Work Text:
Watson and Mary strolled down the railway platform, arms interlocked, a happy expression over their faces as they made their way to the train.
“We should be just here,” Watson said, smiling at Mary as he pointed to the train door with his cane.
“Oh! First-class,” Mary gasped in delight, stepping inside the open door. Watson paused, scanning the area to watch as the service attendants lugged all the passengers’ trunks into the boxcar. After spending years by Holmes’s side, Watson couldn’t let go of the nagging feeling he had to always be on guard.
“Hurry up, Mr Watson. Your wife needs you,” Mary said provocatively.
“Coming, Mrs Watson,” Watson smiled up at her.
“All aboard for Brighton! All aboard!” Yelled the conductor in the background as Watson stepped into their compartment, closing the door. Mary made a happy noise when she found a bottle of champagne sitting in the ice bucket in the corner.
“Ooh! First-class, champagne. You do know how to spoil a girl, Mr Watson,” Mary exclaimed as she twirled the bottle in her gloved hands. She held it out to Watson to take as he walked close to her.
“You’re not just any girl,” he said, leaning past Mary to peek into the corridor. He heard a knock to his left, turning his head to see a tall woman at the end of their section.
“I’m sorry, madam. You can’t use the lavatory while the train is in the station,” the steward said to the woman. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, Watson turned around, closing the door to their compartment.
“You’re Mrs Watson,” he finished his earlier statement as he smiled down at Mary. He eyed the champagne in her hands, “Give me that bottle.” Mary promptly handed it over.
⁂
Mary and John held each sat kissing in their compartment as the train emerged from a tunnel, smoke billowing into the cool evening air from its chimney. Revealing an endless landscape of deciduous trees peppered across the lush flatlands of the countryside.
“John, there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be,” Mary said, wrapping her arms around Watson.
“There’s no one I’d rather be with,” Watson cooed back as he took in the scent of her hair.
Mary gasped, “Why would you have a gun stuffed down the back of your trousers?” She pulled out the pistol, dangling it by Watson’s head.
Watson laughed nervously, “Old habits.” Mary pursed her lips, choosing not to comment on it further. A knock at the door distracted the couple, and Mary quickly moved off Watson’s lap to sit beside him, hiding the pistol in her skirts.
Watson cleared his throat, “Come in!” Mary adjusted her fringe. The door pulled open to reveal a service attendant with an expensive bottle of wine, a towel neatly folded over his forearm.
“Oh, yes, please,” Mary said excitedly, biting her lip.
“We didn’t order that,” Watson said, confusion written all over his face.
“With our compliments, sir,” replied the attendant, in a thick German accent.
“Thank you. Put it there,” Watson pleasantly smiled, gesturing towards the ice bucket in the corner. The attendant stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he turned towards the bucket, his back to the couple. The lights flickered out as the train horn blew. Watson pulled away from Mary, concerned by the sudden change.
The attendant turned, lunging at the couple with a knife in his hands. Watson caught him by the wrists before he was able to hurt them. Mary scrambled to her feet, her back to the door, fear and adrenaline pumping through her veins as she watched the two men struggle. The attendant drew his arm back, trying to stab at Watson again, but Watson blocked him, punching him in the face. As the attendant fell over, Mary remembered the pistol, pulling it out of her skirt pocket to point it at the charlatan.
“Open the door, John,” she commanded as the attendant scowled up at her. Watson opened the door leading out onto the tracks, grabbing the attendant by the back of his coat. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” Mary said, and Watson yeeted the man into the passing trees. Mary lowered the gun, gasping and clutching the doorframe as she tried to catch her breath.
Watson took her by her arms, “Sit down.” He gently lowered her into the leather seat, taking the gun from her hands. Mary clasped a hand over her mouth in horror before clutching her chest. “Shh!” Watson said, a finger over his mouth as he slowly inched towards the door leading to the corridor. Watson slid the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor, ready to shoot on sight.
He watched as a guard stalked towards him, not knowing if he was friend or foe. Suddenly, a tall woman popped out of the next compartment, elbowing the man in the face. It was the woman he’d seen trying to get into the lavatory before the train had left the station.
