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Day three, evening
Looking down on the naked, sedated, and handcuffed form of Sherlock Holmes, Watson tried to remember why he'd thought this was a good idea. As he watched Holmes twitch and moan -the sedative was wearing off, then- he recalled the smug, self-satisfied smirk on Holmes' face he saw when coming out of his faint. Holmes had apologized . . . for startling him senseless, but not a word about up and leaving him for YEARS, letting him think he was dead, and he had felt a cold fury rise in him. When Holmes had nonchalantly made himself at home in one of Watson's armchairs, the decision to slip something into his drink came without hesitation. He was a doctor, after all, and he still had many sedatives on hand from Mary's last days.
Holmes didn't suspect a thing. He prattled endlessly about facing Moriarty near the Falls, almost up to the moment that he slumped bonelessly in the chair; a faint look of surprise flickered on his face and he struggled to focus his eyes on Watson before losing consciousness. As always, Holmes was carrying a pair of handcuffs in his pocket, and Watson paused to appreciate the irony for a moment before fastening them on Holmes. After several hours of thought and careful consideration -Holmes lying slack in the chair the entire time- Watson decided how to proceed.
The actual preparations took a few days, during which he kept Holmes handcuffed to the frame of his bed and heavily sedated. Stripping him hadn't been part of the original plan, but practical considerations convinced him it was best. And it gave him the opportunity to feast his eyes on Holmes in ways he had not done for a dreadfully long time, so he was more than happy to work that into his plan.
Now the basement was prepared and Holmes was waking. Watson carefully coaxed Holmes into standing, his wrists cuffed behind his back, and bore most of his weight as they slowly stumbled down the first set of stairs. "Watson?" Holmes mumbled into Watson's neck.
"Yes, Holmes, I'm here." He steered them into the kitchen and urged Holmes into a chair.
"Wha- what's going on?" he slurred, blinking and trying unsuccessfully to bring the room into focus.
"You've been ill," Watson said, sitting in a chair next to him and dipping a spoon into the bowl of soup he'd set ready on the table. He was grateful that Holmes wasn't capable of seeing through his lie. "Will you try to eat for me?" He hadn't given Holmes anything more than sips of water while he was drugged; the last thing he needed was for Holmes to aspirate and die of pneumonia.
Holmes' stomach growled and he laughed giddily. "I suppose."
Watson was able to feed him the soup, with much slurping and smacking on Holmes' part. Watson wondered if he would always be this receptive to food while slightly drugged, and resolved to test that. He had nothing but time, after all, and it would serve Holmes right to be the subject of Watson's experiments.
When Holmes had eaten, Watson guided him down the stairs into the basement and onto a thin mattress in one corner. A chain looped around the handcuffs and locked with a padlock secured him to a short length of exposed pipe of unknown purpose. Holmes blinked sleepily, no doubt starting to feel the effects of the adulterated soup, and Watson dropped a blanket over him.
"Sleep well, Holmes," he said, and locked the basement door behind him.
Day ten, evening
Determining the optimal strength and combination of drugs to keep Holmes quiet and tractable but not completely unaware -if he was always unconscious, he wouldn't be suffering, now would he?- took longer than Watson expected. No doubt the difficulty was due to the amount of drugs Holmes routinely put into his own system.
One thing Watson's experimentation had confirmed, however, was Holmes' willingness to accept food from him. This was a relief, as Holmes was painfully thin even for him and Watson had hoped he would be able to remedy that. Plus, feeding Holmes had the advantage of being a kind of torture, considering the man's usual exasperating relationship with food.
Watson found it pleased him greatly to sit with Holmes, carefully spooning food into his waiting mouth, and to watch the subtle changes in Holmes' abdomen as his stomach filled. Sometimes he even allowed himself to touch the sleeping Holmes afterward, to trail his fingers down the chest and onto the soft stomach, circling his navel.
This evening Watson decided to start the next step in the plan to feed Holmes up: a bit of exercise, and adding one more food item daily. He carried the food tray down and set it near Holmes' pallet, then unlocked the chain. "On your feet, Holmes," he said cheerily, tugging on Holmes' arm.
Holmes followed hesitantly, uncertain what to make of this development. Watson took his arm and walked him to the opposite wall and back slowly, then again more briskly.
"We can't have you getting too stiff," Watson said by way of explanation as he marched Holmes across and back once more, pleased at how quickly Holmes was able to regain his legs. He didn't want to make him an invalid, after all, so some sort of regular exercise was necessary.
Holmes still seemed confused when Watson settled him back down on his mattress, then brought the tray and sat next to him. He ate with some gusto, but became reluctant when the food kept coming even as he felt himself growing too full. "Just a few bites more," Watson encouraged, but Holmes turned away.
Watson considered for a moment. Holmes really didn't have that much more to finish, and Watson was certain he could do it. "Here, lean against me," he said, and reached around to massage Holmes' stomach.
Holmes stiffened under Watson's hand as he felt the bile rise in his throat, but reclining a bit against Watson did help, so he reluctantly accepted the last few bites, feeling rather ill for his trouble.
Watson carefully helped Holmes lie down, then rubbed his chest and abdomen until Holmes seemed to be asleep. Holmes' stomach felt taut under his hand, and it was almost visibly distended. Watson couldn't resist dipping his tongue into Holmes' navel, circling it and dipping in again. Holmes shivered at his touch and Watson felt himself stirring, but scolded himself. That was one thing that the doctor part of him refused to do -the do no harm maxim weighed heavily on his conscience. He did allow himself a brief taste of Holmes' nipples before covering him and leaving him for the night.
