A/N: So, I've been watching Robert and Jude's interviews...and I'm fangirling all over the place. I just- I didn't know I had all this ridiculous amount of feels in my body. They make me so happy that I kind of feel like I'm going to throw up. XD The way they talk to each other doesn't help. "That's not my, Judsie" "Hotson!" And of course, this little exchange; Robert: "Well thank you for jogging my memory that Susan in my wife." Jude: "As opposed to me you mean?"
DAMN IT. STOP PLAYING WITH MY EMOTIONS! D: One of you needs to come through already because the tension is making me want to squeal, cry and vomit AND THAT IS JUST FUCKING NOT HEALTHY. |:
Oh yeah, I'm writing a story. Right. Here ya go.
The trip to France was a little awkward for both Holmes and Watson. Watson very calmly studied his newspaper so much so that the letters began to blend with one another. His eyes were locked on foreign images reminiscent of the Queen's English. He'd catch a stray word here and there amongst the print for no other reason than to give his mind something to ponder. The last word he'd looked upon was the word 'military'. His mind spiraled into memories of his time in Afghanistan all hot and dry until it resurfaced into the blurred world of newspaper print.
Alternatively, Sherlock was poised for observations, noting the material the interior of the carriage was crafted from and identifying even the smallest shift of terrain from his seat by the window. He even began to classify the sounds the horses were making from tired, breathy grunts to what he assumed was the occasional winney of annoyance.
Their close quarters only furthered the tension. For the majority of their relationship, their wants and needs of one another went generally unspoken. However this was significantly new territory. Watson was still uncomfortable thinking of Holmes as his lover let alone calling him such. The ex soldier had barely accepted his own feelings let alone Holmes' feelings. In a way he had wished they hadn't felt mutually. It would certainly have been easier in the sense that Watson could have merely thrown his feelings away. If that were possible. However the doctor continued to do what he had always done in regards to the tension; ignore it.
Meanwhile Holmes struggled with what was to be expected of him and his partner. They were going to begin a new life and begin it by being with one another in a much more intimate and sexual way if they were indeed led to become sexual with one another. Holmes often entertained the idea of them never becoming sexual. It seemed a logical alternative to the stress and tribulation sex would achieve. They'd spent all these years together and never even shared a mutual kiss so it appeared feasible they could remain sexless.
Holmes concentrated on Watson very thoroughly. He was determined to block out all the noise of his constant and varying observations and simply focus on one thing and what better thing than Watson since it was second nature to do so and since his beloved doctor was conveniently to his left.
Holmes knew Watson wasn't really reading the paper. He'd had it for an hour at this point and had yet to turn a page. Watson would shuffle his grip on the paper a bit, sending a cascade of crunching sounds into the silence between them. Then the good doctor would twitch his nose slightly sending tiny tremors of movement to his now properly groomed mustache. His eyes were layered above and below with soft lashes, mostly dark brown but rarity was present in a stay blonde lash here and there. Holmes recalled when Watson was blonder but they were younger then.
Holmes fondly reminisced about their beginnings which seemed so far away in time and memory compared to the present. Holmes remembered how quiet Watson used to be and yet how utterly intrigued Watson had been in him. The lonely detective missed those days when his roommate would eye him with curious blue orbs. The distinguished crime solver reasoned though that it was decidedly better to be how they were now with Watson significantly less enchanted; it made life more fluid and normal and often bearable (though not always).Watson still had moments of fascination now and then all present in that shy if not slightly begrudging smile that appeared whenever his madman surprised him. Watson's admiration had simply down graded and its presence had shifted from quiet eyes to restrained lips.
Watson shifted his legs sending the paper rattling once more. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, calculating and observing, and that made him terribly uncomfortable. That brilliantly terrifying man was just staring at Watson and that made the more sane of the pair unable to continue his ritual of grasping words from the paper.
Holmes was noting the way Watson's clothes fell on his body. The prim and proper doctor had stripped some of his finer garments away. He disregarded using a coat or wearing a tie opting for a more comfortable look as they traveled. His shirt had two buttons undone, exposing the slightest tuft of chest hair. Watson's suspenders created a trail from broad shoulders to hidden chest and nipples and down to the waist. There Holmes lingered for a moment before snapping out of his observations and observing something of his own person.
It appears I've...excited myself.
