Without thinking about it, in a glorious instinctual way completely without self-doubt or second-guessing, Watson reached to run his fingers over Holmes's newly bared chest, finding a certain joy in exploring this new territory so closely. It was almost a relief to find the occassional scar himself, under his curious fingers. He had a slight tendency to deify Holmes, to worship him as some perfect logical being, to follow him as much as a disciple as a friend. This made him human, these visible marks of the flawed and mortal being that Watson knew Holmes was.

Good God, but he was handsome.

It was strange to allow himself to think such a thing about a man, to not immediately censor the thought or attempt to justify it as somewhow acceptable. He couldn't help thinking it now, and in the wake of all of what he had done already, such an observation seemed a very small sin indeed, if sin it were. Watson kissed him, rather desperately, while his fingers roamed over Holmes's torso, exploring ribs and flesh and newly-exposed skin.