Fic for ob_af: Compensation for a Sense
Apr. 20th, 2014 02:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
methylviolet10b posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
acdholmesfestTitle: Compensation for a Sense
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ob_af
Author:mainecoon76
Rating and warnings: NC-17
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: It is said that when we are deprived of one sense, the others heighten.
Notes: Dear recipient, you asked for something "smutty and/or plotty", and I hope it's fine that I went for smutty this time - to deviate from my usual writing pattern and compensate for the lack of porn in the last round ;) . I wouldn't classify this as "hardcore", though, and I hope you enjoy it!
Betaed by and discussed with [redacted], as usual. Thank you so much!
The quote I used is Lord Byron, from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage".
Compensation for a Sense
My esteemed friend Dr John Watson is a man of many talents. I was aware of the fact before he even agreed to share digs with me in Baker Street, and in the months and years that followed I had ample opportunity to validate my assessment.
There are talents, however, that even my unerring sense of deductive reasoning failed to lay bare.
"Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber," he mutters against the back of my neck, and the sound of his voice permeates the darkness that surrounds us. "Or so the poet says. Be at ease, my friend. Just because the visual sense is lost, it does not mean there is nothing to perceive."
"Your talent for stating the obvious remains as profound as ever," I inform him in my most sarcastic tone, and his low chuckle vibrates through my body.
"That's quite beside the point. You are distracting yourself."
A strong hand traces my bare shoulder, runs across the shoulder blade and makes its slow trail down my spine. I twine my fingers in the blanket I can feel rather than see, fine linen with a delicate stitch that was fashionable around fifteen years ago. I would have observed the fact even had I not seen it earlier when we were led into the guest room of a respected Priory School, a journey we undertook in the interest of the Duke of Holdernesse to investigate the disappearance of his son, and now it is past midnight and so dark that not a shape is discernible even before my own sharp eyes and I cannot stop thinking.
A single finger massages the cramped muscles at the back of my neck.
"Analyzing again, are you? This is not a case, Holmes."
The doctor's voice is low and rich, as sensual as the strong body draped behind mine, and I shiver with apprehension. Images float through my mind, most notably that of a handsome young man with keen brown eyes, a sharp tongue and a ready smile. We never went this far, he and I, and when we parted I assumed that this particular field of experience would remain a sealed book for me.
But here I am, and I should most certainly not be thinking of Trevor whilst I am sharing a bed with the best man I have ever known. Naked, I might add, though it may seem inconsequential as it is too dark to see, were it not for the fact that we are doing so with the very obvious intent of engaging in a sexual encounter.
There are actually very few things of which I am certain at this particular moment.
His body is moved by a soft sigh, but he does not speak again. Instead he lets his fingers continue their apparently idle wandering across my bare body. Up the spine again and to the nape of my neck, tousling through my hair briefly, then busying themselves with my left ear, tracing the shell, gently massaging the earlobe.
I had no idea that my ears are anything close to sensitive.
I contemplate inquiring as to his purpose, but decide against it. He appears to know what he is doing, in any case, and I feel the sensation intensifying in my mind as my brain compensates for the lack of sight. It is said that when we are deprived of one sense, the others heighten. I am a very visual person, even if I am able to tell the age of a hinge by the sound of its squeak and differentiate twenty types of tobacco by smell alone. Yet for the true exertion of my powers, my sight is indispensable. I see and I observe, and I am not whole when my sight is obstructed.
The absence of the visual sense makes my brain latch onto the remaining stimuli it receives and milk them for any information they might convey, and thus even the lightest touch of Watson's fingertips - highly sensitive, but also slightly calloused by the frequent use of a pen - seems to leave a burning trail on my unprotected skin. I can feel the warmth of his body heat, hear the sound of his breathing and the soft noises of night that are carried through the half-open window.
It should need no particular mention that I trust him. We would not be in this situation if I did not. He is, of course, aware that I trust him with my very life, but I am also aware that he will not carry our encounter any further than I wish it to be carried. It was not even necessary to exchange words over this. Our mutual regard we expressed little more than a week ago, and might have done so years earlier if caution and cowardice had not sealed our lips. Tonight Watson is inclined to take our understanding further, to add a physical dimension to the bonding of souls, and I shall follow his lead with the same unerring trust that he usually bestows on me.
If only I could stop thinking.
"Watson," I venture after a moment. "I am not sure that I am getting the hang of this."
"You don't have to do anything," he explains. "Don't deduce. Just observe."