Holmes tried to position his legs in a way that would hide his arousal. He kept a dignified look on his face as that air false arrogance would somehow distract his partner from the inevitable. Nonetheless the detective tried to discreetly hide his excitement but the small carriage made it rather difficult.
"Holmes," Watson said, having had enough of the other man and shifting, "could you please stop moving? I'm trying to read."
Watson looked over at Holmes at the end of his sentence and immediately noticed that his face was stark red despite his very dignified and unaffected expression. Watson thought it curious and at first didn't understand the color on the other man's face. Sherlock wasn't angry or frustrated in anyway. He was merely looking out the window, his legs crossed at an awkward angle. If anything he was begging to look especially intrigued at what was outside the window.
Watson began his mental checklist of Holme's body to further understand the blush and that was when he noticed it. The detective seemingly found his window so vitally interesting because he was desperately avoiding the arousal present in his pants.
"Oh," Watson said, nervously averting his eyes from Sherlock's bulge, "Well if you expect me to do something about that-"
"I expect nothing," Sherlock said quickly almost sounding irritated.
"Good, because regardless if there's no law in France-"
"Watson," his voice verged on yelling but didn't quite hit the base of his tone.
"- yes?" Watson said still hiding behind his precious newspaper.
"Stop," Sherlock groaned as he turned himself further away from Watson, "talking."
Their final hours of travel were completed in absolute silence as Sherlock realized that not becoming sexual was going to be more difficult than planned and as Watson tried to wipe the image from his mind. Upon arriving in Arles, they made quick haste to their new home. It was more spacious and closer to the outskirts than the inner part of the city. It was a smaller town than Holmes would have liked but Watson insisted that view was lovely so Holmes, so contrary from what he wanted to do, compromised.
Their new home wasn't a big as their home back on Baker Street but then it wasn't as small as the apartment above the shop. Both men had their own rooms as well as others for respective purposes (kitchen, a hallway, even a study). The top floor had only one room but it was larger than the others and Holmes was immediately drawn to it. It was unusual architecture but the large space held favorable conditions for experimentation. Not to mention it led out to a lovely little terrace and Holmes did so enjoy the view.
Unpacking took some effort so much so that they ran out of time to go further into town and search for more furniture. Watson had insisted on bringing an old dresser, something some relative had given him though Holmes hardly cared to recall exactly who. Watson had also brought his desk and that had taken some time to lift into the house. It was a little larger than the doorway so it required a lot of maneuvering. There was also the matter of Holmes' bed.
Holmes had only required one piece of furniture and that was his bed. He was convinced that it had the most favorable attributes due to a small flaw in the carpentry. He knew he would never find another bed like it and felt it was necessary to bring it along and not only that but he was determined to bring it up the stairs to what he had decided was his room.
So after getting the bed up the stairs through a series of pivoting and cursing the detective and the doctor collapsed on the floor. It was already sun down and the persistent lifting, carrying and moving had exhausted them both in addition to the tiring feeling of over a week's worth of travel nagging at their bodies.
Sherlock had long discarded his shirt and perspiration lightly coated his chest and arms. His fingers ran across his hair, furthering dampening his dark locks as he slicked them back. Watson had kept his shirt on but more buttons had been undone revealing more chest hair. He too had began to sweat. The air was permeated by their combined masculine musk and while neither openly confessed to it, they both found it a bit intoxicating.
Watson reached out his hand and touched his friend's shoulder. Together, their heat seemed to mesh. The touch felt hot almost too hot but the shared and growing heat was ignored as best as possible by the doctor who merely smiled at his somewhat surpised companion.
"And you said we'd been finished in an hour," Watson said with an exhausted laugh.
The gesturing hand began it's journey back to its owner but Sherlock's own hand caught it before it slipped away. He held the retreating hand by the wrist. Sherlock eyed his own hand with intrigue as if the digits and palm, the whole arm really, had acted on its own. The heat had exponetially grown as similar sources shared contact. There was fire everywhere in them, spreading from their fingers out and Holmes feared that if he let go of Watson that the fire would exstinguish and with it his very life.
"Holmes," Watson said not pulling his hand away but instead pulling away in his tone. The heat was unbearable and marking them for its own. If they didn't stop now they'd be gone forever. They'd be consumed in their shared flames.
"John," Holmes responded tenderly.
