Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movieverse)
Challenge/Prompt: sherlockkink, here
Word Count: 4275
Copyright: I couldn't think of a title so I just named it after my favourite shoe company ;D
Summary: Slightly AU. Mentally describing a patient using words such as 'handsome', 'exquisite' and 'tempting' is not a good idea at all.
Author’s Notes: Because I haven’t written pwp for the kinkmeme yet
A breathless chase through the tangled streets has left the adrenalin sparkling in his veins. Holmes captures Claridge, beats him bloody to stop him running any longer, and hands him over to Scotland Yard as the murderer of Mr Johnson last month, and the subsequent thief of Mrs Johnson's pearl necklace. It is not until after all this has been dealt with and Lestrade is grudgingly but honestly thanking Holmes for his help that he looks down and says, in an entirely different tone of voice: "Holmes, you're bleeding."
So he is. Further investigation reveals three cuts across his ribcage, presumably courtesy of the knife Claridge was wielding with such authority before Holmes broke his wrist and prevented him from wielding anything, and although he is pleasantly surprised to find that all of his internal organs are intact, the wounds are still deep. He needs to take himself back to Baker Street and deal with them as fast as possible.
"So I am," he agrees, trying not to sound as surprised as he feels because he rather likes spreading the myth around Scotland Yard that he is completely and utterly infallible. It does not hurt to be admired, and in any case it prevents things like awkward questions or getting arrested for some of the technically illegal things he does from time to time while trying to solve cases. "Well, Lestrade, I had better be going-"
He does not manage to say anything more because Lestrade has taken him by the elbow and is dragging him towards the pavement with the clear intent of getting him a cab.
"You need medical attention," Lestrade tells him gruffly, "before you end up killing yourself."
"You are making far more of this than is necessary." Holmes attempts to free himself, but Lestrade's grip is like steel. "I can clean myself up," he tries to protest.
"We don't need you dying of infection," Lestrade all but snaps, casting a lingering and disdainful glance at Holmes. He belatedly remembers that he is still wearing the greeny-yellow remains of a black eye, and his jaw is aching from one of Claridge's punches. He is almost certainly not the picture of health at this moment in time.
"Why, Lestrade, I never knew you cared," Holmes responds dryly, as a hansom pulls up at the curb.
"Get in," Lestrade replies, shoving him at the cab. "When you get there, tell them I sent you."
Pain is starting to seep through the adrenalin and so Holmes, for once in his life, obeys, as Lestrade goes to give the driver an address of some description and, Holmes is hoping, some money, because he thinks he may have lost all his change somewhere around the time Claridge knocked him to the cobbles and sent the contents of his pockets bouncing away across the stones.
As the carriage begins to move, it occurs to Holmes that, for once, he has no idea where Lestrade is sending him. Every bump in the road jolts him unpleasantly, but he sits back to catalogue the streets and decides to wait and see what happens.
"There's a man downstairs," Mrs Margrave tells him.
Mrs Margrave is Watson's housekeeper and consequently secretary, who greets his patients and makes endless cups of tea and occasionally tuts and sighs and tells him that he ought to find himself a nice girl. There are several problems with this suggestion so Watson always just smiles and clumsily changes the subject. His practice is small, but his clients are loyal and ever so good at referring their friends, so Watson has just about managed to scramble together some sort of career after his return from Afghanistan.
"I'm finished for the day," Watson tells her, his hands immersed in a bowl of soapy water.
"He says Inspector Lestrade sent him," Mrs Margrave adds, and there is concern in her expression.
He crossed paths with Lestrade almost half a year ago, when the man needed a doctor who was discreet above all things, and has subsequently trusted Watson completely and sends him patients from time to time. Watson has never turned one away and is not about to start now.
"All right, send him up", he says, giving Mrs Margrave a smile.
He is still preoccupied with getting his hands clean when the door next opens. Watson looks up, pulling together a suitable expression to greet this new patient with, but he feels his facial muscles freeze, the towel nearly falling from suddenly numb fingers.
