Author's Note: So I wrote this at 5am, no beta. Inspired by Amy Winehouse's Back to Black which I listened to as I wrote it. I'm thinking about doing 2 more chapters, Porn with Plot, unlike this clear PWP.


Back to 221B Baker St. Time elapse: approximately 26 minutes and 42 seconds. Time needed: 22 minutes and 18 seconds.

First, I will arrive at Watson's new home at exactly 8:53. Mary is already asleep. He will tell me to leave, for it is too late. I insist that it is never too late for colleagues to share a drink and some memories.

Watson will cave and allow me into his home. 7 minutes of dull pleasantries and scotch sipping before he says "So why are you really here, Holmes?"

I will do nothing but smirk. He doesn't need an answer.

"I see. And you expect to succeed with my wife upstairs?"

Again, he knows the answer.

"You're insufferable."

"Really?" I say, getting closer to Watson. He's 3 feet 9 inches away and I can smell his cologne mixed with scotch. This isn't his first drink. "Rough night?"

"How do you always know?" He puts down his drink on the glass tea tray.

I cock my head to the side. "Elementary, my dear Watson."

He places his fingers just below my pulse point, tilting my head up. "You can't deduce everything."

In just over a second, my fingers are in his hair and I'm pulling him close. Our lips meet and all the pent up dark energy just sort of oozes out into the air. I'm overwhelmed by the taste of him with the bite of alcohol. His hands have gone down my chest and have rested on my hips. When he pulls us together and our cocks meet through the thin layers of cotton in between, a low growl rumbles out of our kiss. If we hadn't been in a such a close embrace, I would have missed that delicious sound.

My fingers fist into his hair and pull his head back for a moment to suck and bite down his neck then chest. I'm on my knees and it's 9:04. It never will cease to amuse me how weak he is to my advances.

"You have to stop," he mumbles. His voice much too deep and quiet with arousal that I know his words are empty.

Ignoring him, I undo his buckle and trousers, pulling away the cursed material from my prize. Watson's insanity. I start by just sucking in the head, then let my saliva on his cock cool for a moment in open air. John tries to place his hands on my head, but I block it easily with one arm. His glare bores into my forehead, but I pay no heed. This time I swallow him whole and hold it.

"Fucking Christ, Sherlock." he curses, his knees going weak. I release him and he tumbles backwards onto the sofa. I get up and remove my own trousers before straddling his waist. As our cocks grind together, skin to skin, it's 9:06, and I can almost feel his need mixed with my own. How long have we waited for this, Watson?

"I've missed you," the words seem to leave my lips without my permission, but I cannot regret them, even as I feel the tip of his cock tease my arse. Delicious friction taking it's toll on our control. Thrusts become more random and when I intentionally angle my body precisely four inches out from him, his prick penetrates me. Time seems to freeze though the clock on the wall reads 9:09.

"Oh fuck," he breathes, his head falling back. I can't resist that gorgeous neck. As I fall back down onto him, impaling myself, I leave soft kisses to his skin. I am overcome with an overwhelming need to mark him, make him mine. It almost breaks me, knowing that I cannot. I grip his hair instead. I want him to feel some of my own pain. I want to claw his back and bite his neck and chest. I want to do so many things. I want to tie him up and have my wicked way with him for hours on every inch of our home. Instead, I'll fuck him on their love seat in a way that she never can and make him come harder than she ever could.

"Your eyes are black," he whispers, his fingers brushing hair out of my face. His eyes are silver rings around black pupils, dilated with lust.

There are no more words. Our pace has to be hard and fast. I start riding him, using his hair as leverage. He cries out, but doesn't resist. He's pounding into each of my own thrusts in perfect synch, just as always. As he hits that spot inside me over and over again, I know that at 9:16, there isn't much time left.

"Sooo close," I moan against his ear. He responds with his own moan that rips through his chest. His fingers are digging into my hips and his teeth are sinking into my flesh as he comes hard inside me. It's the bite and pain of knowing he can do whatever he likes with me, never having to be afraid of marks, that sends me spiraling into my own black abyss of climax.

When I open my eyes again, his silver ones lock onto me, hook me to earth. It's 9:18 and 22 minutes and 18 seconds have past.

Slowly, he pulls out of me, and again words pool out too, "Stay with me." I say.


"No. You don't have to say anything." I make sure to get our come on the chair.

It's 9:22, 26 minutes and 42 seconds have passed. He's given me a goodbye kiss. He promises to visit soon.

The truth is he'll go back to her and I'll go back to black.

Every fantasy ends that way. I'm back at Baker Street. John is in his room down the hall. His wedding is next Sunday. For every night since he's announced his engagement, I try to invent a scenario where he will choose me over her, but it doesn't exist. I just have to enjoy what he gives.

A knock on the bedroom door. "Holmes, are you still awake?"