It was odd to hear Holmes refer to Watson by first name. For years they concerned themselves with proper protocal and only occasionally would Holmes refer to his partner as "John". The surprised doctor recalled how it had oringally been Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson when they first met. Somewhere along the way they lost the Mr's more or less around the time they felt comfortable in one another as friends. In all their years together they should have referred to one another by first names much sooner and yet they hadn't. Holmes seemed to be bringing them to another level in that regard by the simple dropping of a name and in so intently. It was up to Watson now to either accept or deny or, the option he seemed to always prefer, neglect it all together.
"Sherlock," Watson said just as quietly.
It almost came out as a question. Holmes had said Watson's first name with resolution but Watson was still verging on indecision. They stayed still for a moment and said nothing to one another. They simply allowed the hot that was growing to expand and search and conquer. It beckoned them to come closer. It merely expanded to bring them together. Their hands met and their fingers laced. Forearm to forearm.
"We can never go back," Watson observed using what was left of his logic. All his mind craved was closeness to the other man. That brilliant, psychotic, beautiful man.
Holmes rolled over and was on top of Watson and the heat between them roared. There was an audible gasp between them, half surprise and half relief. The creaking floor seemed to further soldify the reality of the movement. The madman's eyes were more manic than ever before as the flames behind them reached for the tamed passion hidden behind the blues of his other half.
"I require you," Holmes said, his voice aggressive and sincere all at once, "I require everything that you are, your very being and body."
The words seemed to cup the doctor's face, guiding him by his high cheek bones and pulling him toward Sherlock. Even their breath was burning as their lips neared one other. Their shared fire could only be temporary; it might destroy everything in its path including them but it could burn tamely no longer.
Their mouths met together at long last and the shared embrace of lips was quiet but burning. It was an epiphany, a spark of an almost religious nature. Holmes was a man of logic and science. His body and spirituality always fell to the wayside if it was indeed addressed at all but in this one kiss Holmes felt all things physical and other wordly. Their raging flames had met and in it was unity, passion, desire, fear, love, and this absolute sense of belonging.
Watson felt the urge to further things. He never wanted stop what was happening and he suddenly felt the need and want to make ammends for prolonging such necessary happenings. His tongue licked at his partner's bottom lip. His hands rised from the wooden floor and met with hot, sticky skin. His slightly calloused, slender fingers found their way along the other's man's neck, incidentally feeling the racing pulse under flesh and muscle. They continued on as Holmes opened his mouth, a dark and hot cavern that gave entrace to Watson's tongue. The doctor's quick fingers had wound their way into Sherlock's tangled mane and lovingly began playing amongst the curls and waves.
Holmes felt a sudden inefficiency though. He recalled perfectly how to kiss as he had kissed before. He had read each and every book he had on proper sexual conduct, even read the Karma Sutra (though it was a rough translation). All the past research he'd done hadn't been for any specific reason. It was merely a means to gain information and absorb all knowledge. However at present it seemed to be of personal, practical use but not enough so that Holmes felt comfortable venturing on.
Watson felt the man he was ravishing begin to pull away. Sherlock's tongue became increasingly shyer and his body began to distance from the blue eyed doctor. John stopped the kiss entirely and looked at Holmes feeling rather confused but then how like the madman to intitaite and then refuse to follow through for no other purpose than it not making sense.
"What's the matter?" Watson asked with a sigh and propped himself up on his elbows.
The detective completely removed himself from his companion's person and sat on the floor looking and feeling rather awkward. His round eyes looked off to the to left and far from Watson as if to avoid the eventuality of it all.
"There's something I need to make known to you, John," Holmes said still sounding logical and dignified, "I seem to have a rather-"
Do not use the word "small". Homes thought fleetingly.
"- inadequate amount of experience concerning what I believe is about to follow between us."
Watson sat up and rolled his eyes. He was getting impatient with Holmes, as he often did. It was good in a sense to know that the sexualizing of their relationship hadn't changed things too much.
"Well it's not as if I've had much experience with men either," the doctor responded sarcastically as his loving and practiced fingers found their way to Sherlock's shoulders and began to knead out the tension. It was a surprisingly doting gesture but then Watson unknowngly doted on his partner often. This gesture was just considerably less bregrudging.
Holmes stared at the floor. His mind breifly visited the idea of inserting a secret trap door of some sort into the dark wood before returning to the predicament at hand. He picked at a stray hair that had somehow ended up on the tan, knit fabric of his trousers as he mentally prepared for what he was about to confess.
