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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Though of course Holmes dreads the idea of discovery, he's forgotten how much he enjoys these subversive little games of affection. He lets their thighs rest together, remember how this action seemed too hopeful and risky just about a week ago, and now it's just the tip of a greater iceberg of intimacies.

It is true, though, that he and Watson haven't gotten very far in exploring the physical possibilities between them. He's been hesitant to push things ahead, too afraid of startling Watson by coming on too strong. He'd expressed a good deal of distaste for this kind of lifestyle on that first night of their arrangement, and the last thing Holmes wants is to undue the progress Watson's made toward accepting these desires, and Holmes.

The dinner tonight, though, and the thigh against his own -- it all seems to be conspiring to suggest that maybe Watson is ready for a little more adventurousness. Holmes has kept his attentions light and gentle, half because he had to, but since his lip has healed, it's simply been... awkward. When to start kissing more passionately? When does one just decide that?

Perhaps after a first official outing.

Holmes resolves to try pushing them forward a little bit tonight -- certainly he isn't sure he could wait another day, anyway.

"That was certainly a remarkable evening," he comments finally. "A marked contrast from the way we spent the evening earning our funds for tonight." His tone is innocent but his smile is more playful. "But I suppose there's time yet to see what we can do about that," he adds, much softer, his words nearly lost in the din of the hansom and London just outside it.

Watson blushed at Holmes's words, despite himself, and he was infinitely grateful that in the evening light it was not going to be highly visible. There was certainly time that evening to see how things might differ from that evening.

Was he ready for such a step? No, possibly not, but Watson was no coward, and he would not ever be any more ready, and he wanted to take even some very small step forward that night.

"I suppose," he said in an undertone meant to reach Holmes's ears but not those of the cabbie, "that there is. Do you suppose we might..." He hesitated, trying to find the right wording, before deciding the best option was to mirror Holmes's own phrasing. "That we might spend the evening exploring what we might do about that?"

It was vague, yes, and more than a little hesitant, but he also trusted Holmes to grasp his meaning.

He lifts an eyebrow in surprise, but he's more than pleased to hear Watson's just as eager for some progression in this matter as Holmes is -- well perhaps not just as eager but certainly to some degree. He subtly shifts his leg, his thigh pressing tighter against Watson's for a moment, and his smile widens.

"I don't see why we shouldn't. In fact, I was hoping you might suggest something of the sort, particularly because I was already planning on seeing about it." He winks slightly, suddenly all the more eager to reach Baker street. He knows better than to hope for too much; at the very least some more thorough kissing would be perfect.

Giving a small, slightly shaky inhalation, Watson smiled. To say that he was apprehensive was a bit of an understatement, but...

... he did not doubt his feelings. He did not doubt Holmes's, either, for that matter. He doubted the wisdom of acting upon them and he doubted his own ability to not make a complete hash of it. But he didn't doubt that his feelings real and valid, and there was something very alluring about a forbidden romance.

He told himself, firmly, to relax. He would trust Holmes in this.

"How... how convenient that we're in agreement, then." Oh, he wanted this ride to be over.

"Very convenient. It should make this evening all the more enjoyable." They're close now -- the cab's just going over a patch of road that tells Holmes they're a few minutes away -- and Holmes is far too eager to reach their destination. He can sense Watson's hesitation, and truthfully he feels a little bit of stage fright himself, but he hopes that once they reach privacy he can dispel some of Watson's fears.

"And I'm determined we'll enjoy ourselves," he adds, softer.

Watson smiled. He found this answer reliving, for whatever reason. "I'm sure we will," he said, equally soft.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221b, Watson was both infinitely relieved and infinitely apprehensive, but there was no turning back now. He wanted this, he was sure of it. He stepped down from the cab, paying the cabbie rather distractedly -- he was paying for dinner, he may as well pay for the cab as well, while he could afford to do so -- and then turned to look at Holmes with a warm and slightly nervous smile.

"I suppose Mrs. Hudson has retired to bed," he said, somewhat hopefully.

"And she is a very sound sleeper," he says in a murmur as he joins Watson on the pavement. He grins knowingly and leads the way to the front door, holding it open for Watson. The seventeen steps on the way to their rooms feel endless, and his anticipation builds with each passing moment.

