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"Really, Holmes," Watson mutters. "I expect I'll be paying the rent this month."
"You might just say thank you, old boy," Holmes says smoothly, and Watson has to admit, it is rather nice. They're frequent attendees of the opera, but earlier this afternoon, when Holmes had mentioned Don Giovanni, he'd neglected to add that he'd bought out a box on highest balcony level.
"How very fanciful," Watson had said derisively, but he found all of it secretly delightful. Besides, Holmes had used his most convincing look, suspiciously innocent and soft. Some day he'll no doubt realize the true effect it has on Watson, but as of yet he's surprisingly unaware.
The box isn't completely private, but only people on the opposite side of the opera house can see into it, and they're so far away that their clothes blend into the dark, heavy drapes covering the walls. It's a welcome change from their usual digs, pressed up against the sweating masses as Watson tries not to let his gaze linger too long on Holmes's profile. It's almost sickening, the way the music wells up inside of him and presses against his ears from within. It feels a lot like being in love, unfortunately.
"I delight in your fastidiousness," Holmes says magnanimously as they enter the box, "So you may choose your seat first."
Watson likes to distance Holmes from his rotten, wounded side as thoroughly as possible, and he chooses his seat accordingly. Holmes shoots him a look like he knows exactly what Watson's on about, but doesn't say anything.
The tenor's in from Venice, and he's very good, a slight, young thing with cherubian features and a bit of a lilt to his voice. Watson prefers a darker sound, but there's something captivating about this radiant, fair-haired youth, and he can tell that Holmes agrees. Besides, the baritone is uncommonly lackluster tonight.
The chorus comes in, breaking the spell somewhat, and as Watson is catching his breath, Holmes leans over, bright-eyed. "I imagine you had such a countenance as a youth," he murmurs, and Watson suppresses a shudder at the sensation of Holmes's warm breath upon his cheek.
"I've not been so innocent for quite a long time, old boy," Watson says wryly.
"I must say," I'm glad of that," Holmes says musingly. "These delicate blossoms, they are a delight to look upon, but they fade with the seasons, and alas, their charms are without substance. There is nothing to, shall I say" -his tone goes languorous, heavily enunciated- "Latch onto."
His voice feels like a tangible presence, invading the close space of the box and wrapping around Watson until it's difficult to breathe. "How can you be so cavalier about something that would see you thrown in prison?" he asks, shifting in his seat. His leg feels unpleasantly tight, as does the rest of him.
"Not just I, dear fellow," Holmes says easily. "Besides, I'm certain that even you have lost count of my," he chuckles, "Creative interactions with the queen's most assuredly well-intentioned laws."
Watson makes a noise, something like a gasp but almost ruder, and Holmes frowns at him.
"Try not to cause a scene, Watson," he says. "You know how I hate them."
Watson snorts again, more deliberately. There's little Holmes like more than a scene. Holmes ignores him, looking impatient.
"I've seen you break down a door or two in your time, which I rather think the constables wouldn't approve of," Holmes says, tipping his head as if to show his own appreciation of the act, "And I saw you acquainting yourself with our fair tenor's virtues at great length during that rather expansive aria, as well. No, I daresay you haven't anything with which to goad me, not in this department."
"Why are you telling me this here?" Watson asks faintly. He suddenly feels as though everyone in the opera house is listening in.
"Ah," Holmes says thoughtfully. "Now that is a far more interesting query." He turns to face Watson, leaning forward to rest his chin upon his hand. "I hurt you," he says after a moment, and Watson nearly falls out of his seat, because that's the last thing he ever expected Holmes to say.
"I hurt you and I'm very sorry," Holmes says, and all right, that's even more unexpected. Holmes takes his undignified, gaping expression as permission to continue. "I've asked you repeatedly to stay, but it's only just occurred to me that perhaps you did not understand my true motivation for doing so. Alas, I believed I was more than clear, and yet you remain oblivious. Now, old boy, I must confess to being entirely taken with you, in a manner that has no regard for law or wives to be. My sentiments have existed as such for quite some time, but I believed a man of your demeanor would not take kindly to them. Yet your behavior has of late been more than obvious, and I can be silent no longer, please do forgive me. As for the location, I did not believe that our home was an appropriate place for such an uncommon discussion, and I wished to show you a small token of my regard for you."
"Holmes," Watson says slowly, caught between suspicion and something altogether more dangerous. "Are you telling me that you love me?"
"Love you?" Holmes says musingly, "Yes, I do. Desire you? Most assuredly. Now, I fear I may not kiss you in such a very public setting, much as I should like to. However there are alternate outlets for this-" he coughs. "-Tension that has been brewing between us. Watson, if you'll just shift your chair a little closer. These seats are placed abominably far apart."