The man standing in his doorway - no, that isn't what he is doing, he is leant against the doorframe, weight resting on one hip, effortlessly casual and disarmingly at his ease - has a rakish smile angled across his lips, large dark eyes, and a mess of black hair that looks as though someone has been repeatedly running their fingers through it. Even the various remnants of bruising scattered across his features cannot detract from how basically, fundamentally handsome they are, the exquisite bone structure and the soft, tempting curve of his mouth-
Watson mentally gives himself a shake. He is a writer, or at least would like to be; he kept detailed journals in Afghanistan and still writes from time to time now he is safely at home once more. And mentally describing a patient using words such as 'handsome', 'exquisite' and 'tempting' is not a good idea at all. He digs around in his mind for some words that will actually be helpful in this situation.
"How can I help you?" he asks, praying that the moment between this man arriving at his door and Watson actually speaking was not actually as long as it felt like it was.
The man pushes himself upright from the doorframe with a fluid movement that Watson drinks in almost unconsciously, and he hopes that he is not blushing. It has been a while (all right, it has been a lamentably considerable amount of time) since he was, well, intimate with anyone - it is not exactly easy to meet people in the city when your tastes lean more towards the illegal - but this is no excuse whatsoever for his mind to be latching so immediately to a complete stranger, just because he is, admittedly, unreasonably good-looking. It is unprofessional and makes him seem like a desperate young boy and Watson is neither of those things.
"Lestrade sent me," the man drawls easily, his bright eyes fixed just a little too sharply on Watson. "I was helping him with a case and have been hurt. He told me to come to you."
"Yes, of course," Watson says, gesturing to the chairs before his desk. "If you'd like to sit down?"
He combs through his voice, searching for traces of breathlessness, searching for anything that could give him away. There have been times when he has appreciated the aesthetics of patients before - pretty young men arriving in his office with blushes and stutters and various medical problems that have required them to strip entirely naked - but it has never affected him to this extent before. His office feels too hot; he glances desperately at the windows but they are both cracked open, breeze drifting in.
The man sits down, pose languid although there is a slight rigidity to his movements that implies he is in pain. This snaps Watson into action, reminds him that he has a job to do and standing here staring clutching desperately at a towel is not an option.
"How have you been hurt?" he asks, finally putting the damn towel down and walking to join the man at the desk.
"The merest scratches," the man tells him, "really. I was chasing down a murderer who happened to have a knife with him and no compunctions about using it."
This sounds like a cause for concern to Watson, but he supposes that this man would not be moving and speaking so casually if he was very seriously hurt.
"Well, I shall have a look at the damage," he says, attempting to sound assertive. "And I don't think I've asked your name yet?"
"You haven't," the man agrees, meeting his gaze for a moment with amusement twinkling plainly in those dark eyes, framed by long eyelashes that cast beautiful shadows down his face in the late afternoon sun. "Terribly remiss of you, doctor." A smirk is still tugging at those lips, and Watson has to look away before his imagination conjures up a dozen inappropriate images. "You can call me Holmes," he adds.
"Mr Holmes," Watson repeats, his voice admirably steady. "Well, where have you been hurt?"
The doctor Lestrade has sent him to is a veteran of the war, doing comfortably but not extremely well for himself, has patients who like him exceedingly and a very solitary lifestyle, Holmes gathers from Watson's house. He is also hopelessly attracted to Holmes, which he gathers from the soft pink flush sheening the doctor's face. Doctor Watson is not at all hard on the eyes himself, but there is a time and place for this sort of thing and it is not right now, with blood seeping into his only good shirt and pain stinging up and down his nerve endings. Still, Holmes cannot help but be flattered at such an immediate strong attraction - particularly since it does not stem at all from his intellect; he is used to getting such looks of naked admiration only after admitting to his name. He also cannot help but be amused.
"Mr Holmes," the doctor says, and there is the flicker of recognition in his tone. He will work it out on his own in a moment; right now he just repeats the name on a slow exhale, as though Holmes has given him a lot more than just his identity. "Well, where have you been hurt?"
"My ribcage," Holmes responds, trying to catch the doctor's eye and failing; Watson seems very interested in the scattered pieces of paper all over his desk.
"If you could lift up your shirt?" Watson asks, flush deepening barely discernibly.
