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]

While he doesn't make any vocalizations, his breath hitches in his throat, and he breathes raggedly as he forces himself to relax into this. It comes to him again that they're having sex on Watson's desk, and it's likely that every time he looks at this desk, he'll remember being taken on it, and probably Watson will remember this too, so Lestrade's next visit ought to be extra entertaining.

"Much better," he hisses finally under his breath. He wills the tension out of him so that he can rock back, slightly, against Watson; that brings a small moan from his throat.

[lightconductor]

With a small moan of his own, Watson moved his hands to grip Holmes's hips. He moved slow, forcefully but slow, trying for that compromise between force and drawing it out.

"Oh, I can do better," he said, hoarse and eager, his grip tightening slightly. Words were hard to form.

[mustbethetruth]

He's pleased when the desk rattles with Watson's thrusts while Holmes tries to brace himself a little better, almost as pleased as he is to hear Watson goading him right back. He loves when their sex is like this, teasing and rough and all dominance, and he meets Watson's thrusts with increasing eagerness now that his body has adjusted properly.

"I look forward to it," he says thickly, his head falling forward. "But don't feel bothered to rush."

[lightconductor]

He could feel the sweat standing out on his forehead already. Judging it an appropriate time, and unable to resist it any longer, Watson moved a little faster. He couldn't seem to keep his hands still, sliding them over Holmes's back, exploring the curves and angles and lines of his body, counting the ridges of ribs beneath his skin.

"I won't rush anymore," he murmured, "than I have to."

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is torn now, as he does want to draw this out because it's wonderful, but he also would like it very much if Watson decided to fuck him as hard as he could without making it impossible for Holmes to stand. He grinds back against him, feeling himself come alive underneath Watson's touch; it allows him a moment to fantasize that Watson is learning him, like how Holmes learns Watson, and there's little else more arousing to him than Watson exercising his mental faculties.

"I'm beginning to doubt," he manages, though it's difficult; he swallows thickly and tries again, "that you really have more to give."

[lightconductor]

Watson would have scoffed, had he the breath or presence of mind for it. There was really only one possible reaction to a challenge like that, and that was to let his actions speak for him.

He tightened his grip on Holmes, and increased his pace significantly, thrusting hard. Perhaps the goal of holding out as long as possible was going to fail, but it would be in a good cause if it was.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes makes a strangled noise, and he couldn't even begin to identify what it's meant to convey. Surprise, desire, pleasure -- it's just a noise, and Holmes is lost as Watson thrusts against him. After that, he doesn't make a sound; his mouth falls open in breathless gasps, and he certainly no longer has the ability to form words.

He holds out as long as he can before he wraps a hand around his cock, succumbing to the need for friction; after that he comes apart easily with another sharp gasp, and his hips twitch and jerk as he rides out the sensation.

[lightconductor]

Watson was not far behind, and he did groan as he came, trying his hardest not to go entirely limp on top of Holmes. He was hot and sweaty by now, and just about ready to collapse.

His desk. He had just sodded Holmes on his desk.

With what strength he still had, he dragged Holmes up by the shoulder, kissed him hard, and tugged him in the direction of the sofa, impatient, exhausted.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes doesn't have any complaints, nor the breath to voice them, so he follows along willingly. He flops down inelegantly -- post-orgasmic bliss is the only reason for Holmes's inelegance, most of the time -- and draws Watson with him. He throws his leg over Watson's hips and wraps their bodies together.

"God, but you are spectacular at that," he puffs, and he runs his hand up Watson's back, smoothing over his spine.

[lightconductor]

"And you doubted me," Watson answered, equally breathless. He settled himself into Holmes's embrace, his eyes shut for sheer exhaustion. It was more than a little gratifying to so completely break through Holmes's defenses and pretenses; this was something, he thought, that no other man was currently privileged to see.

"This game with mistletoe you propose," he added presently, when he'd had the chance to catch his breath, "could very well be the death of us."

[mustbethetruth]

"I didn't doubt you, my dear. I goaded you." He draws Watson in close and takes a deep breath, inhaling him and the smell of sex and holly and their home. He smiles, privately, and then turns and presses that smile into Watson's hair.

"And surely it will be a type of death, anyway."