Abandoning her cloak, she whirled around, shooting the two guards on the opposite end of the corridor. Watson quickly leaned back inside to avoid getting shot at upon seeing this. The woman turned around, stepping towards the door as she shot more guards coming up behind her. As the woman stepped in front of the doorframe, Watson drew close, pistol to her face. Only to realise that the woman wasn’t a woman at all.
“I agree it’s not my best disguise, but I had to make do,” Holmes smiled at him sheepishly. He wore a wig of curled hair, haphazardly tucked under a ridiculous blue ribboned bonnet. Turquoise eye paint smeared over his upper eyelids; lips and cheeks made pink with rouge. Holmes shoved Watson back into the compartment, following him inside.
“Oh my God,” Mary exclaimed, instantly recognising Holmes.
“They’ll be back,” Holmes warned, shoving a gun into Watson’s hands.
“John shut the door,” Mary groaned with frustration.
“They’ll only shoot through it, my love,” Watson explained, taking the gun from Holmes’s hand to point it out the doorway.
“He’s right, you know,” Holmes agreed, pulling Mary down to sit.
“Oh my God,” she groaned.
“I understand,” Holmes explained, trying to sympathise with the poor woman. After all, she had married an exceptional man. What may have been a typical night for the two of them must have been the scariest day of her life, not to mention the ruined honeymoon.
“Do you?” Mary asked sarcastically, a pained look on her face.
“Terribly inconvenient,” Holmes apologised, getting back on his feet. “We don’t have much time,” he warned, looking out onto the tracks and the side of the train through the open doorway.
“How many are we expecting?” Watson shouted over his shoulder.
“Half a dozen,” Holmes answered, his bonnet flapping about in the cool air as he held onto the doorframe.
“Who are they?” Watson inquired as he tried to find the best angle to shoot from at the doorway.
“A wedding present from Moriarty,” Holmes explained ruefully. He leaned back into the compartment as Mary moved to stand up again. “Lovely ceremony, by the way. Many a tear shed in joy,” Holmes gesticulated, attempting to distract the woman before she could do anything stupid.
“Oh, John?” Mary called out to her husband as he pointed his gun in the other direction, shooting as a guard popped out from around the corner.
“Yeah, just a minute, darling,” he shouted over the noise.
“Do you trust me?” Holmes asked, grabbing Mary by the arms.
“No,” she lamented.
“Well, then I shall have to,” Holmes looked over at Watson, “do something about that.” Mary looked over at Watson, wondering what Holmes was implying. The distraction gave Holmes the window he needed to shove Mary out of the train with his hand. She screamed as she catapulted through the air, tumbling into the river below with a splash. Holmes turned around, removing his bonnet in preparation for what was about to happen next.
“Who’s up to bat next, you bastards?” Watson yelled at the onslaught of assassins waned. “Send out the fast bowler!” He continued, trying to work himself up for the fight.
“John, do shut the door,” Holmes instructed, apprehension clear on his face. Watson dutifully shut the door, turning around to hear whatever Holmes needed to say, before realising that Mary was no longer in the coach. “It had to be done,” Holmes relinquished, raising his hands in the air. “She’s safe now,” he added as Watson darted for the doorway that led out of the train behind him. Watson turned around slowly, a murderous look in his eyes. “In my own defence, I timed it perfectly,” Holmes scrambled to justify his actions before Watson grabbed him by the throat, shoving him onto the bench.
“Did you kill my wife?!” Watson shouted, choking Holmes. Holmes’s hands shot up to grab at Watson’s wrists, legs sprawled out uselessly on either side of him. “Did you just kill my new wife?!” Watson screamed at him, lifting Holmes by the neck and banging his head against the bench.
Holmes’s pulled Watson’s hand from his throat, “Of course not!” He shouted back.
Watson punched him in the face, “What do you mean? How do you know that when you just threw her off a train?” Watson grabbed Holmes’s head with his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp.
“I told you, I timed it perfectly,” Holmes put his gloved leather hand to Watson’s face, muffling his words as he tried to shove him away.
“What does that mean?!” Watson shrieked, ripping Holmes’s vest clean off his body in rage. Holmes grunted and grabbed Watson, pulling his legs over Watson’s shoulders to place him in a headlock between his thighs.
“Calm down,” Holmes supplicated, as Watson tried to suffocate Holmes by shoving the ripped vest into his face.