Day nineteen, evening
It was growing progressively more difficult for Watson to keep his hands off Holmes. He'd thought being able to look at Holmes would be enough, but the looking invariably developed in a keen desire to touch, to lick, to kiss, to fuck. He tried kissing Holmes, but it wasn't satisfying when Holmes wasn't kissing back. And since he never did it unless he was sure Holmes was asleep, Holmes never kissed back.
The feeding efforts weren't helping matters, for Watson thought he could see a difference -the grooves of Holmes' ribs gradually growing shallower, the sharpness of his hips slowly growing softer- and he yearned to learn how it felt against his body. Watson still allowed himself to massage Holmes' torso after the evening meal, for he seemed to need the soothing after the larger meal of the day, but resisted taking it further as he feared he would not be able to stop.
This evening Holmes seemed quieter than usual, but considering he almost never spoke in the first place, Watson wasn't sure what gave that impression. He was withdrawn, perhaps, though how Watson could sense that he wasn't entirely certain. He obediently followed Watson's directions, from doing his rounds of the basement to eating every bite of his dinner, and laid passively while Watson rubbed his aching stomach, letting his eyes flutter closed.
Watson watched Holmes, thinking about how he longed to love Holmes and be loved by Holmes the way it used to be. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek, making a mental note to bring down the shaving supplies soon. Holmes wasn't quite Holmes when he had so much facial hair.
The kiss to the cheek turned into a string of kisses down his chest while fingers played with his nipples. Tongue into navel, around navel, then dancing just a little further down before returning to navel and laving gently. Licks and sucks on that wonderful belly, that softening belly, and almost before he knew it, Watson had his hands on Holmes' hips and he was hard in his trousers. Holmes, too, was showing signs of arousal, and Watson pulled back in alarm. He hadn't intended to allow that to happen.
He hurried to the stairs and was halfway up when Holmes' sleepy voice said, "You're a terrible tease, Watson. Why don't you just do it? I know you want to."
Watson slowly turned; Holmes' eyes glittered at him in the lamplight. The first thought across his mind was that Holmes must be aware of far more than he thought. The second was questioning whether that statement could be taken as an invitation -for if Holmes was willing, then Watson had no compunction about taking things much further than he'd allowed himself thus far. "Perhaps I will," he said softly, and locked the door.
Day twenty, morning
Along with Holmes' breakfast, Watson brought a vial of oil down to the basement and left it on one of the bottom steps. Holmes saw this and said nothing, though he smirked at Watson and made a show of licking the utensils clean. Or so it seemed to Watson. For his part, he went light on the sedative so Holmes would have plenty of opportunity to think and stew over whether Watson would actually respond to his challenge.
It occurred to him that he could go ahead and relieve the tension right then and there, but he was reluctant to see patients while smelling of sex and he didn't have enough time to bathe before his first appointment. Watson himself wasn't sure when he would do it, if he would do it, though he knew as he shut the door that he would have trouble thinking of anything else all day. And that, perhaps, would be even worse than smelling of sex all day.
Day twenty, evening
It was a long, trying day for Watson, and he liked to think it was the same for Holmes. Holmes appeared disinterested, even when Watson paused on the step where the oil sat, but Watson saw the tension in his studied nonchalance, and was inwardly triumphant when pulling away the blanket revealed he was half-aroused already.
Watson followed the established routine as if nothing were out of the ordinary, though he was sure Holmes noticed his slightly awkward gait. He continued their pattern down to massaging Holmes' stomach after he'd eaten, though Holmes resolutely watched him through half-lidded eyes, waiting to see what he would do.
So Watson licked and teased each nipple, spent quite a bit of time and attention on that alluring navel, then pressed a brief kiss to Holmes' lips and settled the blanket over him. He hurried up the stairs, anxious to get somewhere private so he could take himself in hand, and feeling quite pleased. He'd left Holmes terribly aroused but without a way of release, for his hands were still cuffed behind his back. He was so very cruel, and he found he rather enjoyed it.
Day twenty-one, evening
The sound of the cab pulling away with his last patient inside was music to Watson's ears. He'd already told the maid to take the evening off -and was grateful for the hundredth time he'd ignored the advice to hire a live-in maid- and when she appeared in the doorway, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He maintained the pretence of doing paperwork until he heard the back door close; then he rose, dousing the lamp and locking the doors before going upstairs to prepare himself.
He would be feeding Holmes early, but he simply could not wait any longer.
Holmes was still mostly unaware when Watson ventured into the basement; he'd been a little heavy-handed with the drugs that morning on account of a pesky unsteadiness in his hands. He only hoped that this indulgence would ease him, for he still had days of patient appointments to endure before the blissfully unscheduled weekend.
In light of Holmes' lassitude, Watson decided not to put him through the usual paces. Freeing the handcuffs from the chain, Watson pulled Holmes up and arranged them so he was sitting against the wall with his legs spread and Holmes between them, slumped against his chest. The feel of Holmes' buttocks against his groin was almost enough to prematurely finish him off, especially when Holmes squirmed in his hold, trying to find a more comfortable position for his trapped arms.
