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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[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.