“Explain!” Watson yelled, pointing his finger in Holmes’s face.
“By the time I’ve explained, we’d both be dead!” Holmes reminded him, raising his head to look into Watson’s wild eyes.
As if on cue, the compartment door opened just then, and both men turned in dismay. An assassin pointed a musket at Watson’s head, and he starred down the barrel only to find a tiny, monogrammed metal M sticking out of the muzzle. As the assassin pulled the trigger, the bullet backfired, exploding gunpowder onto the killer and the men behind him and setting them ablaze. The men screamed in agony, and Holmes slammed the door shut with his free hand. Watson pulled himself out of the headlock, stumbling back on the seat. Holmes swung his legs and placed his feet on the ground, pulling up his skirt to reveal a grenade strapped to a lavatory chain strapped to his trousers.
“That was no accident. It was by design,” Holmes growled, getting up to attach the grenade to the luggage rack, pulling the chain through the compartment door handle. “Now, do you need me to elaborate,” he removed his skirt, “or can we just crack on.”
Holmes walked towards the outer doorway, grabbing onto the overhead railings and climbing out of the coach. Watson grabbed his gun holster, attaching it to his back, and rushed out after Holmes.
“Come on!” Holmes barked as Watson caught up with him, cautiously tiptoeing across the railings on the side of the train. “Don’t worry, old boy; she’s as safe as houses. She’s with my brother,” he said when Watson was beside him, Holmes yelled over the harsh wind beating at them, trying to reassure Watson.
“I’m on my honeymoon!” Watson bawled, kicking Holmes as the other man began to climb away. “Why did you lead them here?! Why did you involve us?!” Watson sputtered.
“They aren’t here for me! They’re here for you!” Holmes yelled back, pointing his finger at Watson. Watson was stunned into silence as he realised that no matter how he’d tried to remove himself from Holmes’s life, they had been a team. Holmes’s problems were Watson’s problems now, no matter how he wanted to pretend otherwise. “Fortunately—” Holmes continued before they heard a sound behind them.
One of the assassins broke through the chain on the compartment door and ran to the outer doorway. The killer pointed a gun at the men still stranded on the side of the train. Before he could shoot them, the grenade Holmes had planted exploded, propelling the villain out the door and into the night.
Holmes continued, “…so am I.” He kicked the door open to another compartment, “Now mind the door.” Holmes pulled himself inside, startling the elderly couple he’d disturbed. “Good evening,” he said as the woman gasped in alarm, her husband pulling her close to him protectively. Holmes pulled the gun out of the holster strapped across his chest and walked over to the door leading to the corridor, opening it to check for assassins. “I think you’ll find that second class is more comfortable,” he said in a conversational tone, “the coast is clear.” He gestured towards the corridor, but the couple stood frozen in fear. “To the south, quick march!” Holmes yelled, clapping his hands, frightening the couple into action. The older woman whimpered as they scurried out the door to second class. Holmes checked the corridor once more before closing the door.
Watson hauled himself into the compartment, closing the outside door. He looked around to find that Holmes was lying on the floor, bare-chested with an arm raised above his head, his hand holding a gun.
“Lie down with me, Watson,” he said in a sultry tone.
Watson huffed frustratedly, “Why?!”
“I insist,” Holmes said, placing the gun back into his holster and grabbing Watson’s forearm.
“You—,” Watson started, but Holmes pulled him roughly to the ground. He huffed again, resigning himself to lie down on his back, shoulder to shoulder with Holmes in between the seats. Holmes pulled out his pipe and lighter, sparking a flame. “What are we doing down here?” Watson tried again.
“We are waiting. I am smoking,” Holmes pointed out the obvious, smiling. Watson rolled his eyes as he looked away.
A Maxim machine gun roared to life, bullets ripping through the train’s compartments. Both men turned away quickly, shielding their eyes from the flying debris. Holmes took another puff of his pipe.
“Patiently waiting,” he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Watson.
“For what?” Watson screamed behind him.
“Your window of opportunity,” Holmes explained, handing Watson his derringer over his shoulder. Watson took the tiny handgun out of his hands. As expected, the machine gun jammed, thanks to the rouge stick that Holmes had earlier replaced one of the bullets in the ammunition belt.