Watson rubbed Holmes' shoulders, pressing kisses to the back of his neck and along his collarbone, slowly moving his hands down the arms caught between their bodies. He unfastened one of the cuffs and carefully moved Holmes' arms in front of him, briskly rubbing the stiff muscles. Holmes whimpered with the movement; while Watson had been careful at the beginning to periodically switch whether he was cuffed in front or back, he'd not been as mindful of late, for it served his purposes better to have Holmes' hands behind him and out of the way much of the time.
The cuffs were refastened in front, and Watson murmured reassuringly in Holmes' ear as he pulled the food tray closer. Holmes roused a little as he ate, but didn't resist Watson's hands roving over his body between bites. He was, however, thankful that the food was gone before he reached the point of uncomfortable fullness that Watson seemed to delight in forcing upon him.
Watson reluctantly extricated himself from behind Holmes; if he stayed there much longer, he would find himself hard-pressed not to take Holmes from behind, but that wasn't the plan. Holmes leaned limply against the wall, watching Watson with dull eyes as he shifted the mattress's position in relation to the pipe. Watson considered leaving Holmes unchained while he fetched the oil, but Holmes' hands strayed to his groin and Watson quickly intervened, tsking. He couldn't have the insufferable man spoiling his plan!
Holmes allowed Watson to push him down onto his back, but resisted when Watson tried to pull his arms over his head. Watson was apologetic and spent a few moments massaging the sore shoulders, but in the end he was not to be swayed. The chain was looped around the cuffs and Holmes' hands were gently but inexorably pulled away from his body until the chain could be fastened around the pipe. Watson spent a moment to appreciate the body stretched out before him, especially the growing arousal that assured him Holmes was enjoying this too.
He left the tray at the bottom of the stairs and brought the vial to Holmes' side. There he suffered a moment of indecision, for while he had planned how to reach fulfillment, he had neglected the intermediate steps. His fingers strayed to his shirt buttons, and he decided that was as good a place to start as any.
Once his torso was bared, he straddled Holmes on hands and knees, dipping his head to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Holmes turned toward him and languidly returned the kiss, so Watson ardently kissed and sucked and nibbled those lips. While so engaged, he carefully lowered his body onto Holmes', relishing the feel of being pressed against him once again. He had missed this dreadfully, though he knew it was his fault they had ceased such activities in the first place.
Watson impatiently dismissed these thoughts and focused his attention on Holmes, moving his mouth down to suckle a spot on his neck, licking and sucking until he was certain he'd left a mark. Holmes writhed beneath him when he moved his mouth to a nipple and bit it lightly; Watson felt himself straining inside his trousers and moved off Holmes slightly, to lessen the pressure and allow him to slide further down Holmes' torso.
Dipping his tongue in that delicious navel elicited a moan and Watson grinned wickedly before doing it again. Holmes half-heartedly tried to buck him off, but the drugs in his meal had begun to take effect and made him uncoordinated, so all that resulted was his thigh brushing against the front of Watson's trousers in a most alluring fashion.
Enough was enough. Watson stood and quickly discarded his trousers and straddled Holmes' thighs while pouring some oil in his hand. He carefully set the vial aside, mindful of Holmes' quizzical eyes watching his every movement.
Holmes wasn't quite fully erect, but a few strokes with Watson's oiled palm remedied that nicely. Watson crawled forward and kissed him once, deeply, before settling back and nonchalantly taking Holmes fully into his body. The surprise in Holmes' expression was thrilling and Watson leaned forward to kiss him again. It was marvelous what a little advance preparation could accomplish.
Watson quickly found the right angle to use when taking Holmes in, and it took very little time at all for him to be near his peak. Holmes' breathy groans signaled he was very close as well, which served Watson's plan quite nicely. He licked and sucked one nipple, then the other, and when driving himself back down, he clenched tightly around Holmes' length; Holmes gasped and Watson felt the rush of his release and he followed, dimly marveling that he hadn't even needed to touch himself.
It was several minutes before Watson had recovered enough coordination to stand and hobble toward the stairs. He'd brought down a damp cloth, but in his distracted state had left it on the tray. He wiped himself, then returned to Holmes and mopped up the mess that he'd made of his chest and stomach. Holmes twitched at his touch and said hoarsely, "I knew you wanted to do it."
"Of course I do," Watson said reasonably. "And next time I may not be so kind to you." He collected his clothing and the tray, and left Holmes to ponder his meaning. He already had several possibilities in mind.
Day twenty-five, morning
How Watson endured the three remaining days of the week he was never quite sure. Now that the barrier had been overcome, Watson felt himself longing, yearning, to indulge himself again in the pleasure of Holmes' body. Was this how it felt to be drug-addicted? To know you should not partake, but wishing for it so desperately that any attempt to resist would undoubtedly prove futile?
It was, at long last, Saturday and Watson had no engagements, nor any intention of accepting any that might come along. His engagement was lying unconscious in the basement. He had plans that began with an especially large breakfast for Holmes, progressed to lying with Holmes in his arms, the possible inclusion of a bath and shave for Holmes (it had been over a week, and his aroma was beginning to be off-putting), and concluded with Watson joining in Holmes' state of undress and perpetrating arousing and illegal acts upon him.
If the maid had any concerns about being told to take the day off, she didn't express them to Watson. The day was grey and rainy, which was convenient in that it wouldn't appear suspicious for all of his drapes and curtains to be closed in the middle of the day, as they had to be if he was going to bring Holmes up for a bath.
