Dinner and a show.

[lightconductor]

Continued from here...

Watson was, at least, as good as his word as far as his promise to treat Holmes to dinner went, even if the offer had been made under slightly different circumstances with slightly different goals in mind, slightly different expectations.

Little had changed between them, too, except in an unspoken sense. When they sat together on the sofa they sat closer than they had been, and there were occassional kisses between them, as light and as hesitant as that first night. Whether the excuse was more Holmes's lip or Watson's inexperience was debatable. And if it was the latter, that hurt his pride. He was no blushing virgin, no untried youth. It was the gender of his partner that was new. Surely it could not be so different?

He didn't know the answer to that.

As the week stretched on he was beginning to be just a bit overeager; despite his own unease, his own fears, he was a man of action. He had to wonder if Holmes, being more experienced, was not impatient with him, too.

But he had held onto his riches successfully, and on what had seemed an ideal night he had paid for dinner for the two of them at one of the nicer of their favourite restaurants, and they had gone to a concert afterwards. Both had been splendid. It had been a well-spent evening, despite Watson's dual eagerness and anxiety for what might happen on their return.

Coming home in the hansom afterwards was certainly a far different experience than the ride home from the boxing match. Watson let their shoulders touch, their thighs, surely contact that would look perfectly innocent to an onlooker, although he could not entirely convince himself that they would not immediately be found out and arrested.

Comments

[mustbethetruth]

Though of course Holmes dreads the idea of discovery, he's forgotten how much he enjoys these subversive little games of affection. He lets their thighs rest together, remember how this action seemed too hopeful and risky just about a week ago, and now it's just the tip of a greater iceberg of intimacies.

It is true, though, that he and Watson haven't gotten very far in exploring the physical possibilities between them. He's been hesitant to push things ahead, too afraid of startling Watson by coming on too strong. He'd expressed a good deal of distaste for this kind of lifestyle on that first night of their arrangement, and the last thing Holmes wants is to undue the progress Watson's made toward accepting these desires, and Holmes.

The dinner tonight, though, and the thigh against his own -- it all seems to be conspiring to suggest that maybe Watson is ready for a little more adventurousness. Holmes has kept his attentions light and gentle, half because he had to, but since his lip has healed, it's simply been... awkward. When to start kissing more passionately? When does one just decide that?

Perhaps after a first official outing.

Holmes resolves to try pushing them forward a little bit tonight -- certainly he isn't sure he could wait another day, anyway.

"That was certainly a remarkable evening," he comments finally. "A marked contrast from the way we spent the evening earning our funds for tonight." His tone is innocent but his smile is more playful. "But I suppose there's time yet to see what we can do about that," he adds, much softer, his words nearly lost in the din of the hansom and London just outside it.

[lightconductor]

Watson blushed at Holmes's words, despite himself, and he was infinitely grateful that in the evening light it was not going to be highly visible. There was certainly time that evening to see how things might differ from that evening.

Was he ready for such a step? No, possibly not, but Watson was no coward, and he would not ever be any more ready, and he wanted to take even some very small step forward that night.

"I suppose," he said in an undertone meant to reach Holmes's ears but not those of the cabbie, "that there is. Do you suppose we might..." He hesitated, trying to find the right wording, before deciding the best option was to mirror Holmes's own phrasing. "That we might spend the evening exploring what we might do about that?"

It was vague, yes, and more than a little hesitant, but he also trusted Holmes to grasp his meaning.

[mustbethetruth]

He lifts an eyebrow in surprise, but he's more than pleased to hear Watson's just as eager for some progression in this matter as Holmes is -- well perhaps not just as eager but certainly to some degree. He subtly shifts his leg, his thigh pressing tighter against Watson's for a moment, and his smile widens.

"I don't see why we shouldn't. In fact, I was hoping you might suggest something of the sort, particularly because I was already planning on seeing about it." He winks slightly, suddenly all the more eager to reach Baker street. He knows better than to hope for too much; at the very least some more thorough kissing would be perfect.

[lightconductor]

Giving a small, slightly shaky inhalation, Watson smiled. To say that he was apprehensive was a bit of an understatement, but...

... he did not doubt his feelings. He did not doubt Holmes's, either, for that matter. He doubted the wisdom of acting upon them and he doubted his own ability to not make a complete hash of it. But he didn't doubt that his feelings real and valid, and there was something very alluring about a forbidden romance.