Holmes shifts his shoulders to pull his dirty coat from his shoulders and then leans forwards to drag his shirt off completely, tousling his hair even
more. He sits back, ignoring the sting of movement, and looks to Watson, who is staring at him with his mouth just slightly open, eyes very wide and
"On my right hand side?" he suggests, entirely superfluously because the blood is still oozing out of him.
"Right," Watson says, snapping into action, moving to crouch beside Holmes and investigate the wounds. His fingers tremble just slightly before he touches them to Holmes' skin, but they are professional enough once he is prodding at the gashes. "These will need stitches," he murmurs, half to himself, and glances up at Holmes. After a moment he seems to regret this because his gaze skitters away, awkward and swift. "If you could move to sit on my desk?"
"Your desk?" Holmes echoes, drawling it out and allowing the smallest of smiles to flicker around his lips. Watson's gaze goes straight to his mouth and stays there for a long second before he says:
"Yes, you'll be at a better angle." His flush darkens and he turns away. Holmes suppresses the urge to laugh.
"Certainly, doctor, if being at a better angle will help you." He keeps his tone light and innocent - oblivious - and moves, pushing paperwork aside to
sit on the desk, opening his legs a little wider than is really necessary and watching Watson. It is a mercy that the man appears to have steady hands despite all this, Holmes reflects, because otherwise he would never be able to trust him to do the required stitches.
Watson's breathing hitches almost indiscernibly when he turns to find Holmes sitting on his desk, legs spread and expression entirely expectant, but all he says is:
"I am going to give you some morphine."
Holmes thinks about telling him that morphine is not at all necessary, but the sting is beginning to spread through him so he just nods. Watson studiously avoids his gaze as he injects Holmes with the anaesthetic and then begins to clean away the blood. As the pain begins to fade into the background Holmes focuses instead on attempting to catch the doctor's eye; Watson's gaze skips over every inch of Holmes, lingering on his mouth, his bared stomach, his crotch - though only momentarily and Watson does appear to be mentally chastising himself for that - but he never once looks at his eyes. It is almost a disappointment, but then Holmes supposes you really shouldn't distract the man holding the needle.
Watson is deft and precise when stitching the wounds back together. Holmes is not one for small talk at the best of times and being injured by a ridiculous excuse for a killer is never the best of times, so he is quite happy to remain in silence. The lack of sound in the room seems to be unnerving the doctor, which Holmes does not mind because at least it is entertainment. He glances sideways occasionally, when he knows that Watson definitely cannot tell - he at least knows how to be subtle, perhaps he should give the other man some advice before he leaves - and notes that Watson is too thin, wearing clothes that are a little too big for him, enveloping his frame. Not long back from the war then, and still healing. Holmes is mildly interested, in spite of himself, but puts that thought away to be dealt with later.
"There," Watson says, neatly tying off the last stitch and reaching for a roll of bandages. "You will have to keep them clean and dry, and they can be taken out in a week."
"Will they scar?" Holmes asks, not because he particularly cares, but because he enjoys watching Watson trying to formulate a reply.
"No," Watson replies, a moment too late, "no, you'll be... unblemished."
Holmes briefly wonders if he even needs to be here, Watson seems to be so good at making himself embarrassed, although his hands remain admirably steady as he wraps the bandage around Holmes.
"Good," Holmes says, and allows a slow smile to spread across his mouth because it seems to fascinate Watson so very much.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Watson asks, doing a remarkably good job of not making it sound like a proposition and being admirably less breathless than Holmes would have expected.
Well, there is something helpful he can do, and it is only partially for Holmes' own amusement.
"Actually doctor, if you wouldn't mind terribly, I would like to borrow one of your shirts. My own is quite ruined and I do need to get home."
Watson takes several deep, much-needed breaths as he fetches a shirt from his bureau and takes it back to Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, he believes, whose name has appeared in the papers several times but a photograph never has. Watson does not know whether to be grateful for this or utterly depressed that those piercing eyes have never looked up at him from a page of newsprint.
Holmes shrugs awkwardly into the shirt, but as he reaches up to begin to close the buttons, he grimaces.
"If you wouldn't mind, doctor..."