Everything started out according to plan. He cooked a sizable breakfast, ate a portion of it himself, and took the rest down to Holmes (after slipping twice the usual amount of sedative into the eggs). Holmes was more than willing to sit against him and eat heartily, though his eagerness waned as he grew full and the drugs began their work.
Watson was able to feed the groaning Holmes all but the last half of the porridge, which he decided didn't matter anyway. He encouraged Holmes to lean on him more heavily, and gently caressed the length of his chest and abdomen with both hands. The weight gain was definitely noticeable now, though all but those who knew Holmes well would still consider him quite thin. It was simply that his ribs and hipbones were no longer so prominent. For a fleeting moment Watson wondered what it would take for his Holmes to have the girth of his brother, but he dismissed the thought. It didn't matter.
Holmes slept in his arms, Watson idly touching as much of his skin as he could without moving either of them, and he was satisfied. For now.
After some time had passed, Watson laid down and pulled Holmes with him, arranging him so he sprawled half atop him, his head pillowed on Watson's shoulder. Watson stared up at the ceiling and felt a pang of regret that they weren't doing this in a real bed, without handcuffs and sedatives between them. What if he were to put a halt to this? How could he try to explain this away? How much would Holmes remember? Would Holmes ever forgive him? Could things ever go back to the way they used to be, before Mary and everything else?
Watson ruthlessly quashed these thoughts. Holmes deserved this for all he'd done to hurt Watson. A small, niggling voice continued to question how, exactly, he thought this would make any sort of difference. Was it even possible for him to teach Holmes a lesson? And a lesson in what?
Restless and frustrated, Watson pulled away from Holmes and stood, retreating upstairs with the breakfast tray and his doubts.
Day twenty-five, afternoon
Holmes looked and smelled much better after a bath and a shave. Combing his hair had been a trial, especially since his head followed the pull of the comb, so asleep was he, and Watson found he was grateful he and Mary hadn't managed to have children. They would no doubt be as exasperating as Holmes, though at least they would be smaller.
He was awfully pale, though, as would be expected of one who had spent three weeks in a basement. And Watson couldn't chance trying to take him outside -someone would see and gossip, or Holmes would get away, and he couldn't have that. But at least he could wait a little while to take him back downstairs.
So Watson set Holmes in the same armchair he'd occupied that fateful evening, and sat opposite him in a crude imitation of their comfortable arrangement back at Baker Street. Holmes -and Watson himself - would ordinarily be smoking, of course, but depriving Holmes of tobacco was part of Watson's grand punishment. Watson poured himself some brandy and stared at Holmes' slack face and the handcuffs that functioned as his only article of clothing.
What a sham.
Watson drank the brandy in one gulp and just barely resisted the urge to throw the glass into the cold fireplace. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he had irrevocably wrecked everything, that everything he did and touched went wrong. He buried his face in his hands and tried to soothe himself with the fury he had felt when he started all this.
He was nearly calm when he finally looked up again. Holmes was watching him impassively, his eyes dull and hands twitching. Watson was struck with the sudden fear that he would try to escape, and he stood hurriedly.
"I'm not going anywhere," Holmes said with his usual disconcerting accuracy. He flicked his eyes downward briefly. "I wouldn't get far like this."
"You shouldn't even be awake," Watson said after a glance at the clock confirmed Holmes should be out for another hour at least.
Holmes huffed a small laugh. "Come, Doctor, surely you can formulate a few hypotheses about why I am, in fact, awake."
Watson could indeed think of several reasons, but he voiced none of them. Instead, he tried desperately to think of the best way out of this situation.
"If you're going to drug me again, might I make a request? Make it something stronger, or something with more interesting effects. Waking in the middle of the day with nothing to do but run my mind in circles is growing quite wearisome. Cocaine would be ideal, I should think."
Rage replaced the fear and he loomed over Holmes in his chair, his hands on the armrests. "You dare to ask me for cocaine? What makes you think that any of this is about your comfort? Perhaps the entire point is to let your mind circle itself into insanity," he growled.
Holmes had the decency to look cowed and tried to shrink back from him. He did not respond, but studied Watson with something like confusion.
Watson stood and eyed Holmes calculatingly, then reached out -Holmes actually flinched- and pulled him out of the chair. "You're going back to where you belong. Come along." Holmes stumbled repeatedly as Watson dragged him down the hall and down the stairs, and Watson took special pleasure in pushing him toward his pallet so hard that Holmes fell against the wall.
While Holmes was still stunned, Watson grabbed at the handcuffs, unlocking one and twisting Holmes' hands behind his back instead, refastening the cuffs there. He pulled cruelly on the cuffs until Holmes stumbled and fell to his knees within range of the chain and was securely fastened there. Holmes didn't try to test his bonds; he knew already they were quite secure.
Watson saw Holmes sigh and shudder, remaining on his knees where he had fallen, and found himself aroused at Holmes' helpless state, achieved even without drugging him out of his mind. He felt a heady rush of power, and knew just what to do with it.
A few steps away, then back, one hand on his buttons, and how fortunate that he wasn't wearing shoes. The oil was cool against his heated flesh, and he carefully knelt behind Holmes, wrapping one arm around his chest and forcing him to sit up while the other hand briefly traced his cleft before one finger delved inside him.
"Watson. You don't want to do this," Holmes whispered.