Watson scrambled to his feet, aiming through the massive hole ripped through several train compartments. He closed one eye, shooting the gunman that hurried to check the ammunition belt.
“Make it count!” Holmes yelled after him. The second gunman removed the lipstick, and Watson ducked down to the floor. Watson shielded his eyes with his hands from the debris, eyelids tightly shut. Holmes crossed his arms over his chest, rolling over to face him as the bullets reared above them again. “I said make it count!” Holmes reiterated, “How many windows does that provide?” He scolded him.
The injured gunman fell to the ground, realising with horror that the clip from the grenade was still in his hand. Panic-stricken, he rummaged through the sack of grenades. A doleful expression came over his face when he realised it was too late to find which one it was in time. He squeezed his eyes shut to prepare himself for what was coming. A blast drowned out the staccato of the machine gun as the grenade exploded, bringing the shooting to an end as the coach disengaged from the rest of the train, skidding uselessly along the tracks. Bits of wood and dust whirled in slow circles as silence descended upon the train, leaving only the clickety-clack of the wheels as they roved over the rails.
Watson cautiously opened one eye, his hands coming down from his face. Holmes’s eyes were wide from surprise, turquoise still prettily ordained his eyelids. Lips still firmly clamped around his smoking pipe; coral lipstick smudged across his cheek from their earlier struggle. For the second time this evening, Watson realised that this was the most fetching disguise Holmes had ever put on. Holmes quickly recovered, his features relaxing as he took another puff of smoke.
“Excellent work, dear boy,” He remarked, smiling devilishly at Watson as he fished for the lighter in his pocket.
Watson’s previous rage overtook him once more, and he lunged at Holmes. “Where is Mary? What have you done with her?” Watson grabbed at Holmes’s throat, kicking him in the shin. Holmes’ choked, pipe falling out of his mouth as his hands came up to Watson’s wrists. “Tell me, Holmes or I swear I will kill you where you lie,” Watson warned, staring intently at Holmes’s face.
“Mycroft is taking her to the country; she will be safe there! Damn it, Watson, don’t you trust me? After all this time,” Holmes coughed, fingers prying at Watson’s hands.
“On your life, swear it, Holmes,” he insisted, pressing down harder.
“On yours!” Holmes gasped, his eyes imploring Watson.
Watson knew that if Holmes had sworn on his life instead of his own, he meant what he said. Plus, though Watson was stronger than Holmes, Holmes could effortlessly incapacitate Watson if he wanted to. He hadn’t. Then why did Watson feel like there was more to this than the simple explanation Holmes was giving him? He’d get it out of Holmes one way or another. Watson loosened his grip, leaned in, and crushed his lips onto Holmes’s. When he pulled back, Holmes’s eyes were scrunched up in disbelief.
“It’s only a disguise, Watson,” Holmes said, trying and failing to distract the doctor from the fact that he’d returned the kiss, barely managing to quiet the joyful noise in the back of his throat.
“Shut up,” Watson rolled his eyes, leaning in once more. “We both know this was part of your design,” he continued as one of his hands trailed down Holmes’s bare chest and stomach. Holmes’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering momentarily, his gloved leather hand coming up to grab at Watson’s hip. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were colluding with Moriarty to get me away from my wife,” Watson admonished as his hand found Holmes’s hardening cock through the flimsy silk trousers. “You couldn’t stand another day without me, could you?” Watson said, observing Holmes’s reactions.
“Watson,” Holmes warned, averting his gaze, even as a flush crept up his cheeks and his body trembled from the exertion of forcing his hips not to buck into Watson’s touch.
“Tell me I’m wrong, Holmes,” Watson tore off the fine burnt umber fabric, raising an eyebrow—Holmes, of course, wasn’t wearing any drawers.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Holmes protested unconvincingly, wrapped his leg around Watson’s waist, trying to pull the man closer.
“Oh really?” Watson asked, letting his fingers run down Holmes’ balls and perineum. He quickly found the ring of muscles between Holmes’s cheeks and rubbed a finger over his hole experimentally. Holmes coughed to try to hide the strangled noise that escaped him. As he’d suspected, Holmes was thoroughly prepped, loose, and slick with oil. Watson slipped a finger inside Holmes, massaging at his walls as Holmes whimpered. “Still denying it?” Watson asked, pulling his finger out and stuffing it in Holmes’ mouth. Holmes eagerly swallowed the digit, moaning as he sucked on Watson’s index. Watson tore his finger out of Holmes’s mouth with an obscene-sounding pop. Holmes closed his mouth, nostrils flaring slightly as a smile broke over his face.