Watson lifts off his chair, dragging it awkwardly over the thick carpet of the box. Holmes looks intently at him, not motioning for him to stop until the chairs are nearly touching.
"Excellent," He says, once Watson is reseated. "Now, I shall see to these buttons. It's really quite a bother, I'd much prefer if you went without such daunting means of confining yourself, in the future."
"What else would you recommend?" Watson asks dryly, and then his mind catches up to exactly what Holmes is trying to do. "Now wait just a moment, Holmes, you can't just expose a man in a public place!"
This doesn't deter Holmes, whose fingers really are quite nimble for being so poor at picking locks. "Calm down, John, you'll cause a scene," he says calmly, and presses his palm against Watson's erection. "I see your baser instincts are quite in agreement with me, and besides, we have this excellently placed balcony wall to shield your modesty."
"My modesty?" Watson says, and swallows a gasp as Holmes gets a hand around his erection. "I'm more concerned for everyone else."
"Don't worry," Holmes says, and suddenly his voice is quiet, personal. "I'm certain it would be by far the most glorious sight they could ever hope for. You put our little tenor to shame, old boy. You shine like no other." With that, he begins to stroke, long, firm motions that slide down the length of his arousal and leave him bucking helplessly into the touch.
"I- I can't stay quiet," Watson gasps, and reaches for Holmes's other hand, wrapping it around his neck and pressing it over his mouth. Holmes leans closer to whisper into his ear, "Go on, John, use your teeth if you need to. I shan't stop, not when you look so delectable."
He's true to his word, his long, nimble fingers pressing firmly against Watson as his pace speeds up, palming the slick head of his erection before swooping toward the base to cup his balls. His grip is almost brutal in its unrelenting pace, and Watson pulls one of his fingers into his mouth and sucks, just to help hold in the breathy noises that keep slipping out of him.
It's fast, so fast that when he feels the pressure building from within, it's almost as though Holmes is dragging it out of him by force. It's so good though, bucking into the tight circle of his hand and leaning back against his strong, firm arm where it wraps around him. He can't contain the little groans how, and he can hear how much Holmes likes that, the way his breathing speeds up and his hips begin to hitch in time with Watson's thrusts.
Somehow Holmes can see the moment when Watson is about to come, and his hand goes tight around Watson's mouth, sealing in the sound of his release as his hips cant sharply and he spills into the warm, solid circle of Holmes's hand. He strokes him through it, slow, steady motions that have him gasping and hitching into his touch, stopping only when Watson's head drops against a shoulder and he begs for it, the sensation going beyond good and into too much.
Holmes is still gasping beside him, and Watson becomes dimly aware that Holmes's own arousal is still untended. He reaches out a still-shaking hand and picks open the buttons of his trousers, then wraps his hand around Holmes's arousal, as perfect and overwhelming as every other part of his countenance. It takes only a few tight strokes, and Holmes is coming into his hand, almost quiet but for the hiss that he can't quite contain. His eyes press tightly closed and his mouth falls open as he releases, his hips making little stuttering motions as though he isn't quite sure whether to ask for Watson to stop or to keep going. Watson compromises with a slow, gentle pressure, helping Holmes through to the end of his spending.
They stay like that for the length of the soprano's aria, breathing shakily, sticky and pliant and jammed close on the too small chairs with their uncomfortable wooden backs. Watson recovers first, letting out a little laugh and drawing his hand up to feel the flat planes of Holmes's torso. "That is undoubtedly the best apology I have ever received," he says, and turns his head to press his lips against Holmes's throat. The stage is quite dark, now, and it doesn't seem like anyone should be able to see them. Mostly he just can't find it in himself to care, though.
"It wasn't just an apology," Holmes says, gasping as Watson bites at the tendon that runs along the length of his neck. "It was a proposition. Come home, John."
"I've sold all my furnishings," Watson says. "Mary had her own. I haven't anything left, not even a bed."
"Yes," Holmes says thoughtfully. "Mary. You'll have to see about that situation. My proposal did involve the sharing of my own bed, Watson, if you do not find such circumstances too deplorable."
At that, Watson can hardly be as angry about Holmes flippant remark about Mary as he would like to be. Besides, he's hardly wrong. Holmes knows he will come back, now, and that there won't be any more dinners with Mary.
"I think," Watson says, "I should like to examine the premises for myself, to assure myself that they are acceptable. In particular, I shall need to see this bed, for I would very much like to know what charms you believe it holds that would entice me to spend my nights in it. That is a great deal of my time you're requesting, and I must know that it is worth my while."
Holmes smiles, and it's the sort of thing that makes everything else in the room seem dull. "I've always liked the first act better than the second," he says, and offers Watson his arm. "To Baker Street?" he asks, and Watson nods.
"To Baker Street, so help me God."