Watson slipped quietly into Holmes's room, shutting the door softly behind him. The detective had left a few hours earlier to visit his brother, a visit which Watson had politely turned down, claiming exhaustion from a long day of trying medical patients. Though this wasn't a complete lie ( two of his patients had been particularly trying: Mrs. Gibbon's five-year old son had left some rather nasty bruises on his shin when he had tried to examine him, and Mr. Rowland was showing clear signs of dementia), Watson had different reasons for begging off on a chance to visit the smartest man in London.

He pulled his jacket off, draped it over the back of Holmes' desk chair, and crossed the room to the bed where he continued to undress, folding each article of clothing neatly and setting it on the dresser. After he was completely nude, Watson crossed back to his jacket and pulled out a small vial of oil. Rolling the small glass container between his fingertips, he returned once more to the bed, and tried to quiet the nerves of apprehension and excitement fluttering in his stomach.

A week ago, Watson learned that the interest that he held in Holmes was returned, and said interest was anything but chaste. From the first time they had lain together, bodies rutting against one another, hands and mouths touching and exploring, he had discovered that Holmes was completely inexperienced in such things. Which was not to say that their first time had been, in any way, unsatisfying.

Holmes was a swift learner, regardless of what he chose to do. Sex was no different. But he was also prideful, arrogant, and Watson had no intention of letting his friend's self-centered demeanor ruin a potentially wonderful thing. He had pined for Holmes for far too long.

Thus, what better way to encourage sexual experimentation than to show what some of the best sex felt like? Watson grinned, and climbed up onto the edge of the bed. He knelt with one hand flat on the quilted bedspread, the other reaching down to stroke himself slowly, languidly. As Mycroft was a man of strict routine, Watson figured he had about a half-hour until Holmes returned. There was no reason to hurry, no reason not to take his time.

After he was completely hard, Watson reached for the oil, and dribbled a generous amount onto his fingertips. He set the vial on the bed side table, and spread his legs more widely, stroking slowly down his cock to caress over his testicles and press slowly against the tight ring of muscle, relishing the slow burn that went straight to his groin.

Though he often preferred to top in his sexual encounters, be they with man or woman, this action still sent a thrill down to his very core. One fingertip breeched his entrance, and circled once before he pushed in deeper, centimeters at a time, rotating the digit as he went. He found that small, almond-shaped gland and slid across it. A quiet, breathy moan escaped from slack lips, and Watson tipped forward, his face buried against the bedspread. His legs slipped a bit wider, and he added another finger, scissoring and pushing against the tight muscles. His other hand fell to his cock, smearing precome along his length.

He had added a third finger, the fullness pushing inside him causing his legs to tremble and his back to arch when the bang of the front door echoed through the house. Watson's grin returned, and he gently pulled his fingers out, turning and rolling to wantonly sprawl across the bed, one knee crooked and his eyelids falling to half-mast. His hand returned to his cock, thumb gently circling the sensitive tip.

It was then that he realized that there the sounds of two sets of feet crashing up the stairs. Holmes' voice penetrated through the thin walls "It should be in my bedside table, brother mine…"

The grin froze on Watson's face. The footsteps had cleared the stairs, and had passed the sitting room. Meaning the only place left for them to go…

He threw himself off the bed, grabbed his clothes off the dresser in one hand. There was no way to get out of the room without being seen, no way to make it to the sitting room through the other door before the brothers came in upon him. With a muffled curse, Watson hurled himself to the floor, ignored the twinge in his injured shoulder, and rolled under the bed, scrambling to get as close to the wall as possible.

The door opened, and he lay as still as possible, trying his damnedest not to breath too loudly. Or at all; Holmes had obviously banned Mrs. Hudson from his room for far too long- the dust was getting ridiculous. Holmes' slender legs appeared, cut off just below the knee by the bed frame and draping quilt. Behind him, Mycroft Holmes' thicker limbs could be seen as well.

"It just came the other day…" Holmes' legs headed toward the edge of the bed. Watson's heart thumped wildly in his chest and he hoped that he had not left any incriminating evidence on the bedspread. A drawer opened. "Here we are," Holmes continued, retracing his steps back to the doorway. "Still in the envelope, still sealed, just as I promised. Now, my dear Mycroft, I am certain that Mrs. Hudson will be more than happy to show you out."

"Of course, Of course," the elder Holmes replied. There was a slight pause, before Mycroft continued. "and I do hope that your evening is very enjoyable indeed."

"You're too kind," was the dry rejoinder.

The door shut, and Holmes' legs traveled to his chair, before disappearing in a manner suggesting that he had drawn his knees up to his chest, as per usual. For a moment, Watson entertained the thought of talking his way out of the situation. He would somehow manage to squirm into at least most of his clothes, would make up some potentially plausible story ("Mrs. Hudson said something about mice eating through mattresses. I was just checking to make sure your room was rodent free") and then escape sans dignity.

He had just started to wriggle his pants toward his feet when Holmes' voice stopped him cold. "My boy, I believe that you have finally managed to confound me. I am positive there is an absolutely brilliant reason for you to be laid out beneath my bed, but for the life of me, I can't imagine why it should include a small vial of oil."

Watson resisted the urge to bang his head against the floorboards. The oil. Of course. And if Holmes had seen it, then it only reasoned that the smartest man in London had seen it as well. "I don't suppose you'd believe in vicious, quilt-gorging mice," he ventured.

Holmes snorted ungracefully. "Dear Watson, I do believe you've left off from your romantic scribblings, and have turned your trade to something more fantastic." The caustic tone ceased, and his voice gentled. "Watson, whatever it is, I am certain it is nothing so incredible as you have built it up to be."