“You’ve caught me red-handed,” he replied, a bright flush on his cheeks now. “Are you going to punish me, doctor?” Holmes purred, smiling like the cat that got the cream.
“Damn you, Holmes,” Watson breathed angrily, flipping Holmes over abruptly and pulling him into a kneeling position. “I deserve—” he began, bringing his hand down to spank Holmes’s bare bottom, “to spend one bloody—” grunting as he continued with the harsh treatment. “Weekend with—” Watson’s other hand moved down to grip Holmes by the back of the neck, shoving his face against the carpeted floor, “my new wife on—” Watson alternated between cheeks, “my bloody honeymoon!”
“Watson, mercy! Mercy!” he cried, eyes shut tightly and voice stuttering as he felt the sting of Watson’s palm on his cheeks again. Holmes grunted with each unrelenting smack, clutching the edge of the bench as he tried to wiggle away while Watson pummelled his arse.
“I ought to whip you with my belt,” Watson commented, and Holmes’s eyes shot open.
“I’ll be good! Whatever you want, I swear it!” Holmes beseeched him. He heard Watson unbuckle his belt behind him. “Damn it, Watson! What is it you want me to say?” He struggled against the grip on his neck, but Watson paid him no mind.
Holmes knew that Watson would not relent unless he gave him a reason, and though the thought filled him with a secret thrill, the truth of the situation prevented him from enjoying it. Watson had left him for a woman, and Holmes had taken to drinking formaldehyde while turning their previously shared living quarters into a botanist’s wet dream. What was happening between them now wasn’t a playful tryst at Baker Street, where they’d been free to explore the depths of their depravities. He knew if he didn’t confess now, Watson would likely beat it out of him. Though his conscience ceaselessly fought to suppress the words, he knew he couldn’t handle having Watson break him; Watson’s departure already had him in pieces. He took a quick breath and laid his heart bare:
Should I tell you how I haven’t stopped staring at the spot where you sat to read your papers or that your bedroom has not been refurnished because I cannot stand to go inside? If you must know, I miss you terribly, but I have not called on you since that fateful day. I have left you to your life with Mary in peace and without complaint. When I discovered the danger Moriarty had unleashed upon the two of you, I did what I do best to save your lives. Yes, I came prepared with the hope, nay the certainty, that I’d persuade you to have me once more. So, if you must discipline me, as you would a schoolboy, have it your way, but do not expect me to apologise!
Holmes steeled himself against either one of the two plausible adverse outcomes, fighting the niggling optimism for the one positive. He could manoeuvre himself out of this position in an instant, but the sudden onslaught of shame at the admission kept him frozen in place. His masochistic tendencies kept his cock at attention, especially now, as he fought to regain control of his mind which spun out of control as he overanalysed the minute silence between them.
Watson’s hand relaxed against Holmes’s neck, pulling back as guilt bloomed in his gut at Holmes’s words. Holmes lifted himself with his arms, daring to glance at Watson through the mess of his hair. He watched as Watson’s anger quickly subsided and turned to regret, though his pride precluded him from addressing Holmes’s confession as he wished he could.
“On the bench,” Watson instructed softly. He hoped that Holmes would read the expression on his face, hear the timbre of his voice, and know what Watson wished to but could not say aloud.
The fact of the matter was that Watson missed Holmes too and had thought of him every day since he’d watched Holmes leave the wedding early. Still, before God, he had given his word that he would be with Mary and that he would start a family of his own. However, he also knew that he couldn’t stop what he and Holmes had started at Baker Street; no amount of marital bliss would ever outweigh his love for Holmes. Watson had tried and failed on numerous occasions throughout their years together to deny himself and bury his feelings for the detective; all attempts had been futile. He had never outright admitted this to Holmes, but they both knew, especially when most arguments ended in frenzied lovemaking.