He told himself, firmly, to relax. He would trust Holmes in this.

"How... how convenient that we're in agreement, then." Oh, he wanted this ride to be over.

[mustbethetruth]

"Very convenient. It should make this evening all the more enjoyable." They're close now -- the cab's just going over a patch of road that tells Holmes they're a few minutes away -- and Holmes is far too eager to reach their destination. He can sense Watson's hesitation, and truthfully he feels a little bit of stage fright himself, but he hopes that once they reach privacy he can dispel some of Watson's fears.

"And I'm determined we'll enjoy ourselves," he adds, softer.

[lightconductor]

Watson smiled. He found this answer reliving, for whatever reason. "I'm sure we will," he said, equally soft.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221b, Watson was both infinitely relieved and infinitely apprehensive, but there was no turning back now. He wanted this, he was sure of it. He stepped down from the cab, paying the cabbie rather distractedly -- he was paying for dinner, he may as well pay for the cab as well, while he could afford to do so -- and then turned to look at Holmes with a warm and slightly nervous smile.

"I suppose Mrs. Hudson has retired to bed," he said, somewhat hopefully.

[mustbethetruth]

"And she is a very sound sleeper," he says in a murmur as he joins Watson on the pavement. He grins knowingly and leads the way to the front door, holding it open for Watson. The seventeen steps on the way to their rooms feel endless, and his anticipation builds with each passing moment.

Watson for all his hesitation does seem eager, and something about that sets Holmes to wonder just what he might be able to expect from Watson; the fact that he doesn't know and wouldn't know how to guess at it is all the more thrilling.

When they finally reach their rooms, he's so full of anticipation and readiness that he nearly jumps Watson immediately, but instead he forces some calm onto himself. He doesn't leap on Watson, but he draws a deep breath and goes to close their curtains, his heart pounding excitedly in his chest.

[lightconductor]

Watson watched Holmes close the curtains with a strange sense of detachment, a sense of eager anxiety. He was not trembling, to his faint surprise and infinite relief, but his mind was full of thought. I am going to kiss him. I am going to kiss Holmes, properly, as a lover. I may at some point engage in sexual congress with him.

If he thought about it rationally, it seemed awful, a terrible crime against the soul, or at least against society. If he did not think about it, if he felt, then it felt natural and right.

Feel, don't think.

After ensuring the door was locked, Watson stepped up close behind Holmes at the window, resting his hand very gently on his back. He said nothing, merely looked at Holmes rather expectantly, and a little shyly.

[mustbethetruth]

By the time he feels Watson at his back, Holmes has little patience for preamble. Hasn't this week been preamble enough? He turns around, stepping close so he can wind an arm around Watson's back. The act of taking Watson into his arms feels so much bolder than anything they've done up until this point; their bodies are flush, their faces close. He cups Watson's face lightly and slips his hand into Watson's hair, pulling him into a kiss.

Oh, and it's a relief to finally kiss Watson, firmly and confidently. It seems as if his entire body is on pins and needles in a good way, and all those months of wanting and wondering find their resolution in this embrace, it seems.

[lightconductor]

For a moment, he could hardly move, too overwhelmed to manage that, although thinking was certainly not a problem anymore. It was not like kissing a woman: the smells, the scents, the sensation, the sense of strength behind it and in the hands upon his body, the upwards angle of his face against Holmes's lips, all were inescapably masculine. It was a new experience, and an intoxicating one.

And then, Watson overcame his momentary paralysis, wrapping his arms around Holmes and kissing him back with no lack of enthusiasm. He perhaps did not know the finer details of love between men, but he knew kissing. He could do that well enough, he fancied.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes loves kissing because there's so much to discern from the way someone kisses, how insistent or how giving, how considerate or how tender. And then, of course, Holmes has to reconcile that with their personality because sometimes the similarities aren't clear, and the differences are unexpected. The first, true kisses with someone are the best because they're full of new information, new facts and observations.

The way Watson kisses is not at all disappointing, and the enthusiasm is invigorating. It's a curious thing to kiss someone with a moustache; as both Gideon and Victor were generally clean-shaven, Holmes's experience with facial hair doesn't extend beyond stubble. It makes kissing Watson a definitively distinctive experience, just as it should be.