Watson winced, glancing down to where the terror near-discovery had wilted what he had always considered to be a rather impressive erection.


Watson sighed, and squirmed out from underneath the bed, leaving his clothes strewn about behind him. As he got to his feet, he braved a glance at Holmes' face, and was awarded with the most mystified expression he had ever encountered there.

"Watson, why were you naked underneath my bed?"

The blood rushed to his face. Watson couldn't even begin to think of where to start. "I noticed your brother was here." An upraised eyebrow was the only answer to that brilliant and evasive deduction. "I suppose he was simply by to pick something up."

" Astute observation." Holmes' dry voice was hardly impressed. " It was merely a personal letter, that I neglected to bring with me when I left. One of my less than brilliant relatives sent it to me by mistake."

"You mean you forgot to take it with you."

"I do believe you were in the process of explaining why you had absconded to the underside of my bed," Holmes responded with some asperity, hands beginning to tighten around his knees.

Watson ran a hand through disheveled and dusty hair. "It was meant to be a surprise."

"If that was your goal, then you have succeeded admirably. I cannot recall any moment in which I have been more taken aback."

"Not that kind of surprise," Watson snapped. His glance fell on the nearly empty vial, and he fidgeted. The oil was beginning to smear down the backs of his thighs, and he really didn't want to think about the sight he was portraying.

"Ah," Holmes' grey eyes seemed to turn silver, and Watson's breath caught in his throat. "I think I see."

Watson frowned, unable to follow Holmes' train of thought, though relieved he no longer had to explain anything. He opened his mouth, not entirely certain of what he was going to say, when Holmes untangled his limbs and rose gracefully from his chair, tipped Watson's chin upward, and sealed his mouth over the doctor's.

Watson murmured against Holmes' lips, perhaps some variant of the detective's name, or a grateful "Oh thank God;" he wasn't certain. The waistcoat buttons undid themselves beneath his fingers, the garment slipped off slim shoulders and fell onto the floor. Holmes' shirt, pants, and everything else followed soon after, and Watson pushed him toward the bed, until Holmes' knees hit the edge and he fell back.

With one knee to either side of Holmes' hips, Watson straddled the detective, hands traveling down the smooth planes of his chest, mouth nipping at the tender skin of his throat, reveling at the delighted sounds slipping past lax lips. Holmes lifted his hands, skimmed them down Watson's back to his hips, and Watson halted them, gently twining their fingers together and pressing the backs of Holmes' hands into the quilt.

"Relax," he breathed into Holmes' ear, thrilled by the shiver that ran through Holmes' body. "Trust me, you'll enjoy this." He waited until Holmes nodded, those brilliant silver eyes locked on his own, before releasing the detective's hands and reaching for the vial. He could tell that Holmes was curious, then, to see where this went. As he had once told Watson, sometimes it's best to let an experiment play itself out, rather than urge it one way or the other.

Watson slathered the remainder of the oil on Holmes' erection, relishing the writhing body beneath him. He drew himself to his feet, knees deeply bent, his good hand gripping Holmes' thigh behind him as he lined Holmes' cock up to his entrance.

Before him, Holmes drew himself up on his elbows, and Watson guided him forward, lips coming to meet lips as he slowly pushed steadily downward, encasing Holmes inside of himself. Holmes gasped into his mouth, and Watson stilled, feeling himself stretch and reveling in the satisfying rush of being filled. When the slight burn had subsided, when Holmes' hips had started to hitch upward, when the warmth in his gut began to reach a desperate pitch, Watson lifted, movements lazy and easy. His hands, still slick with leftover oil, resumed their caresses, gliding over Holmes' chest and hips. Watson's thumbs brushed over Holmes nipples, and the detective arched into his touch, hips canting to the same slow movement that Watson's were. Watson bent over him, lips tasting alabaster skin until he pulled Watson back to his mouth.

Holmes' long fingers were splayed against the sides of his head. "My boy," he murmured, possessive yet owned in the same breath, and Watson's heart lurched in his chest. "My dear, dear Watson." His hips began to quicken beneath Watson's thighs, and the doctor knew this couldn't last much longer.

He gently grasped one of Holmes' hands and drew one of the long, covetous fingers into his mouth. "Bend your knees for me," he whispered around the agile digit. Holmes' hips were snapping upward, but his legs scrambled to obey.

The angle changed, the penetration was deeper, and Watson cried out, riding Holmes with abandon before taking his own neglected sex in hand. Another thrust, quick, furious stroking, and he was releasing on Holmes' chest. He could feel his body tighten around Holmes, could feel the quick thrust degenerate into wild rutting, even through the white haze of his orgasm.

As the euphoria died down, he glanced down at Holmes, whose head was thrown back, mouth gaping and hands painfully tight against his hips. He was still wildly thrusting, just moments away from orgasm and the almost desperate lust in his grey eyes sent shivers to Watson's spent groin. Watson winced slightly, then bent back down to draw one of Holmes' earlobes into his mouth, and release a whine of pure enjoyment into the shell. The result was instantaneous. Holmes arched up one last time, spent himself inside Watson's slick body.

They breathed together, forehead to forehead. Finally, Watson rolled to the side, and Holmes pulled out. He watched as Holmes reached blindly into the bedside table drawer and withdrew a handkerchief, mopping Watson's emissions from his chest before flinging it toward the floor, and rolling over to fit himself against Watson's side.

"So," Watson ran his fingers through Holmes' dark hair, and smiled as the detective curled his lanky limbs around him. "Still surprised?"

Holmes laughed into Watson's shoulder. "My good man, I believe never shall get your limits."