Watson does mind, actually, minds altogether too much, but he can hardly say no. He steps closer, and swears he sees something like a momentary flash of wickedness in Holmes' eyes before vanishing completely as though it was never there at all. He reaches for the buttons of Holmes' shirt - his shirt - and slowly begins to do them up, closing them over the expanse of bared flesh. It should not affect him so, dressing Holmes as opposed to how undressing him would feel, and yet Holmes is watching him with absolute intensity and Watson has never been more grateful that he has not quite returned to the weight he was before the war and the all-consuming fever he had that brought him home, because the fact his trousers are too big hides perfectly the uncomfortable and inevitable stirring in his groin as his fingertips brush against Holmes' skin between the button holes.
"There," he says, pulling away.
"Thank you very much for your help, doctor," Holmes says, and there is gratitude there, along with the half-smirk, half-smile Watson would very much like to erase from his lips with his own.
He cannot think such thoughts in front of Holmes, no matter how long it has been since anyone touched him. He must not.
"You're quite welcome," he says. "Don't forget to keep the stitches clean and dry."
"I won't," Holmes replies, in a tone of voice that implies he already has. He reaches out a hand. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Watson echoes, driven mad by the blood rushing southwards, shaking Holmes' hand and feeling the calluses on his slender fingers.
Holmes holds on for a little longer than is absolutely necessary, looking Watson right in the eyes in a way that makes his cock jump, and then turns to go.
Watson forms the resolution not to look at his arse as he leaves and immediately breaks it. The moment the door closes he lets out a long sigh that becomes a groan when Holmes' footsteps have vanished down the stairs, fumbling with his belt. His whole body is humming, all-consuming want filling him, and he collapses back against his desk, perching on the edge, curling a hand around his erection and hissing from the feel of it. Part of him almost cannot believe that he is doing this, with the front door barely shut, but need is making him shake and he pulls at himself desperately, eyes closing and pants of breath slipping between clenched teeth. The lean curve of Holmes' back, the quiet strength of his muscles, his wicked mouth and dark, dark eyes fill Watson's mind, a desperate fantasy forming behind his closed lids. Of a different way the diagnosis could have gone, of Holmes thanking him with a press of lips to his, a hand sliding down to unbuckle his belt, Watson fumbling to find words, Holmes hushing him with a whisper and sinking down to his knees-
"Holmes," Watson chokes, hips bucking into his fist.
Watson's eyes snap open immediately because no, no, this is not possible. Not possible at all.
Holmes is stood in the doorway to his office, sharp gaze fixed on the sight Watson must make, trousers around his ankles, swollen cock in hand, a patient's name tumbling off his lips. There is nothing Watson can say and even Holmes seems to be unable to summon up words.
"I forgot my coat," Holmes says at last, gesturing towards the chairs before Watson's desk. Sure enough, one of them has the black jacket draped over it.
"Oh," Watson says, and is ashamed of the fact his erection is not flagging in the slightest, still achingly hard in his grip. He licks his lips nervously, and Holmes' eyes dart to the movement. "Right."
He is expecting Holmes to come over and fetch his coat, maybe punch Watson, maybe just sweep out with the closed door damning, maybe shout at him. Holmes actually steps into the room and then closes the door behind him, leaning back against it, fingers fumbling for the key and twisting it until the lock clicks loudly. Watson has no idea where the sounds from outside have gone, but London seems to be utterly silent, silent but for the soft sound Holmes' feet make against the floor as Holmes walks over to him.
Holmes is shorter than him, and he tilts his chin to look up at Watson. Shock has faded from his face to be replaced with another expression entirely.
"Doctor Watson," he drawls, "I seem to have left you in quite the predicament."
This is ridiculous. This cannot be happening. He must be going insane.
"You have helped me," Holmes tells him, "will you allow me to help you?"
Watson cannot speak, does not know how to. "Help me?" he echoes, the words half a gasp.
Holmes' rough fingers close over his, gripping Watson's cock firmly. "Yes," he says, and drags his hand so that both their fists move over Watson's cock. The feeling is almost too intense and Watson hisses softly.
"Holmes-" he begins.