"I'm not speaking specifically of sexual practices between men," he noted, his voice beginning to sound a little defeated, "The inadequacy to which I'm refering to is that of all forms of consumation. It appears that I possess no in depth knowledge about sexual encounters outside of my ventures in certain literature."
Watson's fingers came to an immediate halt as this information sank in. He knew that Holmes wasn't exactly a sex fiend but he had assumed that natural, human desire had over come his friend at least one or twice in his lifetime. However, Holmes admitted to possesing no experience. None. And Watson had nothing to say to the contrary.
"Surely you've-" the doctor needed to ask before he was sure, "Are you saying that you're a- that you've never-"
"Regretfully so," the virgin detective quickly resolved his doctor's stuttering, "Well, regretfully now. It hasn't been of the slightest detriment to me in the past. However, all things consider between you and I, it seems to be quite the-"Holmes put a hand on top of one of Watson's as if to remind the man to breathe and move, "-predicament."
The reawakened man laced his fingers with his despondent virgin in hopes to comfort him. He sat beside his conflicted partner, never breaking the tight pact of their hands. With a lean but strong arm over Holmes' shoulders, Watson pulled him closer and buried his lips deep into curly, wild hair to find a soft ear and tickled it with a whisper.
"Your entire being is a predicament," he noted playfully.
The whisper sent a tingle over Sherlock's body. John's mouth was hot and his breath sensually embraced the slightly older man's lobe. Meanwhile the good doctor took in the smell of his madman, a musky scent accompanied by a hint of gund powder and bite of alcohol. He smelled of danger and adventure and yet Watson knew that deep down this man was pure, untouched and that somehow excited him all the more.
This was the beginning of the moment Holmes would never forget. Granted, Holmes forgot nothing but this was to be the overpowering lingering observation he'd cling to in times of trouble and in celebration. It would appear like backdrop in his vision but the act and sight of it all was a vision and one of beauty.
Watson rose from the floor. His longs legs and lean arms gracefully swept themselves up and aligned into standing, militant posture. He stood there sturdy and strong as a soldier and yet graceful and beautiful as a dancer and in all ways dignified. Those blue eyes, those Watson blue eyes looked at Holmes with the upmost sincerity and affection that Holmes knew deep down he didn't deserve but took all the same. His beloved's gesture began at the fingertips which over the years had at times dressed Holmes and dressed his wounds. They began to expand outwards and the movement spread to the hand to the forearm and to the bicep as fluid as poured cream.
Holmes met his love's hand hestantly and felt not a fire but a coolness. This was not act of pure passion but rather a very deliberate though gentle occassion. This was something beautiful and truly sacred. If their love was a religion then this simple act was a prayer and what laid before them was a miracle. It had to be. Holmes would never get involved in something of this sort unless it was indeed miraculous.
Watson lifted Holmes up and held his hand with a stern softness as he led him to the bed. He was not going to make love to this beautiful man on the floor like some common whore. They were not going to merely get lost in a fit of burning desires. This was a delicate situation and it called for every motion and word to be absolutely deliberate. Watson intended to show his his friend, his soul mate, exactly what their physical bodies had to offer and not only that but at long last he intended to express his feelings through the body and how secretly exciting it was to know that he'd be the one and only to do so to the famed and acclaimed Sherlock Holmes.
"Lay down, Sherlock," the calm and leading ex miltary man directed softly.
Holmes obliged. He lied on his back completely vunerable and disposable to Watson in every way. He gave a capricious look to the terrace window and saw a glimpse of the night sky. How strange it was to have their roles reversed. Granted, the good doctor had always been the manic man's keeper and caretaker but when it came to treading through new territories, Holmes always lead the way. Now the experienced detective had to sit back and allow his protege to take over and show him what to look for and what to do and how to be.
John climbed over his partner and lovingly kissed him once more. Kissing was something Holmes could do and he took pride in that trying to make the most of his talent and knowledge. Somehow one of each of their hands met the other's and their fingers intertwined. The gesture calmed Holmes further and his tongue fluttered in Watson's mouth as he realxed. The relaxation was short lived though as Watson began to kiss down the neck, then the chest. His lips ghosted a nipple before contuining to the abs. With his free hand, the doctor pulled at Holmes' waistband, tugging it until it revealed a fully erect and impressive member.