He lightly strokes the back of Watson's neck as he lets the kiss find an ending, adding another brief kiss or two to Watson's lips.

"Shall we move to the sofa?" he murmurs, finding it difficult not to simply kiss Watson again. He'd underestimated, greatly, the effect that Watson has on him and how much he cares for him. Getting a taste of Watson through his kiss reinforces to Holmes what's important about Watson, what he loves about Watson's company. The earnestness, the ready helpfulness, the loyalty and depth of feeling -- it's all right here, in his arms, and he's almost getting dizzy off it.

[lightconductor]

Watson hissed softly through his teeth, surprise and pleasure at the feel of teeth again. Why did he like that? Why did that edge of roughness attract him so much? It was the same rush of danger he enjoyed when following Holmes about after dangerous criminals with his gun in his pocket, or watching a horse with long odds cross the finish line in the lead when he had a winning bet in his pocket.

His breath was harsh and raw in his throat, gasping as his hands moved to explore Holmes's upper back as best as he could from his position. He couldn't see what he was doing, perhaps, but he could try to learn the feel of the muscles in Holmes's back by touch alone.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes greedily maps Watson's skin, intent on learning him thoroughly, so that when he gets a chance to do this again, he can test himself, relearn Watson. Truthfully, however, he's far too eager now to put off moving onto the next level. It's been a while since he had someone like this, and Watson's charms are really having their effect on him.

And besides, the night is young yet. His patience may be better later.

He kisses lower, onto Watson's stomach, reaching underneath his chest to undo Watson's flies.

[lightconductor]

The thrill of fear, of apprehension that ran through him was doubtlessly inevitable. This was the last barrier between where they were now and where this night was leading. If he were going to stop this, it would be now. It would have to be now. From this point on, as Watson saw it, there was no turning back.

He did not stop it.

He flinched reflexively away from Holmes's kisses on his stomach, more because it was rather ticklish than out of discomfort. Truthfully, it felt good, rather unexpected, very intimate. How naturally they slid into this, too, from friendship and comfortable companionship into a sexual intimacy. How natural, how right.

Watson slid his hand into Holmes's hair, the gesture almost caressing.

[mustbethetruth]

His eyes flutter shut at the hand in his hair, momentarily distracted from his task. That near caress is more affecting than any of the touches in lust have been, and it nearly startles him how it ripples through his body. He glances up at Watson, up the length of his body to his face, and something inside him constricts.

He flashes Watson a smile, suddenly warmly affectionate in the midst of his lustful feelings, and he brushes a gentler kiss to Watson's skin.

As Watson's pants are now undone, he moves back up Watson's body and kisses him softly there, reaching down to undo his own flies.

"Ready?" he asks in a murmur against Watson's lips, laying his hand against Watson's thigh and waiting for permission.

[lightconductor]

"As ready," Watson whispered, with hardly the breath for the words, "as I shall be." It was intoxicating to be the object of so much obvious sexual lust on Holmes's part, to be so utterly desired by him; it was even moreso to see Holmes smile at him like that, so warm, so honestly caring. It seemed to draw the line between defining this, whatever it was, whatever it would become, as a "romance" versus an "affair."

He lifted his mouth to Holmes's, kissing him with a certain desperation. He kept his fingers in Holmes's hair, and slid his other hand down between them, seeking the gap in Holmes's flies, wondering what it would be like to have another man's cock under his fingers while he kissed him.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes's breath hitches when he feels Watson's hand draw near to him, and with willpower he manages to move his own hand, reaching into Watson's pants to draw out his cock. He kisses Watson hungrily, loosely gripping his cock and teasing his thumb against the underside to start with, wanting to give Watson a moment or two to grow accustomed -- as much as possible -- to all of this.

And, of course, time to protest, though Holmes is more sure than he has been all evening that Watson won't protest this -- that he wants this, as much as Holmes does.

[lightconductor]

Strictly speaking, there was nothing very unfamiliar about having a cock in his hand, although more typically it was his own. At the same time, Holmes's fingers felt nothing like his own, and that dissimilarity made all the difference.