Watson for all his hesitation does seem eager, and something about that sets Holmes to wonder just what he might be able to expect from Watson; the fact that he doesn't know and wouldn't know how to guess at it is all the more thrilling.

When they finally reach their rooms, he's so full of anticipation and readiness that he nearly jumps Watson immediately, but instead he forces some calm onto himself. He doesn't leap on Watson, but he draws a deep breath and goes to close their curtains, his heart pounding excitedly in his chest.

Watson watched Holmes close the curtains with a strange sense of detachment, a sense of eager anxiety. He was not trembling, to his faint surprise and infinite relief, but his mind was full of thought. I am going to kiss him. I am going to kiss Holmes, properly, as a lover. I may at some point engage in sexual congress with him.

If he thought about it rationally, it seemed awful, a terrible crime against the soul, or at least against society. If he did not think about it, if he felt, then it felt natural and right.

Feel, don't think.

After ensuring the door was locked, Watson stepped up close behind Holmes at the window, resting his hand very gently on his back. He said nothing, merely looked at Holmes rather expectantly, and a little shyly.

By the time he feels Watson at his back, Holmes has little patience for preamble. Hasn't this week been preamble enough? He turns around, stepping close so he can wind an arm around Watson's back. The act of taking Watson into his arms feels so much bolder than anything they've done up until this point; their bodies are flush, their faces close. He cups Watson's face lightly and slips his hand into Watson's hair, pulling him into a kiss.

Oh, and it's a relief to finally kiss Watson, firmly and confidently. It seems as if his entire body is on pins and needles in a good way, and all those months of wanting and wondering find their resolution in this embrace, it seems.

For a moment, he could hardly move, too overwhelmed to manage that, although thinking was certainly not a problem anymore. It was not like kissing a woman: the smells, the scents, the sensation, the sense of strength behind it and in the hands upon his body, the upwards angle of his face against Holmes's lips, all were inescapably masculine. It was a new experience, and an intoxicating one.

And then, Watson overcame his momentary paralysis, wrapping his arms around Holmes and kissing him back with no lack of enthusiasm. He perhaps did not know the finer details of love between men, but he knew kissing. He could do that well enough, he fancied.

Holmes loves kissing because there's so much to discern from the way someone kisses, how insistent or how giving, how considerate or how tender. And then, of course, Holmes has to reconcile that with their personality because sometimes the similarities aren't clear, and the differences are unexpected. The first, true kisses with someone are the best because they're full of new information, new facts and observations.

The way Watson kisses is not at all disappointing, and the enthusiasm is invigorating. It's a curious thing to kiss someone with a moustache; as both Gideon and Victor were generally clean-shaven, Holmes's experience with facial hair doesn't extend beyond stubble. It makes kissing Watson a definitively distinctive experience, just as it should be.

He lightly strokes the back of Watson's neck as he lets the kiss find an ending, adding another brief kiss or two to Watson's lips.

"Shall we move to the sofa?" he murmurs, finding it difficult not to simply kiss Watson again. He'd underestimated, greatly, the effect that Watson has on him and how much he cares for him. Getting a taste of Watson through his kiss reinforces to Holmes what's important about Watson, what he loves about Watson's company. The earnestness, the ready helpfulness, the loyalty and depth of feeling -- it's all right here, in his arms, and he's almost getting dizzy off it.

For a moment, Watson merely stared, mute, trying to sort out his mind enough to make his mouth work. He was far, far too aware of Holmes's fingers on the back of his neck, the hard warmth of his body (so unlike that of a woman) against Watson's, the tingle of his lips. He had kissed, he thought, a not-inconsiderable number of people in his life, and he enjoyed the activity greatly, but few had ever kissed him with that sort of energy, that sort of raw desire. This was not the sort of awkward, perfunctory sexual experiences of two schoolboys in a darkened dormitory, either, which he realised now he'd expected on some level.

He nodded, briefly. "Yes," he said, breathlessly. "Yes, please." And then, because he hated to think that he might be a passive partner in this, he stepped in that direction, taking Holmes with him, his hands fisted in the fabric of Holmes's clothing.

Watson was too impatient to wait until they actually reached the sofa to continue, and he pressed forward with another enthusiastic kiss. It was as though some dam in him had been broken down; for all his previous unease, now that he was doing this he could hardly imagine not wanting it, and if he was destined for Hell because of it, so be it.