Holmes, ever the bloodhound that Watson could rely on, read him perfectly. He scrambled to his feet and flopped on the bench eagerly, lying flat on his back with a leg hanging off the side, and a hand reached out for Watson to take hold. A look of relief plain on Holmes’s face, one that he did not bother to hide.
Watson grabbed his hand, pulled himself up and settled himself between Holmes’s legs on the bench. Holmes pulled him close by the back of Watson’s head, fingers ruffling through his hair. He kissed Watson feverishly, moaning softly into the kiss. Watson parted his lips immediately, unable to deny Holmes any longer.
Holmes promptly stuck his tongue inside Watson’s mouth, alternating between thorough exploration and playful teasing. Watson matched him, letting his hunger for the man take over as their tongues battled to see who’d lose themselves to the taste of the other first. Holmes’s frantic trembling hands roamed over Watson’s body, slipping under every dishevelled garment hem. In seconds, he divested Watson of his scarf and waistcoat, snapping most of his shirt buttons clean off.
Holmes was rutting against him now, Watson’s belt buckle jingling as it hung loosely from his trousers while their bodies collided. Holmes pulled away to trail hungry kisses across Watson’s jaw, continuing lower to bite the tender spot at his carotid artery. Watson resigned himself to Holmes’s ministrations, grunting as he bucked his hips forward to rub his cock against Holmes’s through the fabric of his drawers. Moaning when he felt their combined precum soak through the cotton as their heads pressed against each other. Holmes dotted his collarbone with kisses, and Watson ventured a hand between them, giving Holmes’s cock a single squeeze, causing him to gasp.
“Is this what you wanted, Holmes? How you imagined it in that clever head of yours?” Watson teased, letting his fingers trail downwards over Holmes’s balls and towards his perineum, massaging him there momentarily before slipping an index finger inside Holmes once more. “Did you fantasise that I’d bugger your arse with my fingers until I’d made you a whimpering mess?” Watson whispered in Holmes’s ear.
Holmes shuddered all over, “Yes, oh my dear Watson, a hundred times yes!” He exclaimed, clutching onto Watson’s shoulders for dear life.
“Tell me what you want, Holmes,” Watson ordered, biting down on Holmes’s shoulder until he gasped.
“Anything, everything—you,” Holmes stammered between ragged breaths.
“You can do better than that,” Watson remarked, moving down to flick his tongue against an exposed nipple, before sucking the nub into his mouth. Holmes stifled a shout, trembling under Watson’s mouth, his body needy and sensitive after so many long nights spent alone.
“I need more, Watson. Please, another finger. Spread me open for you,” Holmes entreated obediently. “Better,” Watson followed Holmes’s instructions, sliding another finger along with the first and scissoring them apart. He trailed kisses across Holmes’s chest and teased his other nipple with his teeth. Holmes’s hands were kneading in his hair, tensing, and relaxing as Watson rocked his fingers inside him.
Watson moved up to capture Holmes’s lips in a kiss, muffling his cry as Watson crooked his fingers, skimming gently over the raised bundle of nerves that was Holmes’s prostate. Holmes jerked in his hands, legs tightening around Watson’s waist as his body quivered by the onslaught of sensations. Holmes broke the kiss to drop his forehead to Watson’s shoulder, biting hard on his lip to suppress the desperate mewls escaping him from the intensity of having Watson’s fingers inside him and cock rubbing against his.
Watson drew his head back by his hair, “I want to hear you, Holmes. Let your voice out.” Holmes complied and the coach filled with Holmes’s heated moans and the squelching sounds of Watson’s fingers sliding in and out of him.
“Can you hear that, Watson? How slick and loose I am, how ready I am for you,” Holmes cooed as Watson nibbled on his ear. “Bugger me, Watson. If you don’t have your way with me this instant, I will lose my mind,” Holmes keened.
“Well, dear boy, we wouldn’t want that,” Watson smiled. “Do we have anymore—?” Watson began to ask, referring to the oil.
“Your left pocket,” Holmes answered quickly, his gloved fingers curled at Watson’s torn shirt, keeping them close.
“When did you…?” Watson wondered aloud, amused by Holmes’s antics.
“In the hallway, when you first recognised me,” Holmes smirked triumphantly.
“Unbelievable,” Watson shook his head, righting himself up to rummage in his pocket.