It is as if he had ordered me not to breathe, and I open my mouth to complain just to feel it covered, gently but firmly, by the doctor's strong hand. Moist lips are pressed against the back of my neck, the scratch of a moustache, followed by a wet tongue and a hint of pain when his teeth are digging into my flesh. A new sensation joins the previous when another hand, his left, though that is inconsequential because I cannot see and I am not supposed to deduce, begins to rub circles on my back with a broad, flat palm, beginning at the shoulder blade and continuing to make its way downward. A heavy thigh slides over my own, naked flesh touching bare and sensitive skin, and my body begins to react as my brain registers the sensation - pure sensation for once, not the analyzed result of a fact - as arousing.
Just observe, he said. There is nothing to observe in the visual field, for the shapes of sparse furniture all blend into one, but my senses are brimming with stimulation in a way that almost overstrains my capacities for perception. His touch is hot upon my skin, strong and firm as the hand leaves my lips, trails down my chest and comes to rest on my stomach. It exerts pressure that pulls my body closer towards him, and as a result his entire body is pressed against mine, an onslaught of sensation that signals the warmth of flushed skin, slightly moistened by sweat, strong muscles in his arms and thighs, the coarse texture of chest hair and a hard pressure at the small of my back that signifies his arousal.
More sensation is to be processed: there is the sound of accelerated breathing, his own as well as mine, for the organic process is no longer inaudible but harsh and loud in the silent blackness of our surroundings. A groan, which very possibly originated from my own lips, followed from a deep growling sound as the body behind me shifts so that it almost covers me, pressing down heavily, and the faint smell of sweat and tobacco and Watson's brand of cologne wafts through my senses as he begins to move against me in the universal rhythm that signifies the coupling of two bodies. The hand on my stomach slides downward, clenches in coarse hair for a moment, then closes firmly around my erection, and whatever capacities of deductions I may have retained so far are lost beyond recall. A wave of arousal washes over me, and it takes the last residues of my willpower to stifle my moans and clench my hands into invisible sheets as he pleasures me roughly. The hand working on my intimate parts, the body weighing down on me and moving against me, the harsh breathing in my ear and the smell of sweat and sex and him in my nose all produce a mélange of sensation, the intensity of which I have never before experienced, nor am I prepared to withstand it. It is not like I have retained a sense of time but it seems only a moment before my consciousness appears to fade out and my body is overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure as it comes to completion.
Somewhere at the edge of my perception I am aware of strong arms tightening around me and the stifled sound of a groan as the movements behind me become irregular, and then there is the very peculiar sensation of warm, sticky moisture across my lower back. The body collapses on top of me, and we both remain as we are for a moment, limbs entwined and our combined gasps ringing loudly through the darkness.
Eventually he rolls to the side, and I follow his movement so that I can face him. In the absence of vision I must rely on my other senses to perceive him, and so I raise my hand and trace the outline of his face. I can feel by the movement of his muscles that he is smiling.
"Now, Holmes?" he asks quietly, and there is no smugness in his voice but rather an honest desire for information. "Is this form of recreational activity at all to your liking?"
He is not overly worried. Now that I allow myself to deduce again, I can tell as much by the calmness of his voice and the comfortable way in which he leans his head into my hand. He trusts me as unconditionally as I trust him. While he has clearly enjoyed the experience and I can safely assume that he wishes to repeat it, he will not question my affections for him even should he receive a negative answer. He will not let his happiness, or mine, be influenced by my ability to indulge in sensual pleasures and to willingly relinquish the tight control I usually hold over body and mind.
It is this deduction, more than the physical pleasure he awarded me, that ultimately convinces me.
"Indeed so," I inform him. "It was a most rewarding experience. I would not be averse to further exploration, though I suggest we should limit our activities to Baker Street. We may have to spoil these sheets with a bottle of brandy to conceal the evidence of our doings."
"You are the criminal expert," he points out. "I am confident that you will take care of the evidence in a satisfactory manner."
A strong hand grabs my shoulder to pull me down, so that I come to lie next to him as he lets himself sink into the pillows. It is an altogether unfamiliar feeling to rest beside another body, to be warmed by its natural heat and avoid being inconvenienced by shoulders and elbows that limit my personal space. But another hand finds mine in the darkness, and the quiet that surrounds us is accompanied by the faint noises of nature that awaken in any old building when the rest of the world is sleeping. The even sound of breathing beside me eventually changes into soft snores.
I decide that I may be able to adapt to the circumstances.
Recipient:
ob_afAuthor:
mainecoon76Rating and warnings: NC-17
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: It is said that when we are deprived of one sense, the others heighten.
