HOME | DD

Description
Never in all his years, had John Hamish Watson, ex-soldier and doctor, ever imagined that he would be in the position he was now.

He'd imagined he might be dead; it seemed feasible, given first his time in the war, and second his relationship with the tumultuous, unpredictable and downright dangerous Sherlock Holmes.

He'd imagined himself married and happily trundling along to his honeymoon with his dear Mary, maybe even having a short time to relax before Holmes inevitably invaded their peace and quiet.

He'd even allowed himself to imagine, in the quiet of his dullest of moments with Mary, that he might end up in some form of trouble on the train due to Holmes. That had seemed likely but resolutely unenjoyable.

And yet, not once, had the situation he was now in crossed his mind. And here he was, on top of Sherlock Holmes (who was inexplicably dressed as a woman, he might add), with his hat and wife nowhere to be seen, and his head firmly between the detective's long and very, very unclad legs. Oh, and they were probably about to die and yet Sherlock positively insisted on bucking his hips upwards in a way that didn't even have the decency to be remotely ambiguous, and throwing his head back in the most thoroughly distracting way possible with one of the least discrete moans Doctor John Watson had ever heard. And he, somehow, in the depths of his explosions-and-where-is-my-wife addled brain, couldn't bring himself to mind. Sherlock Holmes was, as always, something completely different.

Description
Never in all his years, had John Hamish Watson, ex-soldier and doctor, ever imagined that he would be in the position he was now.

He'd imagined he might be dead; it seemed feasible, given first his time in the war, and second his relationship with the tumultuous, unpredictable and downright dangerous Sherlock Holmes.

He'd imagined himself married and happily trundling along to his honeymoon with his dear Mary, maybe even having a short time to relax before Holmes inevitably invaded their peace and quiet.

He'd even allowed himself to imagine, in the quiet of his dullest of moments with Mary, that he might end up in some form of trouble on the train due to Holmes. That had seemed likely but resolutely unenjoyable.

And yet, not once, had the situation he was now in crossed his mind. And here he was, on top of Sherlock Holmes (who was inexplicably dressed as a woman, he might add), with his hat and wife nowhere to be seen, and his head firmly between the detective's long and very, very unclad legs. Oh, and they were probably about to die and yet Sherlock positively insisted on bucking his hips upwards in a way that didn't even have the decency to be remotely ambiguous, and throwing his head back in the most thoroughly distracting way possible with one of the least discrete moans Doctor John Watson had ever heard. And he, somehow, in the depths of his explosions-and-where-is-my-wife addled brain, couldn't bring himself to mind. Sherlock Holmes was, as always, something completely different.