Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2011-02-17 07:05 pm
lightconductor) wrote2011-02-17 07:05 pm
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"Good night, my dear Watson," he says warmly, and if there's emphasis on the 'dear,' then it happens naturally.