Watson moaned a little, despite himself, against Holmes's mouth, with his hips thrust upwards out of pure instinct. He moved his hand over Holmes's cock, not knowing anything except what he liked himself, and that seemed like a good beginning plan. Somehow, he lost his grip on Holmes's hair, and moved his hand to the curve where his neck met his shoulders, holding him near as he returned and continued the kiss, every bit as hungry, every bit as desperate.

[mustbethetruth]

Watson as a lover is so... so into it. The involuntary movements, the sounds, the kisses -- it's like he's in a trance of lust and he's pulling Holmes in with him, and Holmes is thoroughly enjoying the ride. More than that, the affectionate flash he had is still with him, and being held close in Watson's embrace is suddenly more significant to him.

He answers Watson's moan, officially so that he encourages Watson and unofficially because he wants to, keenly. Tightening his hold on Watson, he finds a rhythm, finally beginning to forget his didactic role in this and lose himself in the moment.

[lightconductor]

It was easy, very easy to fall in line with Holmes's rhythm and lose himself -- or at least what little of his self that was not already lost -- in the pure eroticsm of the moment. Any trace of doubt and worry and fear was gone, at least for now; there was no room in his head at the moment for anything except the moment. Later, perhaps, it might come flooding back, but for now -- just the sex. He had always been a highly sexual person, far too much so to be an entirely acceptable and proper professional gentleman -- one more reason the army had been a better fit for him than a practice, even if that had been possible -- and that was in his favour now, because it would have been much harder to throw aside self-loathing and prejudice without this very obvious advantage to doing so.

He was all but clinging to Holmes with his free arm, gasping at the air between frantic kissing, and nothing in the world seemed so right or so perfect as his hand busy on Holmes's cock.

[mustbethetruth]

Nothing else mattered anymore except Watson beneath him and their hands, working in a rhythm that somehow seemed symbolic, but Holmes's mind isn't paying much attention to the metaphorical aspects of what's going on between them. Holmes is relieved to finally find himself here at Watson's mercy because it feels as if it were a long time coming -- and that has nothing to do with their activities this evening. Suddenly the year of being with Watson and wanting him from a distance coalesce in this moment and he sees how he's been lying to himself all along.

He gives a muffled moan, the muscles in his body tensing and relaxing in anticipation. The total eroticism of Watson beneath him is calling to him to let go, and Holmes struggles to hold on for as long as he can, not wanting to hasten this moment to its end.

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed a little, finding himself relaxing despite himself, and he shifted a little closer. Holmes's body warmth and his gentle touches were far more pleasant to think about than the possible ramifications of what they were doing.

"Have no fear, I shall let you know," he murmured.

He smoothed his hand along the line of Holmes's jaw, and pulled himself close for a kiss, a very gentle and lingering one. How easy it was to fall into this, how easy to let himself do this.

[mustbethetruth]

Perhaps they're being foolish, entering into this; perhaps he's being foolish, allowing Watson to go down this path when he isn't entirely sure of himself yet. It's highly likely one day he'll regret all of this, either once Watson finally decides he's had enough of Holmes or once the two of them are faced with discovery and scandal.

Right now, however, he can hardly argue that it doesn't feel remarkably good and easy to lay like this with Watson, to hold and kiss him and know him completely, or at least begin to try to know him in every way possible. Holmes's best friends generally come in the form of puzzle boxes, and Holmes is very interested in exploring every detail of Watson's.

"I quite like this," he murmurs softly against Watson's lips. In the morning he'll have Watson's smell on his pillow, and that will be wonderful too.

[lightconductor]

"So do I," Watson agreed, without hesitation.

He was rapidly losing the battle against sleep, warm and comfortable as he was, with their recent exertion still fresh. Sleep was not far off. Sighing, he pulled himself close, burrowing near in a way he found very perfect, and he could only hope Holmes would not object to it. It was remarkably easy to relax while held in such a warm and tender embrace, a strong embrace, one which seemed to help block out all the wartime echoes that rattled about in his mind.

"Shall I wish you a good night?" he murmured, rather sleepily.

[mustbethetruth]

"I would prefer that over you wishing me a bad one." He smiles mostly to himself, as Watson is tucked neatly against him, and he gives a small, contented sigh. This is how Watson sounds when he's drowsy with the exertion of sex. He commits it to memory.

"Good night, my dear Watson," he says warmly, and if there's emphasis on the 'dear,' then it happens naturally.