"I rather think I do," Watson retorted and, as if to prove it, drove himself deep into Holmes with one stroke. Holmes gasped and tried to pull away; Watson tightened the arm around his chest and bit him where neck and shoulder meet, hard enough to leave a bruise. Watson remained still for a moment, reveling in the feel of Holmes tight around him.
Then he spoke. "When will you learn it's not all about you?" Watson asked slowly, punctuating each word with a thrust. Holmes shook and gasped, his body responding despite his discomfort to the pleasure Watson knew all too well how to spark. Watson knew this, could feel it in the tension of Holmes' frame, and he slid his oiled hand down Holmes' stomach to cradle him, then squeeze. Holmes whimpered, and Watson sped up his thrusts, grasping Holmes' cock tightly enough for him to feel the pain through the pleasure.
When Watson found his release, he let go of Holmes' cock and held Holmes' hips tightly, keeping himself deeply seated until every drop had been spent. Then he finally pulled away and Holmes slumped sideways against the wall, still painfully aroused. Watson wiped himself off with his trousers, then used one trouser leg to clean some of the mess off Holmes and checked for any damage he might have caused. It had been rough, but, satisfyingly, there was no blood.
He draped the blanket haphazardly over Holmes' shoulders and headed back upstairs. "Watson," Holmes pleaded, shifting uncomfortably. Watson didn't even glance in his direction.
Echoes of the bolt sliding home plagued Holmes for hours.
Day twenty-six, evening
More than twenty-four hours after leaving Holmes, Watson decided he should check on his captive. He had consciously decided not to feed Holmes the evening before, reasoning that, after enjoying a steady schedule of meals for weeks, skipping a meal would be a trial in itself. Continuing it through that morning had been unintentional, but he rose late after a sleepless night and had a lunch appointment at his club.
Enduring several hours at his club had been its own sort of torture; he constantly felt people looking at him strangely, as if they could read his recent activities on his coat sleeve. He wasn't behaving quite normally, either, and had many well-meaning inquiries after his health and even a few suggestions that he ought to go on holiday. It wouldn't be a bad idea, except for the secret closeted in his basement.
Watson resolved to take out his frustrations on Holmes. Holmes was the source of all his problems, anyway.
Holmes was huddled against the wall when Watson appeared in the doorway, and he hid his face as Watson approached. He didn't speak and neither did Watson as the chain was unlocked and Watson pulled him to his feet. A few rounds of the basement, and Watson was pushing him down onto the mattress, then slid in behind him.
Watson didn't touch him again right away and seemed to be fumbling with something; Holmes realized what he was up to when he felt oiled fingers at his entrance. There was nothing to do but allow the intrusion, and all too soon Watson was tugging him back to impale himself on Watson's half-hard cock. Watson shifted further into him, groaning, and gently urged him to lean back against Watson's chest.
Then it was time to eat. Holmes had found a new appreciation for food during this ordeal, especially when it was fed to him, and now he was so very hungry after going without for a while -he had no reliable way to mark time without Watson's visits, but he knew he'd missed at least one meal, probably more. So he ate ravenously, though he wasn't certain he ought to be trusting Watson at the moment.
Holmes had realized that Watson enjoyed feeding him, but didn't realize how much he enjoyed it until this meal, as he felt Watson lengthen and harden within him while he ate. It was a curious feeling, to be fed from above and filled from below, and he decided he might even like it if the circumstances were different. But the handcuffs pinched his wrists and his shoulders ached from his arms being caught between their bodies.
Watson couldn't keep his hips from twitching in small, ineffective thrusts even while Holmes was still eating. When Holmes was sated and lazily leaned back to kiss him, and Watson tasted the food on his lips and tongue, and ran his hands over Holmes' full belly, he arched once and climaxed with a groan.
Day twenty-seven, morning
Watson spent several hours after leaving Holmes for the night considering his supplies and debating what drug or combination thereof would be suitable for use during the upcoming week. He preferred not to have to inject it, for Holmes could easily try to use a syringe as a weapon against him -just because he hadn't yet tried to break free wasn't a guarantee that he wouldn't be looking for an opportunity. And Watson knew he would not be the winner in a match of strength or wits. His leg was already protesting the constant kneeling and sitting on the ground and getting up again.
It was still early when he woke Holmes for their little routine. The maid was due to arrive in a half hour and Watson wanted to ensure Holmes wouldn't be able to call out.
The walk completed, Watson allowed Holmes a moment of freedom for his arms before re-cuffing his hands in front. Holmes was meekly obedient, watching Watson with calculating eyes as he was given breakfast. Watson stared back at him, waiting for any sort of reaction to the new drug. It came soon enough, and Holmes was limp and unresponsive so quickly that he couldn't even finish feeding him.
He would need to adjust the timing of the administration, but so far this solution looked promising indeed.
Day twenty-seven, afternoon
There were no patients in the last hour of Watson's office hours, so he was able to finish his notes and close up shop right on time. He still had almost two hours before dinner and the maid was doing some shopping, so he decided to check on Holmes.
He was lying partially curled up with his back to the staircase and the blanket sliding off, revealing a glimpse of bare buttock. Realizing that Holmes had been acting on many previous days when Watson thought he was still unconscious or nearly so, Watson went over and prodded Holmes' top hip with his shoe. The blanket slid off completely, but Holmes did not even twitch.
There was one way to make sure he wasn't pretending.
