lightconductor | Dinner and a show.

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Dinner and a show.

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.

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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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Edited 2011-02-21 04:22 (UTC)

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.

Watson's fingers curled tightly against Holmes's shoulder, clutching at him because he felt the need to hold on to something, and he was the only thing for Watson, just then. He could not have lasted much longer -- considering the novelty of the act, he'd done quite well, indeed -- but he was holding back, as much as he was capable of. This was new, this was perfect, this was intense. It shouldn't have to end.

At last he gave a long, low sound as all the delicious tension in his body released, and he shuddered against Holmes, still clinging to him. He broke away from their kiss, if only to try to breathe, for he was gasping desperately at the air.

Holmes hates to turn to such romantic expressions, particularly when they're true, but that was nothing short of beautiful. He sets his forehead against Watson's shoulder, bracing himself as he gives way to his own pleasure, which was only hastened and made inevitable by witnessing Watson's final moments. He groans against Watson's skin, the tension draining out of his body.

Truthfully this turned out far better than he'd anticipated. He'd expected a shy virgin (homosexually speaking) with self-loathing overtones, but what he got was... well, a romantic partner. And the makings of so much more.

Breathless, he kisses Watson's neck softly and then seeks out a proper kiss, firm and caring.

Watson let his hand brush against Holmes's cheek as he kissed him, before he sank back down into the sofa, breathless and exhausted, and resisting the cloud of confused thoughts that was threatening to descend upon him.

What had that been? It had been very good, whatever else was true. It had been satisfying and enjoyable, and he thought that they had seemed to fit rather nicely together. It had had surprisingly romantic undertones, far more romantic than Watson might have expected. Was that morally wrong? Was that sin? He could hardly say what he believed one way or the other, let alone what was and was not a sin.

As his breathing slowed, he found himself staring up at the ceiling, trying to sort out his thoughts, while he stroked Holmes's skin absently with his thumb. He didn't think he felt degraded, or corrupted, or damned. He just felt... very sated, very content.

He hadn't any idea what to say.

This is generally the time when regrets surface, but Holmes doesn't want to believe that there will be any. He's far too comfortable with Watson, and now that he's seen his carnal side, he's far too enamored with the idea of Watson as his lover to let it go so easily. He idly kisses Watson's neck and shoulder, a smile forming on his face as he fills with afterglow.

"You know what I think?" he asks warmly, tracing his finger over Watson's collarbone. "You're simply too good a lover, and it's unfair that only one gender gets to partake in you. You're righting an imbalance. How noble of you," he says, grinning.

Startled out of his not-very-pleasant reverie, Watson began to laugh. "Is that what you think?" he said. "When you put it like that, it does sound very noble. I'm afraid my motives were somewhat baser than that."

Laughter made this seem more... more natural, more normal, and it was hard to be anything but happy, curled like this on the sofa in a post-orgasmic state with Holmes idly kissing him. That was a side of his friend he'd never suspected. He rather liked it, he found, now that he'd been privileged to see it.

"Nonetheless," he says, grinning wider. It's good to hear Watson laugh and to know that he isn't currently stewing in a self-hating post-orgasmic haze. "I certainly feel privileged. You were most certainly my white knight this evening, saving me from a dark world in which I did not know the character of John Watson in bed." He glances around them and lifts an eyebrow. "Or on the sofa."

He's in a remarkably good mood, and there's little reason to wonder why. He just had the first form of sex he's had in some time, and it was amazing, and it was with his closest friend and a man he truly thinks he has some feelings for. And who may have feelings for him in return.

Watson chuckled again. He rather liked the idea of being a white knight for Holmes in any context, sexual or not. "You're most welcome, but I think you make a little too much of the privilege." Unable to resist doing so, he settled his arm rather hesitantly around Holmes, his hand in a good place to stroke his hair. "Especially as you did rather take the lead."

