to confirm his findings was quite useful for the Yard when they brought a case before the court. Still, having one's lack of deductive ability pointed out was not exactly a pleasant experience. He spoke each time regardless.
"Well, it looks to be the hip" he began warily, Holmes' slight nod all he required to continue " there is some bruising on the surface, although quite what caused it I can't fathom without the full picture... the bone looks healthy for something that has been hacked apart with what I believe to be an axe or large knife? It is quite a sight bloodier than some of the other pieces we have so I would say it was one of the first cuts, potentially pre-mortem. That is the limit of my observations, now let us hear your own Holmes, for I am sure they are far more extensive than mine."
Holmes, beneath the brim of his cap, looked quite pleased at the attempt which, Watson supposed, was something. He looked much less severe when he was pleased and Watson couldn't help the swell of pleasure in his gut at the knowledge that his work was the cause.
"You've been paying attention Watson! Just a simple leap that you missed this time, perhaps if you had, as you said, the whole picture, it would have come to you. The bruising is in the shape of hand prints, and female hands at that, the width, or rather the lack of it made that much clear." Watson gasped in shock.
"A woman did this?!" Holmes shook his head with a half smile.
"I didn't say that, although a woman did have a part to play, oh yes." Frowning, Watson puzzled over the implications of what Holmes was saying and only succeeded in tying himself in knots. Holmes sighed.
"And to think I was convinced you'd almost gotten it. A lover, Watson. Our Mr Smyth here had a mistress, and a married one at that. Clearly they got carried away, I wouldn't be shocked to find marks of a similar nature on the lady in question, and those marks almost certainly lead to this situation." Now that he'd explained it the whole thing seemed obvious, a husband, enraged at the infidelity of his wife had sought revenge on the man responsible.
"A bit extreme don't you think? To want to get your revenge of course yes that is understandable, but to go through the trouble of butchering a man in this way, and then scattering the pieces all over town while apparently keeping his manhood as a trophy, it would have taken an awful lot to do it." Holmes nodded as he made to stand.
"I did say that love is the most vicious of motivators, why just last- wait. Repeat yourself precisely, exactly what you just said." A gleam, bright with the turning of wheels in his mind overtook Holmes' eyes and Watson struggled to mimic himself exactly.
"Well, first there was a bit about how this is an extreme reaction, and perhaps I said something along the lines of understanding the want of revenge but that butchering another man in this fashion-" Holmes leapt to his feet and grinned, clapping his gloves hands together.
"That's it Watson! Not an axe but a cleaver, it was the butcher! Come along at once and we shall see if he is still to be found!" With that he was pulled to his feet and they were off, racing out of the alleyway past the sergeants stationed at the opening and off down the street to the butcher shop.
It took only a few moments of work for Holmes to get the lock open and they were inside, aware that their culprit would not be out in the open awaiting them, the logical place to begin looking was of course the cool room, where meat hooks swung and blood of all kinds (including apparently that of one Mr Smyth) spattered the floor and walls and it was rather dark, save for the open door behind them allowing at least a sliver of light to reach them as they walked carefully further in. It was this light that allowed Watson to see the shadow of a cleaver raised high.
"Holmes, Duck!" He yelled before rushing at the hulk of a man, adrenaline pumping through his every cell, to knock him to the ground with a tackle as Holmes spun out of the path of danger. The struggle was a brief one after that, a few good hits were all it took to subdue him, and the arrival of a few constables and a lamp soon after was the cue for their departure, which was not taken without some small degree of consternation from Lestrade until they were finally dismissed,although not before Holmes had stumbled across the 'crown jewels' as they were, in a display jar on a shelf, and the butcher's wife tied in the corner. The constables had been suddenly very keen to be out of the butcher shop as well.
The hansom ride home was an unpleasant one,only due to the fact that Holmes had rolled across a floor covered in blood and other unsavoury things and as such was not a delight on the senses. Dusk had fallen and the silence between them was one of ease rather than discomfort, with the snow still falling and people in their homes, silence reigned supreme. Watson's gaze drifted occasionally towards Holmes, only to find each time he was already being watched as their gazes met. He was not sure what Holmes was seeing, but it was clearly quite vexing. It was a relief when the cab pulled up to Baker street, and home.
"Oh there you two are, I was wondering when you would return Mr Holmes, after one of your little workers came running to say that you'd need a bath run and then scattered I was left quite worried that the hot water would go to waste. Still, not to worry now, it's all set up in the usual spot, tea as well Mr Watson, Just this once mind you, I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson exclaimed as soon as the front door opened and she chivvyed both men upstairs to their flat instantly and was gone downstairs before either had a chance to thank her. The bath, tin bright and water steaming sat carefully in front of the fire and Watson, seeing tea laid waiting for him in the kitchen made a beeline for it while he could hear the sound of buttons being undone behind him. Once the sound of water sloshing began he felt he could eat comfortably, although the feeling of being watched lingered, he did not dare turn around.
Ensconced in a chair Watson read the evening paper, shaking his head at the brief mention of their exploits and the implied expectation of the story in the near future. The fire was warm, the lamps low, curtains drawn tight against the dark and the chill and it sounded like Holmes was out of the bath.