“Now Watson, I need you,” Holmes whined as Watson fumbled to procure the tiny vial.
“Now, now, where are your manners?” Watson joked, pulling down his drawers to free his length. Holmes’s mouth twitched, and suddenly, he was folding himself in half and swallowing Watson whole. Watson’s gasp of surprise quickly turned to a moan of pleasure, his fingers coming up to Holmes’s head to steady himself as the warmth of Holmes’s mouth enveloped him. Holmes bobbed his head a few times, grabbing the vial still in Watson’s hand. He pulled off Watson’s cock, pouring the oil over his gloves and coating Watson as he stroked him.
He looked up at Watson, “Please?” Holmes said sweetly, mouth ghosting over the head of Watson’s cock. Watson moaned, turned on by Holmes’s shamelessness and the gloved leather hands stroking him. Watson grabbed Holmes by the shoulders and shoved him backwards, grasping his legs to pull him in position. Holmes laughed as his back hit the soft padded bench.
Watson took himself in hand, lining himself up with Holmes’s entrance. He gently pushed against Holmes’s puckered hole, sliding against him with the help of the oil. Holmes inhaled sharply, arching his hips in anticipation. Watson rocked his hips minutely, languidly probing the slick ring of muscles repeatedly. Holmes’s eyebrows scrunched up, his mouth falling open as his hands shot forward, fingers grazing over the flesh of Watson’s exposed hipbones. The lack of resistance had Watson slipping further and further inside Holmes with each gentle push, and they moaned in unison as the head of his cock moved steadily past Holmes’s relaxed hole. Watson wrapped his hands around Holmes’s legs, spreading them wide as he slowly sheathed himself. He dug his fingers into Holmes’s thighs to steady himself as Holmes’s wet heat engulfed him.
“Oh God, yes,” Watson sighed, closing his eyes to savour the moment as he bottomed out inside Holmes.
“Don’t stand on ceremony; we haven’t all day,” Holmes whined impatiently. Watson obliged him, pulling out to thrust back inside. “Yes!” Holmes praised. “Finally—,” words cut off as they melted into a groan, his head smacking back into the leather. As Watson began thrusting inside him, Holmes stole a glance down, watching and panting as Watson fucked him thoroughly.
“You like that? Watching where we’re connected, my cock disappearing inside you,” Watson noticed, breath ragged as he worked himself in and out of the detective.
“Yes…” Holmes rasped, his eyes shooting up the meet Watson’s gaze.
“Of course, you do,” Watson said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Go on then, watch. I want every moment of it catalogued in your mind,” he directed, himself looking down.
“Watson, oh my dear Watson….” Holmes murmured, reaching his hands down to spread his cheeks apart as he watched Watson’s length moving in and out of his needy hole. Using Watson’s hands at the back of his knees as leverage, he inclined himself further off the bench to spear himself fully onto his partner. The new angle had Watson groaning, fully encased inside him. Holmes quivered at the feeling, oiled gloves slipping along his skin as he struggled to keep himself spread, Watson’s balls brushing up against his knuckles with each thrust. He closed his eyes as he pulled up his dominant hand to stroke himself, “Watson, I’m not going to last.”
Holmes’s moans ricocheted off the walls of the tiny cabin, punctuated by a steady recitation of mores and yeses as Watson fucked him to pieces. Hair matted to his temple with sweat and chest heaving as he chased the high, frenetically stroking himself with one hand and bringing his second to tug at his balls while Watson pounded away at him. The concurrent sensations and the sounds of their contrasting moans quickly overtook Holmes, and he cried out, cum splattering all over his stomach and chest.
Watson watched Holmes, captivated by the sight of him, “You’re stunning. Oh, how I’ve missed this, missed you.” Hearing those words were like music to Holmes’s ears, and he whimpered in response. Watson only admitted his feelings like this when he was too overwhelmed by his senses to put any thought to his words. Watson continued to fuck Holmes through his orgasm, slowing his pace to give his partner a moment of respite. Holmes quickly recovered, though his eyes remained half-lidded as he fixed his gaze on his lover, pulling Watson close with a hand on each side of his head. Holmes captured his lips in a sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth.