Watson quickly shed his clothing and folded it neatly, setting the pile atop his shoes so it would not get dirty. A palmful of oil and a few slow strokes finished the preparation, and Watson carefully laid himself down behind Holmes. He guided his cock along Holmes' cleft and between his thighs, until the tip was just brushing Holmes' sac. Pressing himself as close to Holmes as was possible, he settled his top leg over Holmes', to keep his thighs firmly together.
It felt lovely.
Holmes still didn't move, his breathing deep and even.
Watson slowly slid back and forth, relishing the friction and heat. He kissed Holmes' shoulderblades and spine, then held him closer, speeding his thrusts until he came with a choked cry.
He left Holmes with the blanket still on the floor and his seed drying in a sticky mess between Holmes' thighs.
Day twenty-eight, morning
Watson was reluctant to face Holmes, feeling something suspiciously like shame about his actions the day before. But he consoled himself that humiliating Holmes was one way of teaching him a lesson, and thus his actions served his greater purpose.
Holmes said nothing about it, but seemed to be moving more slowly than usual. When Watson unlocked one cuff, he cautiously raised his hands to Watson's face, cupping his cheeks, his thumbs caressing his cheekbones. Watson leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch, but there was something in his eyes that Holmes didn't recognize. "What have you done to my Watson?" he asked softly.
Watson's jaw tightened and he grabbed Holmes' wrists, twisting his arms behind his back until Holmes had no choice but to move toward him or risk dislocating a shoulder. "No, what have you done to your Watson?" he hissed in his ear. "I am as you have made me."
Holmes took an unsteady breath, and when Watson showed no inclination to release him, he said carefully, "Please, Doctor, you're hurting me."
"Good," Watson said, but loosened his grip and fumbled to fasten the dangling cuff. He pushed him away then, and Holmes settled onto his mattress, his eyes never leaving Watson.
Watson settled on the floor facing him and lifted a large glass of water to his lips. "Drink. You're getting dehydrated."
The water was wonderful, but food seemed to stick in his throat. Watson impatiently tried to feed him at the normal pace, but Holmes couldn't keep up. Finally he said, "Please, just give me whatever has the drug in it."
Watson eyed him calculatingly, then held up a forkful of eggs. It was always the eggs.
He woke when it was still day, judging by the number and frequency of footfalls on the floor above. How disappointing.
Day thirty, evening
Holmes listened as Watson carefully descended the stairs, and heard the slosh of liquid. Just water, then. Again. For the, what, third night in a row? This was growing tiresome. And it was too much to hope that the water was adulterated. At present Watson only kept him insensate when there were others in the house, and at night there were no others in the house.
At least being given water promised that he would be allowed to keep his hands in front.
The sound of rustling clothing -he was staying consistent with the previous nights, then- and bare feet padding across the room toward him. Holmes kept his face toward the wall; moving might anger Watson, and he was still nursing the split lip from two nights ago.
"On your stomach," Watson commanded, setting the water pitcher and lamp down at a safe distance.
Holmes complied, sliding down so his hands were above his head. He turned his head so he could breathe, and could just barely see Watson out of the corner of his eye. As Watson started to straddle him, he ventured, "You know you don't need to keep me captive to have sex with me."
Watson paused in positioning himself to cuff Holmes on the back of the head, then drove his oiled length into him. Holmes stiffened and gasped, then shivered as Watson's hands and mouth started exploring his body. He used to enjoy this, and he tried to remember that, but Watson treated him so differently now that it was sometimes hard to accept this was the same body that had been so tender with him.
He longed to have his Watson back.
Watson collapsed onto Holmes' back, sated. He kissed the spot just behind his ear and whispered, "I know. This isn't about the sex."
"Then what-" Holmes started to say, but Watson was getting up and he felt the blanket land on his back. The water pitcher was moved closer to him, then Watson was getting dressed. "Watson?"
Footsteps up the stairs. "John, please-"
A pause, then the steps continued. The door closed and the bolt was thrown.
Day thirty-two, evening
Holmes hesitated to interrupt, especially since being buried in Watson was still pleasurable -unlike some of the other activities he'd been subjected to of late- but the banging was becoming quite irksome. "Watson, there is someone at your door."
Watson paused and bit the spot on Holmes' neck that he had been licking. "I'm afraid they will find the good Doctor is not at home," he said dismissively into Holmes' skin.
"Watson," Holmes said pleadingly. This behavior was so uncharacteristic of Watson that seeing it pained him more than any of the things he had suffered at Watson's hands. "Surely you don't mean that."
"I do."
Holmes stared at him disbelievingly. "I begin to suspect the good Doctor has not been at home for quite some time," he said at last.
Watson glowered and made a motion as if to strike him, but Holmes didn't flinch. Instead, Holmes set his jaw and gave him the look that was known to cause hardened criminals to confess their every crime.
"You think you've figured all this out, then."
"I lack sufficient data to confirm the hypothesis, but I believe I know the cause of your anger with me. The cause of the rest of your behavior is still unclear."
Watson sat back and crossed his arms. "Enlighten me," he challenged.
"You are upset that I allowed you to think I was dead."
Watson snorted. "Just how long did it take for you to come up with that?"
Holmes frowned and didn't answer.
"Yes, Holmes, that is why I'm angry with you." Watson sighed, got up, and started dressing. He started to mount the stairs, then stopped and came back to stand over Holmes. "Let me ask you something: do you trust me?"
His response was immediate. "Yes, of course I do."
Watson quirked a sad smile. "No, you don't."