"Watson?" It was tentatively spoken, softly uttered into the stillness of the night and of course he would turn around, stand to try and source the ill that made Holmes, confident in his every endeavour, speak thusly. He turned to find Holmes much closer than he had anticipated him to be, and while he was indeed out of the bath, that did not mean he was in a state to be looked upon by Watson, but it seemed as if look was all he could do. Clad only in a towel held around the waist, Holmes was still damp and flush from his bath and Watson could not tear his eyes away from the water droplets rolling down from his hair, taking a path over his chest and finally disappearing into the towel line. He could barely think, but managed to wrestle a question from his lips.
"Holmes, what...? I'm not-" Holmes swallowed and there was no hope in his voice, his eyes cast down, unable to meet Watson's when he spoke next.
"Watson... I.." he coughed and took a half step backward, and Watson was surprised to feel his fingers twitch with the desire to put him back where he had started. "I know it is indecent and improper and a host of other such sins but, try though I might... It is... you, are, rather... and I am hopelessly... I... John." His heart broke for him as he stumbled over words, the burden he had carried and would carry, this truth of himself that could never see the light of day, a cruel irony against a man obsessed with finding the truth. That was nothing compared to what his heart did when his Christian name spilled from his mouth, or when he finally met John's gaze and he could see such fear in him that the level of trust it must have taken for Holmes to reveal this secret, a secret that could see him imprisoned, ruined, castrated, was unbelievable.
"I... If you are not... I would ask that you say nothing... you would have been the first so no crime has technically been committed and... Yes. Well. I apologize for this grievous lapse in judgement, please excuse me." That was the moment John stopped debating, stopped caring whether this would end in the ruination of them both for the terrible sin of loving each other. When he moved to turn away, to go and leave this behind for good, John reached out and lay his hand on his arm, softly, softly turning him back to face him.
"Sherlock" John murmured and Sherlock choked under the weight of it, just one word and he was in pieces already "I know the risk you took in doing this, how it has hurt you already to get to this point, unable to contain it any longer, I cannot bear to think about for it hurts me to imagine you in the same pain that I have felt for years. If this, if loving you as much as anyone has ever loved another, is a sin and a crime, it is one that I would willingly die for." The tears that welled in Sherlock's eyes, bright and sudden as he spoke made John hold the one piece of him he had in his hand tighter, and when, as he finally was honest with himself and Sherlock both, for he had loved him from the start, Sherlock's tears began to fall in earnest John couldn't help but pull him close.
"Oh love, I'm so sorry I was silent, surely you must have known how I loved you from the moment I was introduced?" Sherlock shook his head.
"If I had known that you... that you loved me as I loved you... I do not know what I would have done. I am not sure I could have taken it." He trembled, half bare in the light of the fire and John couldn't stand it, to see him so uncertain even with the knowledge of his affections. Slowly he moved his hands upwards to cradle the sharp lines of his face.
"Had I known, had I even half your courage in this matter, I know what I would have done." John said quietly, thumb stroking from jaw to ear. Freshly washed, Sherlock's hair curled beautifully as it dried, a state John had never been privy to before today, only allowed to see the slicked back and finished product that Sherlock presented to the world. It was like seeing for the first time.
"What?" Sherlock's breath stuttered when John's hands held him, like he was something that was to be cherished above all else. John's smile at his question was one of anticipation, and as his hands brought them face to face, Sherlock could see why.
"This." John breathed it into the scant space between their mouths and then, with one last look into his eyes, closed the distance and kissed him. The inhuman noise that wrenched from Sherlock's throat as lips, warm and wanting, met his own was almost a sob, and before he thought about what he was doing he was clutching John to him, hands scrabbling for purchase at his back, and they were suddenly pressed together from head to toe.
The sound of fabric hitting the floor made John look for the source. "Oh." His eyes widened at the sight before him, and Sherlock, once he had caught his breath, realised the situation quite quickly. He flushed red, frozen to the spot as John stared at him in his nakedness, and while he stuttered bits and pieces of an apology and reached down to retrieve the towel, a hand stopped him. He looked up in askance and this time it was John's turn to flush.
"I... you may, of course, cover yourself if that is your wish but I... I am quite happy to have you bare for there is much I would like to do, to you, with you, for you...entirely your decision of course. Just to kiss you is more than I had ever hoped for... Sherlock?" As John's intentions became clear, explicit as they were Sherlock could feel his knees going beneath him, and John, ever watchful, caught him before he could fall, a pleased little smirk fighting it's way onto his face.
"You cannot say such things and expect me to remain unaffected! The very idea is enough to make a man weak, let alone hearing the words come from your mouth." John chuckled, steering Sherlock towards his arm chair and sitting in it himself, all the while removing articles of clothing until Sherlock was silent and he was down to vest and trousers, belt being the last thing he dropped.
"Where... what am I supposed to...?" In this, John had the knowledge, the art of it, and Sherlock, stiffening as he was under the hungry gaze John was giving him, did not know what was expected of him.