There was direct eye contact as Watson gave a final teasing kiss on the virgin man's pubis. Soft, pouty lips that were so often saturated in sarcasm and annoyance were kind as they laid their affection on the soft curls above Holmes' member. Their locked stare was intense and yet decisive.
Watson's mouth opened, his lips in a round 'o' as he began to take in his parnter. With just the tip christened Holmes nearly jerked back completely new to the sensation. He'd never even imagined the physical feeling it would envoke, having someone's mouth around his member. So many years he'd spent as a borderline asexual to only have his strictly celebate life undone by his doctor who moved him in so many ways. Watson took note of the reaction and once again put his slender and well practiced fingers to use. He massaged the thighs of his new lover as he slowly engulfed more of him in his mouth.
Despite the blissful pleasures of hot and wet on his cock, Holmes refused to throw his head back or close his eyes. Instead his eyes remained open, erotically watching while simaltaneously feeling fascinated. How could this proper, English gentlemen have it in him to use his lips and tongue to make love to another man's genetalia? Especially when it was just Holmes who, even with a healthy dose of narcisism, felt as if he did not deserve such affections?
He must be incredibly fond of me, the detective thought.
Watson had now taken in all he could manage of his dear parnter. The tip gently pushed against the back of the doctor's throat and threatened to gag if anymore were taken. Once more he looked up to make eye contact with the man he was ravishing to find wide, almost innocent eyes and very obviously held breath.
Similarly, Holmes observed and could remember that face for forever; Watson physically expressing their deep bond and looking up with reassurance and tenderness. Those beautiful eyes, overcast in grey but then spiraling in hues of the clearest summer blue. God his eyes never did change did they? Those eyes that were so much like the sky, rising in and out of their colors and set behind heavy lids. Those gorgeous, expressive orbs were the obsessed man's horizon, the sky of his mind, always changing but always there.
Watson pulled back allowing Holmes' well coated member to slide out of his mouth. The virgin man's rigid body twitched from both pleasure and the pain of an exit only to have Watson stop before releasing the tip. He then gave a hard suck that nearly sent Sherlock's eyes rolling back. Then, with expert rhythym and creative alternations of sucking and bobbing, the doctor began to please his so called patient with a kind eagerness.
Holmes felt this odd bundle of nerves in his stomach that seemed to radiate and tingle his whole body. It was like being on fire all over and teetering on the edge of a volcanic eruption. It was like grasping to the edge of a wall and being thousands of feet in the air. The routinely adventerous detective often did not feel such adrenaline and verge but he nonetheless was intoxicated by it now. Watson's lips were things of beauty as they edged in and splayed out with his bobbing. His tongue was a curious creature that carressed and rounded every curve and crevice of the member it had laid claim over. Those gorgeously long and thin fingers expertly rubbed up and down strong muscular thighs as if to calm the easily excited man. One of those fair hands strayed deeper into the thigh, gave the testicles a fleeting graze and then began rubbing Holmes' entrance. There was a throaty groan from the receving man who barely questioned why or what the touch was for at least until Watson inserted a finger. Unofrtunatel that stray finger caused Holmes to jerk back. His cock sprung out of the other man's mouth and he stared at the man with still wide eyes but also a now furrowed brow.
"John?" he asked, questiong the good doctor's move.
He merely looked at him with that damn sensible gaze. He brought his finger to his mouth noticing an absence of foul odor. He repressed a smirk realizing that Holmes had prepared for this before briefly wondering where in the world the all knowing detective had found the time and privacy to have done so.
"It won't hurt for long," he assured, using his best doctoral tone before sucking on his index finger and coating it in hot saliva.
"Is that your professional opinion?" Sherlock asked as he watched John suck on a second finger.
"Come now," he responded before he popped out the second digit and then circled his tongue sloppily around his ring finger, "making jokes is only going to kill the mood."
As a slight punishment, Watson shoved his index finger into his partner with some unecessary force and it elicited a pained and irritated growl. However, the semi violent entrace was pardoned as he licked his free hand and met it to Holmes' nelgected cock. The combination of the jerking palm and the succesively invading fingers brought about a blur of pleasure and pain that forced the detective to wince his eyes closed. When the third finger entered him, he let out a sharp hiss. John was throrough in stretching his parter much to the poor detective's chargin but as long as he focused on that merciful hand grazing up and down his shaft, he could carry on and, in all honesty, he'd been through much worse anyway.