He let out a sigh, one that was more perplexed than really grieved, wondering if he ought to feel guiltier than he did, and if it was ridiculous to feel guilty over not feeling guilty.

He closes his eyes briefly when Watson's hand finds his hair, and his smile fades somewhat upon hearing that sigh. And he'd so been enjoying ignoring the possibility that Watson won't end this before it has a chance to become something good.

"I did. I thought it fair of me, to guide you through it." He looks down at Watson, lightly tracing the line of his jaw. "The last thing I want is for you to feel lost or uncomfortable. How do you feel?" A knot of nervousness tightens inside him, bracing himself for an answer he may or may not want to hear.

"I don't know," Watson said, after a moment's silence. "I can't say I didn't enjoy that, because I did. Very much." He paused again, not at all sure what it was he wanted to say, but he stroked Holmes's hair while he thought. That was a remarkably easy, natural thing to do, considering he had never done it. "Should I feel corrupted? I'm not sure that I do."

He sighed, more thoughtful this time. "I am feeling rather tired, and rather pleased, but also rather conflicted about it. Not as conflicted as I would have thought, however. I suppose that's promising."

He glanced at Holmes again, his expression soft. "If I may ask... how did you feel, your first time?"

Holmes blinks, completely caught off guard by the question, and he recoils mentally as well as physically, if only slightly. He stops stroking Watson's jaw, laying his hand on the sofa instead.

It's easy for Holmes to talk about relations between men in the general sense, but his own relationships, his own personal history -- he doesn't like to discuss those details. It took him a year to even inform Watson of Mycroft's existence, and Holmes has no real strong reasons to want to keep Mycroft secret. Gideon is part of something that Holmes has worked to keep secret for too long, and seen that secret exposed far too painfully.

But there's no reason he should have to divulge too many details; he can speak of his first time in the general sense, can't he, without needing to finish the story. Denying Watson his answer now may well deny Holmes a perfectly nice relationship.

"Ah," he starts, trying to recall that first time with Gideon. "I suppose I felt conflicted, mostly in fear of discovery," a fear which turned out to be justified, "but on the whole I was very... satisfied. Thrilled, even, to finally enact what I'd felt for sometime. I was young and just thankful to know that I wasn't alone," he finishes in a softer tone.

It had been such a rush, such a risk, and so relieving to share something so passionate with Gideon that he hardly had room for regrets until it was over.

"If I felt corrupted, I'm afraid that only made it better." He attempts a playful smile, though he's shaken with the need to recall something so personal, and not on his own terms.

Vaguely aware that he had touched on something intensely personal, and not in a positive way, Watson tightened his arm around Holmes a little. He was already missing the stroking fingers on his jaw.

"'Satisfied' and 'thrilled' seem very apt to me," he said, "if I may borrow those words. 'Conflicted,' too. What if we are discovered? Are we really to carry on an illegal affair under the very noses of Scotland Yard? What of Mrs. Hudson?"

These considerations were very real, but even as he said them Watson realised they were an admission that he considered it to be a real option, that he was open to the idea of doing this sort of thing again. To be honest, it was hard to imagine returning to the way things had been between them, after crossing the line they had tonight.

Naturally this is one of Holmes's principle concerns, and it isn't because he fears for his own reputation and safety, but because -- and this is becoming increasingly obvious -- he couldn't bear to be torn away from Watson. What would make him feel better, actually, though it would be so very foolish, would be terrible... but would it be so terrible to ask Mycroft what he might be able to do in the event of Watson and Holmes's discovery? Having a plan would make Holmes feel much more at ease.

He doubts that would ease Watson's tensions.

"Thankfully we can rest assured in the knowledge that the Yard is incapable of discovering anything of use." He smiles, hoping his joke will ease the situation. "And as for Mrs. Hudson... we shall have to be particularly careful. An extra set of your clothes in my rooms, always keep dressing gowns at hand. And keep the door locked as much as possible."