"Come and sit with me." John smiled, patting the spaces next to either of his legs and an image of what that would entail, Sherlock bare in his still clothed lap, rose unbidden to Sherlock's mind. He was quick to put the idea into practice, legs spread around John's, hands braced against the arms of the chair, he was completely at John's mercy, and so exactly where he wanted him. Their lips met again with much more fervour than before, and John's tongue played at the seam of his lips, asking entry in a demand Sherlock couldn't refuse. The sensation was heady, as if his mouth was directly connected to all the pleasure centres in his body and the knowledge that John was inside of him, his dna inextricably combining with Sherlock's own was enough to have Sherlock desperate for his touch.
John was unsure if he could withstand even this small pleasure, not with the sounds, greedy and wanton, that spilled from Sherlock's lips making him wonder what Sherlock would sound like when he touched him, when he brought him to his release. Combining that with the way Sherlock began to writhe in his lap, seeking friction and pressing his hardness into John's stomach, John couldn't find it in himself to make them slow this pleasure. He was Sherlock's first ever, Sherlock was his first man, and they had waited in love and agony for far too long as it was. With this in mind John reached down and stroked, gently, and the groan it solicited, his name like a prayer from lips that he had made red, made him single minded: he would wring pleasure from Sherlock with everything he had.
Sherlock panted and grasped at the arms of the chair, rapturous in his pleasure as John took him in hand, teeth nipping at ears and neck followed swiftly by his tongue, eyes locked on what his hand was doing like he was seeing the heavens open before him (John was sure that he was), and all but growling words into his skin.
"Look, look how beautiful you are like this, and all for me. My God Sherlock, you don't know what you do to me. Yes, that's it love, give in to it, you're perfect, absolutely perfect." Words streamed constantly from his mouth, encouragement, praise, worship all breathed into him while he could say nothing but John. Each small touch was a new ecstasy, and Sherlock whined when John's hand left him, flushed red and aching with the need for release. With strength Sherlock could not have hoped to posses at the moment, John lifted him and flipped them, settling Sherlock back into the chair and then dropping to his knees.
"If you are amenable I would... I cannot think of a way to inquire without sounding pornographic, but I would taste you, if you are amenable, and after, when we have both found our release, I would take you to bed with me simply for the pleasure of being at your side." Sherlock could barely breathe, the thought of John's competent tongue coaxing him to climax and perhaps even seeing John's own release, added on to John's desire to lay with him in the most innocent sense of the word simply took his breath from him. John's eyes bored into his own, blue as the sky and sparkling as he nodded his consent.
The second John's lips parted around him he was done for, certain he would not last for more than another minute at best. Looking down at him, the picture of contentment with Sherlock's prick sliding in and out of his mouth was torture.
"John" Sherlock groaned and John looked wickedly up at him and hummed, sending sparks through Sherlock's entire body. John's jaw ached but he was damned if he was going to stop now, not when he had the velvet heat of Sherlock on his tongue, the sound of his appreciation loud and glorious as his rumpled curls and sweat slick skin. He'd forgone hesitance, and simply done what felt the best to him, and whatever got Sherlock to moan the loudest. His own pleasure demanded to be attended to and his trousers were open, his hand flying as he sucked and licked, revelling in the fluid that leaked in earnest into his mouth and hand. He felt it when Sherlock grew impossibly harder against his tongue and knew that this was it. He stared up at his face and waited for rapture to take it, hand and mouth both moving faster in anticipation.
"I- I am close, John! John, I'm about to, I'm about to, to, Oh!" White hot ecstasy flooded Sherlock's every sense until all was pleasure and John, crashing over him like waves. The sight of him, lips parted, eyes wide, back arched and skin flushed a dusky pink brought John to the brink, and the taste of him as he spilled on his tongue was all it took for John to join him. John swallowed all that he could, milking him until he began to soften and then finally releasing him before clambering into the chair and allowing him to rest against his chest. Neither man could speak for quite some time.
When he did finally find words, They didn't satisfy Sherlock's need to express the depth of his feelings.
"John, that was indescribable, you were extraordinary, I... have no words for what I am feeling but know that it is more joyful than I have ever been in my life." John smiled, sated and so clearly in love Sherlock's heart aches with the knowledge of it. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's chest and pushed his curls back out of his eyes and Sherlock was suddenly very aware that they may not get the time together that they deserved, for all the knew every minute could be their last before someone accused them and this fantasy, this utterly impossible thing that had grown in the silence between them, would be shattered, and he was afraid. To lose this would be worse than death.
"Shhshhshhh stop thinking. You were incandescent love, but now I think we both could use some sleep. Come with me, we'll deal with everything else tomorrow, right now I just want to feel your skin against mine and know that this is real, this is our future no matter what happens. To everyone outside of that front door you will be Holmes, the most intelligent detective I work with and occasionally write about for the paper, and though I might wish to claim you in front of the entire world, none will be the wiser about the nature of our relationship. Even if the worst does come love, the ends of the earth, prison, God himself couldn't keep me from you now." And Sherlock, wrapped up in a blanket of his arms and soon after in his sheets, believed him