Day thirty-nine, morning
Holmes didn't know what to expect anymore. His steady Watson, formerly so predictable, seemed to delight in confusing him by changing what he did, when he did it, and how he behaved when he did it. What was worst, he didn't know what Watson wanted of him. And he could feel himself weakening, the cold and damp of the basement sinking into his bones and leaving him constantly chilled.
Keeping someone locked in your basement could be quite trying. Watson now understood why kidnappers either killed their victims or demanded ransom, as holding someone indefinitely simply wasn't tenable. Even his patients were noticing the effects of the strain on his behavior, and he tried to cope by needling Holmes. It was his fault, after all.
Fortunately it was Saturday, with a bank holiday on Monday, so Watson had a few days to recover his good humor. If that was even possible by now. Sometimes he had his doubts.
He'd given his maid the weekend off in light of the holiday, so he did not rise until he wanted to, and found he was rather cheerful as he contemplated breakfast. Perhaps he would even eat with Holmes, rather than beforehand. That might be nice.
Holmes listened intently to the sounds of Watson moving around upstairs. He stiffened when the door opened, but Watson greeted him cheerfully and was gentle in helping him up. Perhaps he would be getting a reprieve today.
Watson sat and urged Holmes to sit on his lap facing him; Holmes couldn't help glancing at Watson's groin as he sat and Watson chuckled. "Not yet, unless you want to."
"No, this is acceptable."
It was rather different to have Watson eating at the same time, and Holmes rather hoped it meant he wouldn't have to eat as much, as his stomach was feeling uneasy. And at first, Watson didn't seem to notice when he took two bites and Holmes had none, at least until he had enough and could devote all his attention to feeding Holmes.
When Holmes turned away from the next bite Watson offered, Watson frowned and tried again. "Come, just a bit more," he coaxed, but Holmes shook his head.
"I can't."
"Of course you can."
"No."
Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere, and rather perturbed about it, he reached out and held Holmes' nose closed so he would have to open his mouth to breathe. Holmes glared dully at him, but eventually had to take a breath and accept the spoonful of porridge. He swallowed with effort, and Watson came back with another spoonful.
Holmes could feel that last bit starting to come up again, and he tried to back away from the newest onslaught, but Watson wouldn't let him. "Watson, please," he begged. Watson didn't seem to understand, and tried to make him open his mouth again.
He couldn't hold back any longer and retched. It was quite a mess, all over Watson's shirt and both their laps, but the shocked expression on Watson's face made the misery almost worthwhile. "I'm sorry," he said, shivering.
Watson patted his shoulder. "Why didn't you say something?"
"I tried. You didn't listen. You haven't been listening to me since you started this."
"We need to get cleaned up," he said evasively, not responding to Holmes' accusation. He had Holmes stand and wiped at the mess with the napkin, but decided he would need a bath and promised to come back to get him when the water was ready.
Holmes didn't realize until the door was locked that Watson neglected to chain him to the pipe. But he didn't have the energy or the will to do anything about it. He curled up on the end of the mattress that wasn't soiled and waited for Watson to return.
Watson tried to get everything ready quickly, but it takes time to heat that much water and he had plenty of time for self-recrimination while he waited. How could he call himself a doctor, when he force-feeds someone to the point of illness without even noticing? And the way Holmes was shivering, he was likely feverish or would be soon. It would happen eventually to anyone forced to reside in a basement naked. What a fool he was.
Finally all was in readiness; Watson took a dressing gown down with him. Holmes was asleep. Watson reached behind him to unlock the chain, but it wasn't there. He frowned and removed the handcuffs, feeding one of Holmes' arms into the dressing gown. Holmes woke when Watson sat him up to put his other arm into something warm and soft; he looked around in confusion.
Watson shushed him. "It's all right. Can you walk?"
"I think so."
He could, and while the stairs were a challenge, he managed them. It was a relief to sink into the bathwater, though, and Watson smiled ruefully at his obvious enjoyment. Watson picked up the cloth to start washing him, but Holmes insisted on taking it from him. "I'd rather do it myself, now that I have the use of my arms."
Watson had to agree it would be better for him to exercise the long-disused muscles.
"May I ask you something?" Holmes asked conversationally as he washed.
"Certainly."
"This may sound familiar: do you trust me?"
"Of course I do."
"Have I ever refused to explain to you the logic dictating my actions?"
Watson hesitated. "No."
"Why, then, didn't you allow me to explain why I could not tell you I was alive?" His voice was gentle but unyielding.
Watson remained silent.
"I understand why you are angry. But your anger is based on incomplete information, and it is evident that you do not trust that I had my reasons -very good reasons- for allowing things to pass as they did." Holmes sighed and leaned back against the edge of the bathtub, wearied already by the exertion. Watson took over and washed his hair and back, then helped him out and into a towel.
Watson's nightshirt felt strange against his skin, and not only because it did not fit properly. He had spent so long without clothing that wearing anything at all felt oddly restricting.
The conversation didn't resume until Holmes was ensconced in the guest room bed. "You miss her terribly."
Watson abruptly stopped fussing with the bedclothes. "Yes," he admitted softly.
"You did not look quite well when I came, and now . . . this sort of behavior doesn't suit you." Holmes briefly ran his fingers down Watson's cheek. "You're the one that needs feeding up," he added, tugging at Watson's loose shirt.
Watson flushed and looked away uncomfortably.
