Dinner and a show.

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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

[lightconductor]

Watson was pleased with the reaction he'd received, the sounds he'd managed to elicit from Holmes, but he could also no longer ignore the other result of his success. Namely, what he was feeling pressing into him, lower down.

That seemed to serve very well to remind him just what the situation was. What did he think he was doing? What did he think he was playing at? Was he really going to do this, really going to be considering a sexual interlude with a man, with Holmes of all people? If they were going to stop it would have to be soon, and truthfully he was nearly as hard as Holmes was.

He was uncertain, and uneasy, and intrigued, and very aroused. It was a strange combination, both eager to press on and terrified of what they might actually find themselves doing. It was all new territory, after all, and he wanted it, even as his mind worked to invent reasons why he should not have started down this path in the first place.

Watson let his mouth linger over Holmes's throat. "What is it that you'd want of me," he asked, in a low murmur, "if we continued?"

[mustbethetruth]

Ah, there. This may be where the evening stops, and if so, Holmes is okay with that. He may need a moment to calm himself down, but he's thoroughly enjoyed himself this far. He feels almost guilty, as if he's compelling Watson into an action that he wants no part of, or wouldn't if it weren't for Holmes, and he draws back enough so that he might be able to look Watson in the eye.

"Whatever you would like to give me," he murmurs, reaching up to touch Watson's jaw lightly. "Whatever you're comfortable with. We could carry on like this, or go a little further... Or a lot further." He settles his hand against Watson's chest. "I would like to go at least a little further. Beyond that... it's your decision, my dear Watson."

[lightconductor]

Watson hesitated, sliding his hand over Holmes's while he tried to think. What did he want? Did he want to retreat to safety, while that was possible? Did he want to postpone where this might lead, and if so, for how long?

No, he wanted this, and he wanted it now. He just wasn't sure he knew what he was doing.

"Further might very well be good," he said slowly, squeezing Holmes's hand. "In fact, I'd definitely like to go farther. I just... I haven't any idea what I'm doing."

[mustbethetruth]

He exhales in relief, glad to see that Watson isn't running away, that he's come so far from the scared reaction after their first kiss. Smiling, he kisses Watson softly, brushing his thumb against his chest.

"From what I understand, some of the basic principles aren't entirely different from relations with women," he says playfully. "The rest is essentially pleasuring yourself, but enacted upon another person. Why don't we limit ourselves to that, for this evening, if that isn't too much?"

[lightconductor]

That didn't sound too far off from dormitory experiments, honestly. The context, though, was quite different; rather than hasty and awkward, a poor substitution for what they could not have, it was for its own sake, with someone who was already a good deal more than a mere classmate and schoolfriend. Never mind what he might yet become.

Watson gave a nod, and a small smile. He was... at least somewhat reassurred, if not confident of what he was doing, either. But he did want this. He knew that much.

"That doesn't sound like too much," he agreed, and leaned up a little to kiss Holmes again.

[mustbethetruth]

That smile is everything, and Holmes kisses back enthusiastically, reassured that Watson is into this without guilt. Holmes wouldn't be able to feel okay about any of this without Watson's complete acceptance, and now that he has it, he intends to make use of it.

He undoes the top button of Watson's shirt, and the next, pausing there for signs of disapproval or nervousness, though it's difficult not to simply keep going. He's eager to keep going, to get Watson out of his shirt, to give him his first taste of this type of carnal pleasure.

[lightconductor]

Watson shut his eyes again, marvelling a little. In some ways, this was not so different from being with a woman, but in others, it was quite different, and the difference -- the sense of sheer masculinity he was faced with, attractive in all its own ways -- was exciting, to say the least.

But as his buttons came undone, the question of his scarring came to him again. What if Holmes found them distasteful? They were rather ugly. It would not be long until they were perfectly visible. And yet to protest, to draw attention to them now, ahead of time, was unthinkable.

Watson couldn't think of it, tried desperately to stay in the moment instead, and truthfully, he was greatly enjoying the moment. He fisted his hands in Holmes's shirt, and kissed him, hard.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes rises to Watson's challenge, kissing him hard in return, all too happy to do so, to know that Watson is an equal partner in this and that -- well, to be crass, that they'll be enjoying each other tonight more than he thought they would. That is always a pleasant surprise.

Eagerly he finishes unbuttoning Watson's shirt; he knows of Watson's injuries from the war, of course, but they're the farthest thing from his mind now, distracted as he is by Watson's lips and the feel of his skin. He pushes the fabric aside so that he might hungrily and possessively run his hands over him, exploring the landscape of new information available to him.

The only thing that could lure him away from Watson's mouth is the promise of discovering Watson's chest, so he frees himself from the kiss, intending to lavish some attention a little lower.

And then he sees the map of scars on Watson's shoulder. It's almost akin to a punch to his gut -- not because they're disgusting, or repulsive, but because they are the remains of what must have been an excruciatingly painful experience.

Closing his eyes, he leans down, beginning to kiss tenderly at the skin.

[lightconductor]

Seeing Holmes discover his ruined shoulder, to actually see the result of a well-aimed jezail bullet with his own eyes, brought a terrible sinking feeling to Watson's stomach. To be laid out like this, to be undressed, by so handsome an individual and then have them discover your disfiguring injuries in full, the ones that all but crippled you when the weather was cold and damp... it was a special variety of sharp, agonizing dual emotions.

Suddenly tense, Watson made a small sound of what was not exactly protest, but a sort of confused gratitude, of deeply humbled awe that Holmes should pay attention to this most ugly part of him like this. He had been with no one since he'd been wounded, too ill or too ashamed, too secretly interested in his fellow-lodger and trying to deny it. No one had ever kissed it, no one had ever treated it so tenderly. There was a good deal he wanted to express in that moment, and no words at all for it, so he had to settle for that one small, confused sound.

Watson ran his fingers over the back of Holmes's neck, very tenderly, very grateful.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is, first off, immensely glad that he hasn't overstepped in this, but this collection of scars suggests so much pain that it's hard to resist the urge to fix that, not that kisses are able to do that, but nonetheless. He traces the lines with his lips, lightly stroking his fingers up Watson's side, but he doesn't want to linger here for too long, doesn't want to force Watson to think of his pain too much.

Once he's spent enough time there, he kisses Watson's lips fiercely and begins to unbutton his own shirt, more than ready to be rid of it. Holmes has a number scars of himself, though significantly smaller, and the story of their acquisition is much less painful. Boxing, tree climbing, falling off a stage once, fighting -- Holmes has had a colorful past, one not without its missteps.

[lightconductor]

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.

[mustbethetruth]

Oh, but this is wonderful. The mutual self-exploration itself gives Holmes a kind of high, and then knowing that Watson is giving himself over to this for the first time and Holmes is here to help him through it is a whole other high. He'd always admired Watson's good looks -- and found him handsomer by the day, even -- and to have him at Holmes's disposal, to have his hands desperately roaming Holmes's skin, is invigorating.

Hungrily, he kisses away from Watson's mouth, down his neck to explore his chest more completely. Here, too, it's safer to bite harder, though he's careful, considerate.