Finally, the doctor deduced that his partner was primed for true penetration. The walls and grip of his rectum provided slight resistance but not so much that entering would cause damage to them. He was a bit surprised that Holmes had managed to last so long without ejaculating but then his dearest companion did have a never ending determination and an iron will. With a quickness Watson grabbed his lover under the knees and lifted him into a more ideal position. His own member was begging for attention and release, already leaking pre cum into Holmes' hole as it rubbed against it.
As John looked up at Sherlock he noticed his partner's hand held up, fingers out as if to signal a need to halt. Being the agressor he suddenly felt a sense of guilt. Perhaps the virgin man wasn't ready for this all at once. Maybe he would never be ready. He was, in all reality, sexless up until this point. How overwhelming had this been? However, those beautiful, brown, pupppy dog eyes spoke to the contrary, egged him on and almost quivering lips spoke;
"Do take my hand, John," he instructed.
The doctor nodded before taking his lover's hand into his own. Once more their fingers were bound to the spaces of the others'. Sherlock gave a breif nod of approval and Watson put his free hand onto the other man's tan waist. His cock once more was aimed for enterance and he felt the receiving man tense up.
"Breathe," the doctor advised gently.
Holmes took a deep breath and then let it out heavily, another nod and a renewed grip on Watson's captive fingers and then the dominant man because to press in.
There were not not enough nor specific enough of words to describe the invasiveness that Holmes felt as his hole took in inch after painful inch. There's was a sudden desire to stop, to take this foreign and never ending member out of him but beyond that there was the consciousness of the situation at hand and what it all really meant. This was part of sex, this was a part of love; this forcedness and opening up to it. Harsh, sharp breaths and a deep throated moan accented the air and after what felt like an eternity, Watson was at long last fully in. They stopped there for a moment to share yet another deep stare and as they gazed at one another, Holmes felt his body switch into an entirely different mood. It was if something clicked in him and what was once intrusive to the point of being unwanted felt comfortably at home. This empty space in the madman was whole again and the world, while it had always made sense, came together in much bigger way than he could have imagined.
John carefully rocked his member inside of Holmes. He took caution to not let the heat and tighteness overwhelm him though it came very close to doing so. It was the firmest of embraces he'd ever experienced and the tight fingers clutching his palm into a pressured whiteness seemed feint. The sight of Sherlock was equally as arousing. Those wild waves of hair were back and sticking together as bead of sweat formed and fell from the brow. Struggling eyes fought their urge to wince close and the detective's lips were in a slight pout that show cased his gritting teeth. It was all punctuated by the sound of Sherlock's breathe and the teasingly gulped down moans until one such moan was fully released, erupting in a full and hearty "oh".
Holmes hadn't the slightest idea what Watson had managed to do inside of his body but it was like a solid right hook of pleasure and it sent him spilling right over the edge. With that one firm and suprising hit, Holmes had released his seed all over the surprised doctor's abs. All the tingling nerves in the detective's body slowly swept him over with a clamness and his eye lids fluttered as his gripping fingers loosened. This entire scene aroused John even more who took it upon himself to quicken his pace a bit. He eyed his lover's member which was slowly drowning in its own semen and roughly seven pumps later the doctor came over the edge as well allowing his seed to mark his partner's insides.
Watson pulled out and pulled away. The two men lingered their fingers for a minute before both coming to the shared conclusion that they couldn't hold hands for forever. Watson nudged for space and Holmes managed to lay on his side even in his stupor and sudden need to sleep. The unofficial dominate threw an arm around his now deflowered Holmes and snuggled his face in the crook of his lover's neck. Holmes took in a deep breath, his eyes suddenly awake as he went to make some sort of revelation.
"You say anything to ruin this, and I swear I'll make you sleep on the floor," Watson said before Holmes could manage to get out a single word.
The prepared breath came out flat and Holmes thought better of his revelation. Once more the beckoning sleepness called to him. It was obvious it had now conquered Watson as Holmes could hear that signature, light snore of his edging his breath. The often manic man put a hand on top of the one that lazily embraced his chest and together Holmes and Watson drifted into sleep.
A/N: It's so late and I am so tired and I know this will probably require even more editing and goodness isn't this the longest lemon I've ever written because it sure does feel like it but it's tasty right? Right. Okay bed time. Review and such. Oh and sign the petition and spread it to your friends like herpes. Kay, night.