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Watson and I had been sharing rooms -- and I mean beds, too -- for years, and it seemed with each year, I only grow more enamoured by him. It would be preposterous to say my love never faltered: I myself faltered at times, even I must admit, to which Watson himself can attest. My love for him felt, and still feels, like my veins themselves, constantly flowing, constantly pulsing throughout my entire body. He is in every part of me, in every molecule of my being; I have grown so accustomed to this that to lose his love would be a loss inconceivable. Through such grief I would surely cease to exist altogether.
But that is another matter, a philosophical debacle I have tired of over the years. Now, years into our companionship, I can only admire him, gaze agape at him, at my whole-bodied love for him. I think of this now, watching him sleep next to me as the sun streams in.
It is a Sunday morning, which means Mrs Hudson is blessedly elsewhere. We have, according to my trustworthy inner clock and the sun’s rays themselves, three hours until we are bothered by our housekeeper or anyone else. Our rooms are otherwise silent; there is no case on; I doubt even a client would interrupt us this early on God’s day. Watson sleeps on, and I watch him.
The years have only made him more attractive. Or: as my love for him has grown, have I only grown fonder? This is another conundrum which I do not wish to entertain at the moment.
The rays only serve to accentuate his golden features. To me he has always been a ray of light -- even, as he has recorded, a conductor of light. His greying hair still has traces of gold in it, and when he smiles at me, nay, when he merely gazes at me, he seems to shine like the sun itself, nearly too bright to look upon. I love him at all times, and I especially do so right now. My heart beats with it, every drumbeat seeming to resonate his name. John, John, John, John, John…
It is almost as though he heard it, for just then he starts to shuffle awake. First his arms stretch, then his brow furrows, then he purses his lips briefly before licking them, and finally his eyelids flutter open and he squints. His arm and eyes find me at the same time, and I shuffle closer when he grumbles a wordless mmm. I must kiss him.
And I do so, his moustache, as well as some stubble, tickling me. I feel him smile into the kiss and feel myself returning it. My God, to think that I could allow myself this, that I could have this at all with the man that I love…
One lazy hand comes up to hold the back of my head while the other pets my arm.
“Sherlock,” he whispers, then tries to sit up a bit. I shake my head and press his shoulders against the mattress, not hard, just enough to prove my point. I can see a glint in his eyes and a smirk on his lips as I move above him, straddling his hips. His hands fall there, on my bony hips, immediately, and I kiss him like I know he likes: slow, deep, with enough tongue to tease but not be overwhelming. He hums in appreciation and I roll my hips to find his desire evident.
“You’re a rascal this morning, aren’t you,” he hushes against my hips, bringing my hips into a slow, leisurely roll. My faculties fail me when our erections press together: I can only gasp and nod. My Watson always knows how to break me in the end, to turn me into a feeling creature instead of a thinking machine. Only he can, and it is only him whom I allow to see me like this.
His hands leave my hips as I continue the slow movements, my breath ghosting against his lips as I cry out at each slow glide, and his hands move to grip my arse. He holds my cheeks for a moment, pulls them apart to gauge my reaction: as I moan and clutch the pillow his head is lying on, he pushes me up a bit.
“Naked,” he says simply, and I fulfil his request swiftly and with no hesitation. When I return atop him, he is bare as well, save sparkling eyes and our jar of salve in his left hand. “You want more, don’t you?” he grumbles, a warm, knowing timbre to his voice, and I shiver. “I know you do: I can tell, you know.”
I quiver at this and kiss his shoulder as I spread my legs wide. I have no wish to speak, nor do I need to: he knows my body better than his own, and I his. So I continue my slow movements silently, and with no barriers between us, and start to shudder. This was not the plan at all when I woke up, but I am more than willing to float away on this escapade, in the safety of our home and in my lover’s arms.
Beneath me there is fumbling about, but I know what he’s doing: moments later there is a slicked finger at my entrance. I nod immediately and cup his jaw to kiss him properly again, eager now and impatient for him to prepare me. He does so as he always does: nearly coolly perfunctorily, that is until he brushes upon that spot inside me. He can always find it, some hidden talent of his for which I thank the stars above. One finger turns into two -- I have to leave his lips to pant and catch my breath.
With one hand upon his breast and the other on his good shoulder, he prepares me with three fingers, the other hand on my hip to rock me back like I like. I begin to lose control as he hits my prostate with each thrust: my head rolls back and I have to bite my lip not to be too loud. My Watson knows how to tear me apart, and when I look down, I observe he is far from unaffected.
His face is flush, a faint red from exertion, and he stares up at me with brow furrowed in concentration, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He is a masterpiece of arousal, and I have to still my hips before I reach my crisis too soon.
