Take care of those you call your own, and keep good company...

[lightconductor]

It had been a long, if not unrewarding day. Now, though, Watson was glad to relax in the comfort of familiar surroundings. There was something perfect about the cosiness of their rooms, the crackle and warmth of the fire, the scent of dinner and brandy and tobacco smoke. It was home, and it was far more perfect than he felt he had any right to claim.

He was stretched out on the sofa, comfortably full, with a novel propped up on his chest while he rested his head in Holmes's lap. The position was comfortable, intimate, and while in part he worried that it was... unmanly, unbecoming, unduly effeminate... it felt strangely safe, and he was grateful for the warmth of the thigh beneath his head.

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[mustbethetruth]

It's mesmerizing to be felt like that by Watson, when he normally associates such attempts at memorization to himself. He's still for it, his eyes on Watson all the while, and he cups the back of Watson's neck, rubbing gently up onto the nape of his neck. He realizes there's something going on here, something in Watson's mind, that's making him so affectionate, so sentimental; it's a good thing, of course, and it warms something inside Holmes.

"Yes, my dear, it is." He pulls Watson into a languid kiss, comfortable and familiar, taking his time because there's no need to rush when Watson is his, when this night is theirs and they have it all to themselves. "What do you suggest we do with it?"

[lightconductor]

There was a strange sense of fatalism in this, in finding himself giving over entirely into... well, this. All of it. Its forbidden nature, its illegality, its inherent exoticism: while once it would have been daunting, now it simply was. He was okay. He was in love with a man, an incredible, extraordinary man, and that was all right.

He could do this. How strange, still, that with all the women he'd known he would find such love with a man, a sort of love that made him think, secretly, of soulmates.

Watson kissed him leisurely, savouring Holmes, his eyes closed. This was where he belonged. "We should make the best of it," he murmured. "Savour each other. Celebrate that we found one another."

[mustbethetruth]

"Sounds manageable." He presses a kiss to each of Watson's cheeks, and his forehead, and finally his mouth again, lingering at his lips. Watson's certainly in an affectionate mood, one that Holmes isn't quite entirely sure how to reciprocate, not because he doesn't also feel affection for Watson; quite the opposite, he feels almost shy and a little overwhelmed.

"You make it sound as if we haven't done this as often as we possibly could," he says with a small smile, reaching between them to undo Watson's collar.

[lightconductor]

"Sometimes," Watson murmured, "I feel as though we haven't. I'm very depraved, I confess."

Even before being involved with a man, that had been true. It had always been true. He was no true gentleman, no matter how he might conduct himself during the day. He plucked Holmes's collar open, and pressed his mouth against the hollow of his throat. He let his lips linger there, sighing against Holmes's skin, tasting him. Watson's teeth caught at Holmes's flesh, gently.

He felt hungry, he felt worshipful, he felt like losing himself in Holmes's presence.

[mustbethetruth]

"That you are," he says warmly, his voice thickening with desire, and he runs his hand down Watson's front, feeling the solid, warm weight of him through his clothes, a package waiting to be opened. He doesn't delay much longer in opening it, undoing buttons.

"Thankfully, I gladly suffer your vices. It's a testament to how much I love you." Leaning in, he catches Watson's mouth in a kiss, distinctly hungry, and he scrapes his teeth against his bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth.

[lightconductor]

Watson groaned softly, shutting his eyes as he surrended into that kiss. It wasn't every day that he felt like surrendering, and he couldn't quite explain why he did today. Whether it was the distinct feeling of safety he'd had all evening, whether he could not resist such tenderness as he'd been privy to -- he didn't know. He trusted Holmes, though, and he loved him, and he wanted to be loved.

He slid his hand over the side of Holmes's neck, returning his kiss in a tangle of teeth and tongue and lips.

"You are too kind," he murmured, rather hoarsely, "my love." He kissed Holmes again, rather desperately, sliding himself over Holmes's chest as though he were trying to melt the two of them together. He movements were slow, languid, savouring every inch of contact between them, and he slid his hand down between them, over Holmes's stomach, grazing his fingers over his flies.