When Watson takes the lead here, Holmes realizes he's been nervous still, expecting that he'd mostly be walking Watson through this and treading carefully, and slowly. How wrong he'd been, and he'd probably been a good deal unfair. He returns the kiss openly, unreservedly, following after Watson toward the sofa with some urgency in his step.

The only time he allows for a break in his contact with Watson is when they sit, and he returns immediately to kissing, deep and slow not because he's being hesitant or careful but because he has reign to kiss Watson at his leisure. Only when he needs to breathe does he break the kiss, and then he can't stop smiling as he leans away from Watson, unbuttoning his jacket.

"I'm a bit too overdressed for the occasion. One moment," he murmurs, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it in the direction of his armchair. "Much better. Has anyone ever told you, my dear Watson, that you're an exhaustingly excellent kisser?"

"Not in so many words, no," Watson said, giving a small, faintly crooked smile. He found himself caught somewhere between breathless anticipation and pleased flattery. Exhaustingly excellent. He liked the sound of that. He also liked the idea of shedding a layer of clothing. Hardly believing what he was doing, he sat back to remove his own jacket before leaning forward to kiss Holmes again.

It was good to have a few less layers of cloth between them, a little more intense, a little more intimate. He was not, at that point, in the least sure where the evening would lead, and how far, but if nothing happened beyond kissing, he was determined that it would be very good and satisfying kissing.

The more they carry on this way, the more Holmes finally feels able to relax into the idea of this relationship. Every time Watson pulls him into a kiss, Holmes feels reassured that he isn't leading Watson into a den of sin and damnation; if they are going in that direction, then at least they are walking together.

Kissing in one's shirtsleeves produces an interesting experience; he can feel Watson's body warmth when he settles his hand on Watson's arm, but it's mediated through the cloth, and it's frustrating and intoxicating and wonderful. Holmes may be impatient and abrupt in other areas, but he enjoys every aspect of physical intimacy to the point that even touching Watson through his shirt is a pleasurable experience.

Watson is solid and warm against him, and the smell of him is wonderful. He's drinking in every aspect of Watson he possibly can, reveling in the wealth of new information. Lightly he rests his hand against Watson's shoulder so that he might caress the side of Watson's neck, seeking out a little skin-to-skin contact, at least.

"The only thing I regret," he murmurs in between kisses, "is that it took me this long to discover your skills."

Holmes's hand against his shoulder brought on an uncomfortable thought. What would he think of Watson's scars? Would he find them ugly, distasteful? Watson certainly did himself.

Later. He would think of that later, when it became necessary. Truthfully, he could hardly think now, and the fingers along the side of his neck felt very good indeed. He settled himself close against Holmes, comforted by the warmth and the feel of his body, and risked leaning in to explore Holmes's jawline with his mouth a little, something he had enjoyed with one or two young ladies of his past acquaintance. He was overwhelmingly curious, more than anything, and he wanted to know what the difference would be if he did this thing with a man, what Holmes's reaction to it would be. He had always rather guiltlessly enjoyed carnal pleasures of many sorts. What he found terrible, more than anything else, was that he had been denying himself an entire world of experience for several weak reasons but very possibly no adequate one. He was beginning to think of this as exploring, rather than giving in.

"I regret that I never let myself have the opportunity to share," Watson said, smiling crookedly. "But by God, Holmes. If I am going to do this... I am glad it's you."

Holmes smiles slowly, touched by the sentiment, as it indicates Watson's growing comfort along with whatever compliments toward Holmes himself. Now that they're losing their nervousness about all of this, more of their personalities are coming out, he realizes. That's why this feels right as opposed to this past week; neither of them was truly being himself. They aren't hesitant men; this boldness is more suited to their tastes.

"I am too." He cups Watson's cheek and kisses him softly before his smile turns playful. "Does that mean you don't think me too bad of an influence?" Taking his cues from Watson, he kisses along Watson's jaw and down onto his neck, happily exploring his skin.

Watson inhaled, somewhat shakily, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment under the kisses on his neck. "If you are a bad influence," he murmured, "then I welcome it. I absolve you of blame."