“Don’t stop,” he husked as he pulled away, voice rough from his passionate cries. Holmes kept Watson’s face close, leaning in so he could tease Watson’s lips with his tongue and nibble on his lower lip. “Come on then, spill your seed in me. I need it inside me, as deep as you can go. Stuff me, Watson,” he growled.
“Holmes! Oh god, Holmes…” Watson keened. Overcome by Holmes’s filthy words, he quickened his pace, plunging into Holmes with renewed strength.
“That’s it, old boy. Give it to me hard, make me take it!” Holmes encouraged, grunting with each unrelenting thrust, as he pressed their foreheads together.
“Holmes…” Watson whispered, slamming his hips forward as his vision whited, electricity ripping through him, and he exploded inside Holmes’s trembling body. Holmes went pliant, insides clenching weakly around Watson’s cock as he pumped him full of cum.
Holmes whimpered as Watson began to withdraw, muscles clinging on as Watson slowly pulled out of him. Limbs tangled and boneless, they stayed close, catching their breaths as they held one another.
“Holmes, I…” Watson trailed off, hoping the right words would come to him. “I—” he tried again, but Holmes cut him off.
“I know,” Holmes interrupted, eyes still closed.
“No, let me finish,” Watson propped himself up on his elbow, waiting for Holmes to look at him.
Holmes opened his eyes and took Watson’s head between his hands, “I know, and I too would be lost without you, my Boswell.” Before Watson could say another word, he pulled him into another passionate kiss.
⁂
“Who’d have known that honeymooning in Brighton was such a dangerous notion?” Holmes teased from behind Watson, who sat with his legs dangling out of the train.
“Is that what this is about?” Watson asked, rolling his eyes. Holmes gave the back of Watson’s head a look.
“By your own admission, you’ve never enjoyed it there.”
“I’ve never been to Brighton.”
“Or you’re just too fragile to remember at present,” Holmes said, dabbing at his bloody forehead with a handkerchief. Watson always denied they’d been anywhere where they’d had relations; it wasn’t anything new.
Sooner or later, Holmes knew, Watson would start pretending the rest of this train ride never happened.
“Oh, shut up,” Watson said, closing his eyes. “Tell me my wife’s safe.”
“I can’t do both,” Holmes said, pulling the handkerchief from his face. “I promise. As I said, I timed it perfectly,” he reiterated, smiling to himself as he looked out the window. It had been the quickest way to ensure Mary’s safety, but Holmes secretly relished the rush that her defenestration gave him anyway.
“Why were Mary and I targeted at all?” Watson asked, turning his head to look at Holmes over his shoulder.
“Excellent question. The answer is twofold—” Holmes began.
“He’s after us because of you,” Watson finished for him.
“I’m afraid you must bear half the responsibility,” Holmes inclined his body.
“Here it comes,” Watson smiled sardonically, “so predictable.”
“Had you and Mary not been so hell-bent on your wedding, we could’ve solved the case,” Holmes spoke over him.
“Oh, it’s my fault now,” Watson shook his head.
“All I’m saying is the argument could be made—” Holmes tried to explain.
“No, it couldn’t,” Watson interrupted.
“That your nuptials were poorly timed,” Holmes finished triumphantly, wagging a finger at the doctor. “Thus, our relationship….” Holmes waved his hand as he rose from his seat.
“Relationship?” Watson winced.
“Very well, partnership,” Holmes steadied himself by grabbing a hanging strap, “has not yet run its course.” Holmes clapped his hands together. “My dear fellow, if you could be bothered to see this through to the end,” he winced, “I shall never again ask you to assist me.” Holmes looked over to Watson nervously.
“Once more unto the breach,” Watson pronounced, raising a finger into the air. A smile tugged momentarily at Holmes’s mouth.
“That’s the spirit. Now, to the question. This is so deliciously complicated. You may be asking yourself, what does a criminal mastermind want with a simple gipsy fortune teller? It’s her brother, I tell you. When we find him, and we must—” Holmes began, losing himself in the details of the case.
“After you find my luggage,” Watson interjected sternly, “go on.” Holmes turned to go searching. “Wait,” Watson frowned, “where is it we’re going?”
Holmes grabbed onto the strap again, “Paris, the most sensible honeymoon destination of all.” He said with a faraway look in his eye. Watson, despite himself, smiled.
FIN.