He hums in understanding, a small grumble, and withdraws his fingers. “Sherlock,” he says as he hands the jar to me. I lean back and smear my hand, knowing what he is asking. We’ve done this enough times that no words are necessary anymore. I understand exactly what he wants, because I’ve done it dozens of times now.
I run my hand over his cock a few times, my fist tight, and stretch my neck, for I know he is watching me, and I know he loves my neck. He grunts and his hands fall to my hips, another one of his favourite features, I believe (and once or twice, he has remarked how ‘feminine’ they appear to him, although I do not quite see it). When he starts to buck into my hand, I withdraw it and wipe the remaining salve on my thigh, for I have learned that to wipe it anywhere else meant a huff from my partner and a curse of annoyance after our coupling. This way, when we bathe later, it is easily cleaned with little hassle.
I lean my weight on the pillow on either side of his head and lift myself up; our eyes meet and I nod and he pulls me down onto him, breaching me. I gasp at the feeling, my arms threatening to buckle. Every time, no matter how long we have done this, it is still overwhelming. His eyes are dark as he breaches me, and I let him control my lower half, pulling me down, seating himself within me. When my hips have reached his, I sit up a bit and pant, cursing under my breath. Gods above, the feel of him inside me always derails me utterly; I am laid waste to him.
His hands travel gently from my hips to my chest, my pectorals, my shoulders, and I sit up straighter on his cock, my exhales shaky. He seems content to let me have this moment, and I appreciate it. I move my hips just so from side to side, feeling him move within me, and let out a whorish moan at the feeling. So full, so wonderfully…
As I watch him lick his lips, I begin to rise off him only to fall back just as slowly. My thighs shake already from the feeling. His hands hold my hips once more, one traveling to my arse, and he tilts me forward. I lean my hands on either side of his head, gasping, and let him control the pace now.
He rotates my hips sinfully slowly, making sure to drag his erect member against my prostate at each go. I tremble and clutch the hair on one side of his head and whimper.
“Sherlock,” he hushes against my lips, and when he plants his feet on the bed and brackets my hips, the new angle pushes me forward and I kiss him, gasping into his mouth.
We both of us moan: he is deeper within me now, rolling his hips regularly, but still slowly, and I have to sit up to catch my breath.
“John,” I start to moan. His arms rush around me, his knees bracketing me closer, and his hips buck upwards harsher than before. “Yes,” I start to chant, “oh, John, John, please…”
He leans in and kisses me once more, and I press as close to him as I can, his hips moving harder now. His tongue rubs against mine just as his cock rubs against that spot inside me, and I bite his lip to keep from shouting at how good it feels. How good he makes me feel, how wanted, how loved…
Both his hands run down the length of my back, making me shudder, and grip my arse to bring me faster onto his cock. I cry out at the feeling -- harder is good, faster is even better, and this is ending up like most of our other couplings now. Passionate, heart-wrenchingly passionate and all-consuming, just like my love for the man.
I cry out each time he thrusts now, and his thrusts are getting more frantic. His breathing is getting shallower, his chest heaving, a line of sweat along his forehead. I sit up a bit more to watch him and also to gain the leverage to rock myself back onto him, to meet him thrust for thrust. That makes him cry out, an animalistic grunt, and I begin to lose myself to my oncoming crisis.
My own cock is trapped between our chests, rubbed with each rock back onto my Watson’s cock within me, and I know that even without that friction I would be close.
“John,” I cry out, imploring him to understand, and of course he does. His hands clench my arse harder, and his own arse begins to leave our bed as he thrusts harder into me. I bite my lip to keep back a scream, but a loud noise comes out anyway. And my Watson, ever the pragmatic carer, tips me forward once more, and I mouth his shoulder to try to keep quiet.
He tilts my hips up and pounds into me, holding me still so I can only take it -- and I feel my eyes roll back and my cock start to spurt between us. I clutch his other shoulder with a death grip as I come, my entire body feeling like it is shaking apart. I hear him curse and cry out, and he grinds into me dirty, just the way I like, and I spurt for longer than I ever have, his cock rubbing the orgasm out of me. His own release spreads within me, I feel it rush in, feel him tense then relax into me. His arms wrap around me and hold me close, his cock only just beginning to soften, and I let myself be held as I catch my breath. Unbelievable, is always what goes through my mind in these moments. That and -- love. Pure, unquestionable, real, undeniable love.
His hands trace my spine lazily as I lift myself up -- with a gross noise between us of my seed drying and sticking to each of our chests -- and kiss him softly. His moustache tickles, but I lean into it. He hums and pulls me closer to him, and I close my eyes and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. A thousand kisses would not be enough.
“I love you,” he says moments later against my lips. I nod, not sure I can say it back at the moment, something heavy sitting in my throat, and kiss him more. My Watson, still in bathed in this sunlight, staring at me with such love in his eyes that I melt against him. The sunlight has nothing on him; I can say that now, and even can venture saying it to him. He is my sun.