Notes: Dear recipient, you asked for something "smutty and/or plotty", and I hope it's fine that I went for smutty this time - to deviate from my usual writing pattern and compensate for the lack of porn in the last round ;) . I wouldn't classify this as "hardcore", though, and I hope you enjoy it!
Betaed by and discussed with [redacted], as usual. Thank you so much!
The quote I used is Lord Byron, from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage".
Compensation for a Sense
My esteemed friend Dr John Watson is a man of many talents. I was aware of the fact before he even agreed to share digs with me in Baker Street, and in the months and years that followed I had ample opportunity to validate my assessment.
There are talents, however, that even my unerring sense of deductive reasoning failed to lay bare.
"Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber," he mutters against the back of my neck, and the sound of his voice permeates the darkness that surrounds us. "Or so the poet says. Be at ease, my friend. Just because the visual sense is lost, it does not mean there is nothing to perceive."
"Your talent for stating the obvious remains as profound as ever," I inform him in my most sarcastic tone, and his low chuckle vibrates through my body.
"That's quite beside the point. You are distracting yourself."
A strong hand traces my bare shoulder, runs across the shoulder blade and makes its slow trail down my spine. I twine my fingers in the blanket I can feel rather than see, fine linen with a delicate stitch that was fashionable around fifteen years ago. I would have observed the fact even had I not seen it earlier when we were led into the guest room of a respected Priory School, a journey we undertook in the interest of the Duke of Holdernesse to investigate the disappearance of his son, and now it is past midnight and so dark that not a shape is discernible even before my own sharp eyes and I cannot stop thinking.
A single finger massages the cramped muscles at the back of my neck.
"Analyzing again, are you? This is not a case, Holmes."
The doctor's voice is low and rich, as sensual as the strong body draped behind mine, and I shiver with apprehension. Images float through my mind, most notably that of a handsome young man with keen brown eyes, a sharp tongue and a ready smile. We never went this far, he and I, and when we parted I assumed that this particular field of experience would remain a sealed book for me.
But here I am, and I should most certainly not be thinking of Trevor whilst I am sharing a bed with the best man I have ever known. Naked, I might add, though it may seem inconsequential as it is too dark to see, were it not for the fact that we are doing so with the very obvious intent of engaging in a sexual encounter.
There are actually very few things of which I am certain at this particular moment.
His body is moved by a soft sigh, but he does not speak again. Instead he lets his fingers continue their apparently idle wandering across my bare body. Up the spine again and to the nape of my neck, tousling through my hair briefly, then busying themselves with my left ear, tracing the shell, gently massaging the earlobe.
I had no idea that my ears are anything close to sensitive.
I contemplate inquiring as to his purpose, but decide against it. He appears to know what he is doing, in any case, and I feel the sensation intensifying in my mind as my brain compensates for the lack of sight. It is said that when we are deprived of one sense, the others heighten. I am a very visual person, even if I am able to tell the age of a hinge by the sound of its squeak and differentiate twenty types of tobacco by smell alone. Yet for the true exertion of my powers, my sight is indispensable. I see and I observe, and I am not whole when my sight is obstructed.
The absence of the visual sense makes my brain latch onto the remaining stimuli it receives and milk them for any information they might convey, and thus even the lightest touch of Watson's fingertips - highly sensitive, but also slightly calloused by the frequent use of a pen - seems to leave a burning trail on my unprotected skin. I can feel the warmth of his body heat, hear the sound of his breathing and the soft noises of night that are carried through the half-open window.
It should need no particular mention that I trust him. We would not be in this situation if I did not. He is, of course, aware that I trust him with my very life, but I am also aware that he will not carry our encounter any further than I wish it to be carried. It was not even necessary to exchange words over this. Our mutual regard we expressed little more than a week ago, and might have done so years earlier if caution and cowardice had not sealed our lips. Tonight Watson is inclined to take our understanding further, to add a physical dimension to the bonding of souls, and I shall follow his lead with the same unerring trust that he usually bestows on me.
If only I could stop thinking.
"Watson," I venture after a moment. "I am not sure that I am getting the hang of this."
"You don't have to do anything," he explains. "Don't deduce. Just observe."
