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

[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.