"Sherlock Holmes," he says, "which I believe you gathered for yourself. I imagine you know what I am?" Holmes' voice is too conversational considering he is standing so close to Watson that there are bare inches between them, and his fingers are dragging deliciously along his erection.
"A detective," Watson provides, somewhere inside him impressed that he is still managing to speak.
"Correct," Holmes agrees, looking pleased. "I'm a very good one, Doctor Watson, and I can deduce people's thoughts with absolute accuracy."
"Right," Watson says, the implications sinking in but he cannot feel as uncomfortable as he thinks he ought to because Holmes's thumb is teasing over the head of his cock, smudging pre-come in a way that makes Watson's toes curl in his shoes.
"I know what you were thinking about me," Holmes tells him. "You were thinking about what it would be like to kiss me until I can no longer smirk at you because my mouth is too swollen."
Hearing him say it aloud makes Watson's cock twitch; Holmes' lips quirk further as he feels this.
"You were thinking about me on your desk, how you would like to spread me open over it until it collapses under the weight of us both."
Watson lets his head drop forward onto Holmes' shoulder, a shudder running helplessly though him.
"You were thinking about what it would feel like to run your hands over every inch of my skin and map it all out for yourself," Holmes continues, almost conversationally, with another long, slow tug that Watson feels right through his stomach. "You were contemplating my hair and how it is just long enough to get a good grip on." He squeezes momentarily and Watson jerks forward, gasping, raising his head again. "And now you're thinking about how you enjoy every word I am saying but you want to shut me up nonetheless."
"How can you-" Watson begins desperately.
Holmes' smile is blinding. "I'm a genius," he says simply. "I am an expert in reading people." His eyes stay locked with Watson's for another moment and then, slowly, deliberately, he lets go of Watson's erection and takes one step back before gradually, gingerly, sinking down to his knees.
"I'm an expert at this, too," he adds, before taking Watson's wrists and pinning them to the edge of the desk, leaning forward to swallow him down whole.
Watson groans, fighting not to thrust forward into that wet heat, Holmes' tongue running along the underside of his cock. After a moment he looks upward and winks at him. Watson gasps and Holmes scrapes his teeth gently against his cock in response, sucking another inch into his mouth.
Watson can barely breathe, cannot believe that he is doing with a patient, of all people, and an almost complete stranger. But he could not stop now if you held a gun to his head. Holmes lets go of one of his wrists, moving his hand to encircle the base of Watson's cock as he sucks on the head, cheeks hollowed and flushed now, eyes dropping closed. Watson cannot stop himself from clenching a hand in that dark hair, carding his fingers through it, and Holmes laughs, the vibration shivering along the whole length of his erection. Watson shuts his eyes, focusing on sensation, hips moving just slightly in time with Holmes' movements, scraping his nails against Holmes' scalp.
He does not last long - how could he, given the circumstances? - and he barely has time to gasp a warning before whiteness closes over his vision and he can feel himself coming, desperate and hard, and Holmes is swallowing his release, throat muscles working in a way that Watson cannot tear his eyes from, until a dribble of white trickles from his mouth and he pulls back, lips swollen friction red and shining. Holmes swipes a finger up his chin, cleaning himself up, before sucking it slowly into his mouth and then grinning up at Watson, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Watson offers him a hand to his feet and he takes it, still moving carefully because of his injury.
This is possibly the most insane thing Watson has ever done. Holmes is breathless, smug, smirking and Watson cannot stop himself from leaning forward a little, removing that quirk of his mouth with his own, teeth catching Holmes' lower lip and making him inhale sharply.
They part for breath, and Watson has no idea what to say, what to do. "Holmes, what-"
"I have to return in a week to get these stitches out," Holmes reminds him, stepping back, grin in place once more.
"You do," Watson agrees, watching Holmes put his coat on. His hair is sticking up in tufts, his eyes bright and mouth still too red, and he follows the line of Holmes' body down to a hungry-looking erection of his own. "Can I-"
"When there is not quite so much morphine in me, yes, by all means," Holmes replies, and teeth appear in that smile. "Until next week, doctor."
"Until next week," Watson echoes, and wonders exactly what he has got himself into.