Morality be damned. This hurt no one, surely? It was between them and them alone, never mind that society made it a dangerous game to play. He had never taken this step into acting upon it, but now that he had, it seemed a very small thing to do, and certainly no great crime.

He liked the danger. He liked the risk. And, possibly, he liked Holmes more than he had realised, but this was so easy, once he had plunged in.

Watson caught Holmes by the chin, gently, to catch his mouth with his own, and kiss him deeply.

Now that they seem to have gotten past the tenuous beginning, Holmes is surprised at how comfortable this is. It isn't easy for Holmes to feel completely at ease -- that's why he has his music, and his cocaine -- but Watson generally has just seemed to... fit in Holmes's life. That's just as true here, he's happy to discover, and it feels very natural to kiss Watson just as deeply in return.

Their position on the sofa, however, could become problematic if the two of them plan on continuing their evening in this way, as Holmes suspects they do. He attempts to guide Watson down onto the sofa, positioning himself on top.

"You are very welcoming this evening," he murmurs suggestively against Watson's lips, returning his attentions to his neck, wanting to elicit another response like he just received with this action.

"It's easier to be welcoming of this than I feared," Watson murmured.

It was strange to find himself being guided back down like this, underneath Holmes, surrounded and enclosed by him. There was something rather intoxicating about it, a little overwhelming, a little frightening. He settled back into the sofa, marvelling at feeling Holmes stretched out along on top of him, all firm heat, distinctly not the soft warmth of a woman.

And then Holmes's lips were on his neck again, and it was an effort to remember to breathe for a moment. He closed his fist in the fabric of Holmes's shirtsleeve, craning his neck to give Holmes a better angle.

"I do try to be accommodating."

He loves the way Watson clings to him, loves being clung to, loves feeling Watson so solid and warm beneath him. He grips Watson's hip in one hand, occasionally letting it wander up to Watson's ribs. Tenderly he maps Watson's neck, though by nature Holmes isn't a wholly tender lover.

After some gentle attention, he tentatively administers a gentle bite, designed so as not to leave a mark -- an art at which Holmes has acquired some skill. It's really a test to see where Watson's boundaries lie, though he has a strong suspicion that he will like the results.

He hadn't been expecting teeth, not nearly, and while he didn't exactly flinch, there was certainly a jolt of surprise that ran through him even as a soft breath of a moan escaped his lips.

"Good God," Watson murmured, appreciatively. He was full of adrenaline and arousal, the rush of doing something new and illicit, and the touch of danger that Holmes's teeth brought to the mix was definitely appreciated. Without relinquishing his grasp on Holmes's sleeve, he shifted downwards, sliding underneath Holmes to bring their mouths more in line so he could kiss him properly.

He kisses back deeply, relishing in the opportunity to be bolder and more daring with Watson. That reaction had been precisely what he was hoping for and his body responds accordingly, his lust mounting. He's interested now in pushing Watson's boundaries, seeing how far they can go; he doesn't have expectations for the evening, so he has no agenda other than to make sure that they each enjoy each other. Thoroughly. In order to do that, he has to push and toy with Watson, at least a little.

He smiles when the kiss breaks, letting himself catch his breath for moment, his face very close to Watson's.

"Your moustache tickles," he says with a breathless laugh, his upper lip tingling not unpleasantly. "It's rather splendid."

Watson laughed too, also breathless. That Holmes would enjoy something so... so apparently frivolous was oddly perfect. "Good," he chuckled. "I'm not about to be rid of it. Not even for you."

He kissed him again, keenly aware now of the way his moustache brushed Holmes's lips; it was something he hadn't really seriously thought about before. He had never kissed anyone who had expressed any particular thoughts about it, one way or the other. Watson managed to release his grip on Holmes's sleeve, and moved one of his hands to Holmes's waist, the other to the side of his face, his fingers sliding down the edges of Holmes's collar.

"I could never ask something like that," he says with a grin, speaking lowly. "Dr. Watson without his moustache wouldn't be Dr. Watson."

Yes, their collars do seem to be rather in the way of things. He's somewhat nervous as he slips a hand between them to undo Watson's collar, if only because he's removing an item of clothing, and it seems the first step to more significant items, like shirts. Once Watson's collar is gone, Holmes dips his mouth down to kiss the newly exposed skin, interrupting his kisses with soft bites.

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Dinner and a show.

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