whatofthewarts | (no subject)

Off the desk, then. It takes a second or two and he's free, facing him, breathing hard.

"What, though?"

"I must say, I'm growing rather fond of the way you act when you're taking a beating."

"Fine."

Arms folding over his chest, protectively. Then unfolding, readying himself to fight back.

"Go."

Holmes moves less than a second later, with a backfist meant for Sherlock's jaw. He'll follow it with an elbow to his ribs.

He takes each with an exhale, accepting the violence into himself, staggering into his whitewashed wall and reaching out to grab him by the sleeve, pull him in, fouling his range and his strategy, changing everything.

He's got nearly a foot on him in height (Victorians, so tiny) if less weight to him, but it still just feels dangerous, dragging something so feral in so close to his heart and throat.

Edited 2012-07-04 07:43 (UTC)

And it's exhilarating. Holmes has fought tall men before--but none quite so tall as Sherlock. Even the Frenchman had been a good three inches shorter, and that had been the tallest man Holmes had ever seen.

He reaches up to slam the heel of his hand against Sherlock's chin, hoping to momentarily disorient him so he can get the advantage for a hip throw.

It works. Except his knee drives instinctively upwards, against Holmes' thigh, intent on buckling him.

Bastard.

And that works, because Sherlock has been so passive up to this point, and Holmes has no clear idea what his counterpart knows.

He goes down on one knee, hard enough that he'll be hard pressed to get up anytime soon. So he draws his elbow up, to Sherlock's abdomen.

He doubles over, pushing away from him, breathing out a sob. He's still half undressed, now landing in front of him, winded.

Holmes is better able to scramble on top of him, since it doesn't mean standing up, and he pummels him. Chest, ribs, cheeks, jaw, over and over--avoiding areas like his mouth (teeth aren't good to punch), his nose (no need to break it--yet), and throat.

He spits up blood soon all the same, hands lifting up to try to block the blows raining down on his head and face, sobbing for breath. And then just sobbing.

Holmes slows when his knuckles are bleeding and his arms are exhausted and Sherlock begins sobbing. He, himself, is gasping and sweating and he has never, ever, felt like this before. It leaves him as high as laudanum, and shaking and cold and terrified as well.

He controls himself, barely, looking up at him with red eyes and tight hysteria, bruised and trembling and afraid once more.

His lips part, a careful, needy invitation.

It's a final, narcissistic blow when Holmes lets himself all but collapse on Sherlock, kissing him with the same madness that he had beaten him.

He returns his kisses, wrapping one careful hand (the one whose wrist doesn't feel like it's on fire) through his hair, tears sliding down his temples.

He needs the contact, the feel of Sherlock's mouth against his. He can feel his breathing, the way it hitches ever so slightly with those tears.

There isn't anything overtly sexual about it when he realizes he also needs Sherlock exposed, naked, to be able to touch the bruises he can't see yet.

They haven't come in anything other than gentle red yet, even as pale as he is, but the swelling is obvious in certain places. He fights feebly against him, to keep what's left of his clothes on. Nothing comes easy.

Holmes hits him twice more as he gets his shoes and pants off, but he's quick to kiss him, too.

At least, until he's naked. Then Holmes takes it in his head to find a mark on Sherlock's chest to bite. It's not quite as vicious as the violence of earlier; he's testing.

Each kiss settles him, with choked whimpers. The bite sets him moving, the way he had with the pressure points, jerking underneath him like a live wire.

"I'm afraid I made a miscalculation."

Holmes tells him this after he can't decide which he likes better: those whimpers, the vulnerability of kissing himself, or making Sherlock writhe.

"You aren't the least bit dulled by the modern world. But as it is now, I am not certain what part of you to explore next. I think I shall defer to your instinct."

The rather cruel pressure of his fingers eases into something just this side of soothing. It's not kind to have swollen, red marks touched...but at least now it wasn't done to deliberately make them deeper. Now his fingers only lightly brushed them, and his lips just faintly touched Sherlock's.

It's close enough to praise to make him smile with radiant joy (fueled by violent insecurity, obviously, but it's still pretty to look at that smile) and he struggles to catch his breath, to answer him;

"I've never done anything like this."

He doesn't really have instincts, per se.

"Neither have I."

It's a little troubling, actually. Between the two of them there aren't many topics that haven't been covered.

"But judging by your subconscious reactions earlier, I think your mind is ready to begin winding down from such...taxing activity. Might I suggest we try something slower."

Like the kissing had been; only now Holmes's fingers map out the sensitive lines of nerves over Sherlock's collarbones, down his sternum.

He draws in a stunned breath, holds it, waiting for pain, then lets it out slowly, watching him with wild eyes, blown out pupils. Even slight pressure on the bottom rib earns a half shout, where he'd taken one of the meaner punches.

Holmes has no bedside manner to speak of, but he avoids the especially bruised areas once he's determined he hasn't fractured anything dire. He normally has the precise control of a machine, but earlier...he didn't know what to think of what he'd done.

"You seem to respond most eagerly to gentility now."

How curious. Holmes touches Sherlock's hair, the way Mary had done to John after the explosion.

"So we shall endeavor to put you back together now."

"Don't. Don't patronize."

Tight, tears starting up again.

"Finish it."