"Come here, Watson." He opened his arms in invitation.
Watson hesitated, then crawled onto the bed next to him, lying against his side with his head on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes rubbed his back and ran his other hand through Watson's hair.
"It was to protect you, you and Mary. Moriarty chose his closest henchmen for their ruthlessness, and if they so much as suspected you knew anything about my whereabouts, you both would have been in grave danger."
Watson hardly dared to breathe. It made perfect sense -Holmes' explanations always did- but such a thought would never have occurred to him.
"I am most sorry I could not write, dear Watson. I wished to, but the likelihood of causing you to come to harm was too great."
Watson made an inarticulate noise into Holmes' shoulder and pressed himself closer to him. "I'm so sorry," he choked out, feeling his heart break as he realized just how wrong he'd been about everything.
Holmes' arms tightened around him. "There you are," he whispered, stroking Watson's damp cheek. "There's the old Watson. I'd hoped he wasn't gone entirely."
Silence fell, and they were quiet so long that Watson thought Holmes might have fallen asleep. He had to slide up a bit to see Holmes' face, and when he did, Holmes was looking at him fondly.
"Can you forgive me? I have behaved abominably," Watson said, shame and regret nearly overwhelming him.
Holmes laid a hand reassuringly on his cheek. "All is forgiven, so long as you don't do anything like it again," he said with a small smile.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Watson said vehemently.
Holmes kissed him. "Sell your practice and come back to Baker Street," he murmured. "Mrs. Hudson and I can get you looking more like yourself, and I just might let you feed me once in a while, too."
Watson pulled away and looked down at him with disbelief. "You seriously expect me to believe that you want me back?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
Watson frowned and felt Holmes' forehead for the fever that was surely raging, to make him say such a thing. "I think you have finally gone mad," he said at last.
Holmes quirked a small smile. "If that were true, confinement would most likely be recommended. Perhaps your actions were merely premature."
Watson drew back, distress evident on his face. "Holmes, please, don't-"
Holmes grasped his hand and squeezed it gently. "There, you see? I am convinced you pose no further threat to me, so why not have my Watson at my side once again?"
As much as he was stung by the wording, Watson had to admit Holmes was right on both counts: he had been a threat, and was no longer.
Holmes was continuing to speak. "Of course, I would not be opposed to you attempting to make amends."
That sounded more like what he had been expecting. "Amends?" he inquired.
"Yes. To start, take off your clothes," Holmes ordered.
His throat dry and his hands shaking, Watson complied. Holmes' eyes followed his every movement. When he was finished, he stood awkwardly beside the bed, awaiting his next command. Holmes didn't seem inclined to give him any further direction, preferring to examine his body with a lascivious gaze. "And now?" Watson questioned finally, his mouth dry.
"Come lie with me," Holmes said, holding up the bedclothes invitingly.
Watson crawled in with some hesitation, but felt more at ease when he realized Holmes was still wearing the nightshirt. Somehow, that made it all right. Holmes slid over to allow him some room and directed him with a hand to his shoulder to lie on his back. He was oddly self-conscious, considering all that had passed in recent weeks, but Holmes' touch was soothing and his expression fond.
"Relax, Watson," Holmes encouraged. "I won't bite." Then his expression brightened, and he added, "On second thought, that is an excellent idea." He leaned over and took one of Watson's nipples between his teeth, licking and sucking until it was quite firm, then he did the same to the other.
Watson had just enough fortitude to be able to object. "Holmes, you ought to be resting. You're not well."
Holmes nipped his chest lightly and spared him an exasperated look. "I have been resting quite enough of late," he retorted, and kissed him deeply, then renewed his efforts elsewhere.
Watson writhed beneath him. That mouth would be more than sufficient to drive him quite out of his mind, but then those clever hands were playing him like a violin, effortlessly finding each exquisite note of pleasure and rapidly tuning him nearly to the breaking point.
Holmes watched with satisfaction as Watson gasped and panted, then decided to try something. He slid down a bit and, watching Watson's face the entire time, he leaned over and tongued Watson's navel. The results were most rewarding: Watson stiffened and came with a shout.
Watson's awareness returned slowly, starting with the recognition that Holmes was still pressed against his side, the nightshirt hitched up around Holmes' waist. Then realized he could feel Holmes' cock, hot and hard, slowly thrusting against his thigh. He really ought to something about that.
Holmes was startled when Watson abruptly shifted them so he was on his back. Throwing back the damp sheet, Watson cupped Holmes' sac in one hand and took his cock in his mouth. Holmes moaned under the ministration of Watson's tongue and hand and quickly reached his own release; Watson's mouth remained firmly around him, sucking gently, until he was quite spent.
Watson spared a moment to pull the quilt out from the mess of bedding before lying down next to Holmes again. Holmes sleepily curled up against Watson as Watson arranged the quilt over them. "So will you come back to Baker Street?" he asked idly, sliding his arm over Watson's chest.
"Yes, I'll come. I don't know how quickly I'll find a buyer for the practice, though," Watson admitted, already fretting about the likely delay. Now that he had Holmes back he didn't want to live apart anymore. Ever.
Holmes pressed a kiss to his neck. "You needn't worry about that. It will be arranged."
Watson instinctively wanted to object to having this 'arranged' for him, but if it meant everything would be taken care of more quickly, that he would all the sooner be at Holmes' side where he belonged, the how didn't matter. As long as it happened, he would be happy.