Gentle With Me
first chapter of my johnlock fic is below, or read here: Ao3
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When Holmes opened his eyes, just a sliver, the flat was dark save for the white reflections of the moon off the rims of glasses on the coffee table, and a dim red-orange light emitting from simmering embers in the fireplace. If it was not morning, why had he awoken? A soft creak in the floorboards behind him answered his question. Watson.
Holmes did not move. His head was tilted back against the armchair, his legs propped on the table in front of him, next to the three glasses from earlier that night, all empty and yearning a wash, he was sure. He watched as Watson quietly drew near, watching the other man’s eyes as they roamed the room, landing on the table, on Holmes, on the fireplace, and the window with the curtains open letting the moonlight in. Watson, ever the great sleuth but admittedly not as great as Holmes, seemed to let Holmes’ state of clarity escape his watchful eye. Holmes was sure that to Watson he was dead asleep, perhaps closer to the dead side. Holmes let his eyes shut again as his partner neared the chair. He felt Watson’s presence behind him, and soon, cool fingers pressed gently against his forehead. The touch made the rest of Holmes’ body feel hotter than it was, yet simultaneously soothed the headache that had been building since he had awoken. It brought an unsolicited sound from his throat, a tiny groan and gasp of air which caused his eyes to flutter open once again, fully this time.
Watson’s hand stayed on his forehead as Holmes squinted up at him. “Am I dead yet, doctor?” he asked, blinking slowly. At the question, Watson rubbed his thumb over Holmes’ forehead once before pulling away. Indulgent.
“Not quite,” Watson said. “Though three more glasses might expedite that.”
“Can’t help if there’re no cases,” Holmes slurred. Perhaps he’d overdone the whiskey. Or it was earlier in the night than he’d thought. He felt his lips tug into a smile as he locked eyes with Watson. The doctor looked hesitant; had a weird, curious, concerned look on his face: his eyebrows were half knit, his eyes almost staring into Holmes’ soul. Watson said nothing.
“What ails you?” Holmes asked finally, waving his arm. “I have proven my receptivity, and still you stand in my room.” Holmes flipped himself over, an action that made the room spin, more than he had anticipated. He rested his arms on the top of the padded armchair, kneeling in the spot where he had sat moments ago. Watson’s arms had extended as if ready to steady Holmes, yet did not touch him.
Holmes, though quite more than three glasses in, was not feeling unsteady. In fact, he felt quite empowered, both by the drink but also by Watson’s presence.
“I heard you making noise up here, so I figured I’d find out what the commotion was,” Watson answered, placing one of his hands carefully against the left side of Holmes’ head, and at once, the room slowed to a stop. “All that just to come in and see you passed out after drinking yourself into a stupor,” Watson said. “What on earth were you dreaming about?”
Holmes leaned his head more heavily into Watson’s hand, allowing himself to indulge. Watson’s hand, though callused in places from work and time, was generally smooth and still cool. It was only, and Holmes meant only, in times like these that the detective truly allowed himself to yearn-- and succumb, perhaps only partly, to the fondness that built within him after living with such a reliable, knowledgeable, intelligent man for years. Even when Watson had first moved in, Holmes had recognized within him a kindred spirit, and they’d been partners since. Holmes felt, again only in times like these, that it was natural for him to feel this way after being in such close proximity for an extended period of time.
So when Holmes didn’t answer, but instead turned his head up to look Watson boldly in the eye, unbeknownst to himself unveiling years of yearning in one single look, it felt as though the events of his dream were unfolding before him, prophetically, when Watson suddenly gripped the side of Holmes’ head and brought it to meet his own, their lips meeting hungrily.
Holmes almost couldn’t breathe, letting himself be pulled fully upright, grabbing Watson’s arm and wrapping his other arm around Watson’s neck. He suddenly wished he had not drank anything at all, yet anything happening on another occasion was unlikely. As he felt himself rise from the chair to close the gap between their bodies, he dug his fingers into Watson’s arm. He knew, in that moment, that he would remember this instance until the end of his life, but they would never speak of it. Watson tasted familiar, like brandy, and his chest was warm, stable. They broke the kiss slowly, just a centimeter, Watson’s breath hot against Holmes’ face. Watson’s arm had moved to Holmes’ waist, the sensation enough to make the man melt. The air seemed thick, anticipatory. Watson licked his lips, and with the movement, some stubble on his chin- a spot he must have missed- tickled Holmes’ bottom lip.
Watson pressed his forehead against Holmes’, a warm, constant pressure that grounded Holmes once again. “Something’s gotten into me,” Watson said, his voice gravelly. Neither moved, the words hanging in the air.
Something had gotten into Holmes, too. Something indeed, more like a pot of water that had boiled over, a culmination of yearn, of heartache. Watson had acted on impulse. Holmes would have done it had he allowed himself to think of how they would end up. But he hadn’t done it, Watson had. And that was dangerous, uncharted, unplanned. What was worse was that Watson had seen it all in his gaze. Idiotic observant man. Watson’s hand on his waist gently started to move, his thumb pressing soothing circles into Holmes’ hip bone. He could tremble at the sensation, and he couldn’t stop his body from leaning ever closer to Watson’s, their legs practically intertwining. Holmes took his hand from Watson’s arm, removing it from his face. His own hands were covered in ink, and as he interlocked their fingers, he saw the ink smudge from his thumb onto the back of Watson’s hand.
When Holmes met Watson’s eyes, he was staring at him, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, hiding the icy blue of his irises. Holmes did not know what his own face looked like, and this fact scared him, only saved by the thought that they would likely not recall this the following day. Holmes could have said something to stop this, sent Watson back to bed to pretend like nothing had happened between them, perhaps drink another three more and gamble that death did not find him yet, but Watson’s hand on his waist intoxicated him, and any coherent trace of hesitance that had lingered the after whiskey vanished. Watson’s body language displayed a hunger that Holmes had only seen glimpses of, a fiery passion, similar to the look in the man’s eyes when he fired a gun. There was no mistaking it, that hunger. Watson wanted to bed him.
And Holmes knew his next move.
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chapter 1/2
read chapter 2 here!!
