Deck the Halls

[lightconductor]

Watson had, despite the danger, been out about town that day. It was, after all, seasonally important. He had brought his revolver with him, at the very least.

Still, he had gone out to fetch several packages of pine, some holly, perhaps a sprig or two of mistletoe, various other decorate flora. With these prizes, he climbed the seventeen steps to their rooms, feeling remarkably happy, despite all that threatened them. Christmas was almost upon them, after all. It was hard to be terribly worried.

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[mustbethetruth]

"And other things, I hope," he says, strained, as he musters up the attention required to help Watson remove items of clothing. It would be decidedly unsexy if they had to stop and tend to him, or if he hurt himself out of his stubborn determination to be perfectly fine, despite the healing wound on his arm.

[lightconductor]

Watson gave a small groan suddenly, as he bent his arm in an unfortunate way, straining the stitches. Foolish of him, but he'd been thinking of almost anything else, of Holmes and of impending sex, not his own infirmity.

He dropped his head down onto Holmes's shoulder, his eyes shut, while he tried to regain his equilibrium, tried to breathe through the sharp pain as it faded into dull throbbing.

[mustbethetruth]

He kisses the nape of Watson's neck and runs a soothing hand down his good arm as he waits for Watson to recover. He'd been afraid of this, of Watson's enthusiasm and stubbornness, both traits he loves him for, of course, but traits that inevitably lead them to this.

"Patience, my dear," he murmurs, and he noses the hair at the nape of Watson's neck. "Let me unwrap my own presents." He slips his hand underneath Watson's shirt and drags his knuckles over his rib cage.