He's coming back from his moment of surprise and tension, realizing that divulging hadn't been that bad, after all. He will have to tell Watson these things at some point, so it's good if he starts mentally preparing himself. He resumes his touch against Watson's jaw, unable to keep from touching him any longer.

Watson relaxed with the return of that gentle touch. Strange how much of a difference that made, how reassuring it was. Was it forgiveness for his question? Perhaps. As long as it meant Holmes continued as he was.

"You really wish to do this?" he asked, softly. "To take this risk? With me?" This was the most unexpected romance he had ever embarked on in his life, the most worrying, the most dangerous, the most frightening. And yet... and yet he wanted to. That was the strange part. He wanted to embark upon an illegal affair with Holmes. He wondered just how long he'd been lying to himself. He wondered, too, that he could possibly be worth such a risk.

"I would like to try, at least. I don't know, really, what I'm doing. But I would like to try, with you."

That soft confession is just what Holmes needed to hear, though he hadn't quite realized it. The corners of his mouth light in a smile, and he leans down to kiss Watson very gently.

"I would really like to try," he murmurs, still smiling, and he kisses Watson's forehead before stealing a proper kiss once more. "You, my dear Watson, are a risk I'm more than willing to take. Truthfully... not taking it hardly feels like an option. You've come to mean so much to me." He brings his fingers down Watson's neck to his shoulder, lightly tracing patterns over his skin.

"I believe I have little choice but to see how much more you could mean."

It's humbling to make such admissions, but coming on the tails of his last one, Holmes seems more capable, having already stripped away a level of privacy. Besides, knowing that saying such a thing would hopefully please Watson makes it far too tempting to pass up.

Watson was admittedly more than a little taken aback by this, to be told so plainly that he was an important part in Holmes's life. He knew Holmes was of a disproportionate importance in his own life; he'd often felt like a hanger-on to Holmes, or at worst, a tolerable and necessary nuisance. To hear this now was reassuring, and a little touching.

"I think I'd like to say the same thing," he said, faintly wondering. "You are important to me, and I cannot do anything but explore these possibilities and see how deep it runs." He smiled, lifting his face to kiss Holmes tenderly. The part of his brain that was horrified at himself for doing such a thing was not gone, but it was somewhat muffled, somewhat quieter.

This kiss is particularly sweet, and Holmes returns it gently, his fingers still wandering over Watson's skin, still gently stroking and touching. He's quietly claiming Watson with these touches, quietly mapping out his skin and learning it for himself. Now it seems he has permission to claim Watson. He follows the kiss up with another one, tender and light, and he smiles when he draws away finally.

"Then we're in agreement. How very convenient." He smiles wider and leans down, kissing one of Watson's cheeks, then the other, and then placing a small kiss to Watson's nose.

"Are you comfortable?" he murmurs, reaching up and smoothing Watson's hair back. They're still laying together half-naked on the sofa, and he's full aware that's a position that may lose its appeal once a heated moment has passed. "I can move if you'd like."

"Well," Watson said, after a moment's thought, "I'm rather comfortable, to be honest, although we're admittedly a little cramped like this." He was quickly finding that he quite liked being petted like this. He hadn't really expected that. It did make him extremely reluctant to move from the sofa. "I can't say how long we'll stay comfortable. At some point, a limb will probably start going to sleep."

He ran his fingers through Holmes's hair, his touch very tender, very fond. Good heavens, he was already a loss cause, wasn't he?

Some of what Watson says gets Holmes thinking about how advantageous it would be to move to the bed, where it wouldn't be cramped and where they would fall asleep before their limbs do. He has no idea how Watson might take to that idea though Holmes truly has no ulterior motives, just a desire for comfort and intimacy.

"It is possible for us to simulate this position somewhere more comfortable," he murmurs cautiously, trying to sound and look as innocent as he is. "If you would be accepting of such a thing."

Dinner and a show.

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