It is as if he had ordered me not to breathe, and I open my mouth to complain just to feel it covered, gently but firmly, by the doctor's strong hand. Moist lips are pressed against the back of my neck, the scratch of a moustache, followed by a wet tongue and a hint of pain when his teeth are digging into my flesh. A new sensation joins the previous when another hand, his left, though that is inconsequential because I cannot see and I am not supposed to deduce, begins to rub circles on my back with a broad, flat palm, beginning at the shoulder blade and continuing to make its way downward. A heavy thigh slides over my own, naked flesh touching bare and sensitive skin, and my body begins to react as my brain registers the sensation - pure sensation for once, not the analyzed result of a fact - as arousing.
Just observe, he said. There is nothing to observe in the visual field, for the shapes of sparse furniture all blend into one, but my senses are brimming with stimulation in a way that almost overstrains my capacities for perception. His touch is hot upon my skin, strong and firm as the hand leaves my lips, trails down my chest and comes to rest on my stomach. It exerts pressure that pulls my body closer towards him, and as a result his entire body is pressed against mine, an onslaught of sensation that signals the warmth of flushed skin, slightly moistened by sweat, strong muscles in his arms and thighs, the coarse texture of chest hair and a hard pressure at the small of my back that signifies his arousal.
More sensation is to be processed: there is the sound of accelerated breathing, his own as well as mine, for the organic process is no longer inaudible but harsh and loud in the silent blackness of our surroundings. A groan, which very possibly originated from my own lips, followed from a deep growling sound as the body behind me shifts so that it almost covers me, pressing down heavily, and the faint smell of sweat and tobacco and Watson's brand of cologne wafts through my senses as he begins to move against me in the universal rhythm that signifies the coupling of two bodies. The hand on my stomach slides downward, clenches in coarse hair for a moment, then closes firmly around my erection, and whatever capacities of deductions I may have retained so far are lost beyond recall. A wave of arousal washes over me, and it takes the last residues of my willpower to stifle my moans and clench my hands into invisible sheets as he pleasures me roughly. The hand working on my intimate parts, the body weighing down on me and moving against me, the harsh breathing in my ear and the smell of sweat and sex and him in my nose all produce a mélange of sensation, the intensity of which I have never before experienced, nor am I prepared to withstand it. It is not like I have retained a sense of time but it seems only a moment before my consciousness appears to fade out and my body is overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure as it comes to completion.
Somewhere at the edge of my perception I am aware of strong arms tightening around me and the stifled sound of a groan as the movements behind me become irregular, and then there is the very peculiar sensation of warm, sticky moisture across my lower back. The body collapses on top of me, and we both remain as we are for a moment, limbs entwined and our combined gasps ringing loudly through the darkness.
Eventually he rolls to the side, and I follow his movement so that I can face him. In the absence of vision I must rely on my other senses to perceive him, and so I raise my hand and trace the outline of his face. I can feel by the movement of his muscles that he is smiling.
"Now, Holmes?" he asks quietly, and there is no smugness in his voice but rather an honest desire for information. "Is this form of recreational activity at all to your liking?"
He is not overly worried. Now that I allow myself to deduce again, I can tell as much by the calmness of his voice and the comfortable way in which he leans his head into my hand. He trusts me as unconditionally as I trust him. While he has clearly enjoyed the experience and I can safely assume that he wishes to repeat it, he will not question my affections for him even should he receive a negative answer. He will not let his happiness, or mine, be influenced by my ability to indulge in sensual pleasures and to willingly relinquish the tight control I usually hold over body and mind.
It is this deduction, more than the physical pleasure he awarded me, that ultimately convinces me.
"Indeed so," I inform him. "It was a most rewarding experience. I would not be averse to further exploration, though I suggest we should limit our activities to Baker Street. We may have to spoil these sheets with a bottle of brandy to conceal the evidence of our doings."
"You are the criminal expert," he points out. "I am confident that you will take care of the evidence in a satisfactory manner."
A strong hand grabs my shoulder to pull me down, so that I come to lie next to him as he lets himself sink into the pillows. It is an altogether unfamiliar feeling to rest beside another body, to be warmed by its natural heat and avoid being inconvenienced by shoulders and elbows that limit my personal space. But another hand finds mine in the darkness, and the quiet that surrounds us is accompanied by the faint noises of nature that awaken in any old building when the rest of the world is sleeping. The even sound of breathing beside me eventually changes into soft snores.
I decide that I may be able to adapt to the circumstances.
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Date: 2014-05-18 11:10 am (UTC)Thanks, glad you enjoyed it.
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Date: 2014-05-18 01:30 pm (UTC)Not that we don't get it, in general, but I wanted to make sure.
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Date: 2014-05-18 01:37 pm (UTC)Thanks, in any case!
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Date: 2014-04-20 08:09 pm (UTC)(Thank you, Anon!)
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