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.

Comments

[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."