When Worlds Collide
By Taleya

This was another one requested on the Kinkmeme. Actually requested many times.  There are more than a few fellow Jeremy Brett fans on the meme :D  (If you are on livejournal and wish to come play - and I urge you to do so! -  look for the community shkinkmeme) 

Anyway - faffing done with, I present you Brett!Holmes and Hardwicke!Watson having their merry way with their movie counterparts :D

It was, Watson reflected, a spectacularly singular occurrence.

From the outset, the two Holmes seemed incredibly disparate as they circled each other.  The other Holmes was tall, dapper, the appearance of a marked gentleman, a far cry from the shabby affectations of his old friend.   He moved with an oddly cat-like grace - yes, *feline* was the word, stalking, eyes sharp and studious.  Theatrical.   His Holmes, of course, was no less graceful; but his motions were far less flamboyant, the stalk of a human hunter rather than the sensuous twine of a panther.

 He cast a sideways glance at the other Watson, who was watching the pair with equal fascination.  Well, if anything was a consolation, it was the fact that he himself seemed to have aged rather well.  Delightfully affable, and obviously well respected.  And a hint of the devil playing behind the comfortable façade.

 There was the creak of a chair, then his older counterpart leaned across to him. "I rather get the feeling that we should be providing them some sort of vat to wrestle in," he said conversationally.  "Possibly full of pudding."

 There was a definite look in the other Watson's eyes that he didn't quite approve of. However, it seemed exceedingly unreasonable to allow jealousy to rear its head.  It was however, himself.

 More or less.

 With a dramatic flair, the other Holmes drew up a chair in front of Watson and threw himself into it, forearm resting across the back of it, a single finger pressed to his lips, eyes wide with excited fascination.

 "My dear Watson.  I never realised what an outstanding physical specimen you were in your youth."  

 He was, Watson mused, his Holmes. But distilled. Refined. Maddening mannerisms reduced to mere eccentricities.  Rather than playing the guise of almost idiot savant, he radiated brilliance, sharp eye noting everything and missing nothing.

 It was not quite disconcerting, but far more than hypnotic, the way those sharp eyes studied him, utterly fascinated.  A hand reached out and ghosted down the side of his face, lean, delicate fingers brushing lightly against his skin.  "Ahh Watson, Watson, Watson, I would urge you to eat far fewer of Mrs. Hudson's splendid dinners - it is a sheer crime to hide such features behind the widening guise of a middle aged man."

"And I would advise you to eat far more," Watson shot back. "You would find your physique, as you can see much....improved." His hands hovered at Holmes' waist, fingers twitching with the urge to touch.

 "My dear Watson, I must confess I do prefer this version of you." Holmes sniffed and leaned devilishly further between the older man's legs.  "He at least, shows the proper appreciation for my form."

"I'd happily trade. This Holmes at least seems in possession of some modicum of sanity."

A chuff of laughter ghosted across his face, then Holmes was twisting in his chair, turning to face himself.  "May I assume my dear fellow,  that the laws on buggery are a strict in this world as they are in ours?"

 "Of course."

 "Ah. Then may I also assume from your current posture that such strict morality holds as much weight on your relationship as it does on ours. Capital!" Holmes rubbed his hands together gleefully and turned back to Watson.

 "Holmes..." the tone from the older doctor was a not-quite convincing growl of warning as Holmes ran curious fingers along his collarbone.

 "Oh come now, old friend!" Holmes cried. "We have the unique opportunity to experience both the follies of youth and the experience of age all at once. That is, of course, assuming all parties give due consent."

 "I must confess some certain...fascination." Holmes' voice was somewhat rough as he circled  the older Watson.  "I do however, have the feeling that you are receiving the better half of the deal."

 "Ha! The folly of youth." Holmes' fingers fluttered dismissively in the air. "Look again my young friend, look deeper, as I know you can. You will find my Watson to be most formidable.  And what of you, my young friend? Hmm?" 

 As seductions went, it was oddly lacking and yet, completely Holmesian. Dark eyes were fixed upon his face, gauging, weighing, completely guileless.   If he could tear away from them for a second, he would see his Holmes moving like a shadow into the eager embrace of his older self.

 Watson reached out and stroked a finger across the sharp plane of a cheek, along fine brows, feeling them raise in delighted response.  There really was only one answer to that sort of question.

A hand cupped his face, fingers stroking at his temple and down his cheekbone, fingers lingering lightly at his lips. There was a furious, tempered intensity to the other man, one Watson had seen before, but never directed at him so.   He was the sole focus of existence. A puzzle to be savoured and solved, but the feeling was far more tender, warmed by years of fondness

And he was certainly far more attentive a lover than his own Holmes, who had once rather infamously become so distracted he had pulled out and rushed off mid-act to work further on a particularly perplexing case.

Watson closed his eyes and pulled in a sharp breath as those fingers shifted down to stroke his chest, nimbly sliding apart the buttons of his shirt, merest grazes of skin on skin.   He had never been undressed so thoroughly by any of his lovers, male or female, the act not hurried or frantic with lust but slow, methodical, each movement a seduction in its own right.

 His shirt was lifted from his shoulders and placed carefully to one side, two hands gently caressing the dip of his collarbone, sliding down the centre of his chest to spread across his chest.  He could feel the other man's palms, warm against his ribs; fingers stroking his sides, savouring, adoring.   A breath of pleasure, a sigh, warm against his nipples, the heat of a mouth against the sensitive flesh at the base of his throat.  He heard Holmes - his  Holmes make a soft, wordless moan somewhere beside him and reached out, one hand tangling in his hair, the other clutching at the lean planes of the other Holmes' shoulders.

Those fingers again, exploring along his outstretched arm.  Fingers, then a hand, stroking, caressing, recording every motion, every sensation, followed by the brush of lips.

He forced himself with difficulty to unclench his fingers and reached out, cupping Holmes' face between his hands, thumbs brushing along sharp cheeks and drifting lower, pushing at the other man's jacket until it fell to the floor, diving to work on buttons.  Clumsily, forcing himself to slow and savour, to mimic the motions of the older man, palms flattening against a smooth, pale chest.

Holmes simply waited, kneeling patiently in front of the settee, as he explored, the motion of his hands seeming somehow horribly inelegant in comparison.  A smile hovered about his lips, eyes dancing at him, focused on him, studying him, drinking him in with an intoxicating intensity until his hands were drawn once more up to those delicate high cheekbones, fascinated, infatuated, fingers curling behind Holmes' neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

Distilled. Refined. Those words came back to him again and again. This Holmes didn't make fatuous comments or complain about his moustache. This Holmes wasn't distracted, fluttering, loveably inexperienced, mind working a thousand crossways at once.  He was focused, and all in the world that existed for him was Watson himself.  It was a heady, drunken feeling, being the heart of that focus and Watson moaned into the mouth pressed to his.  He felt a hand skitter down his side, palm brushing lightly once, twice against the mound in his trousers and arched up into it, throwing them both from the settee and onto the floor.  Holmes cradled his head against the impact, sheltering him, controlling the fall, rolling, laying him out; hands at his belt, nimble, unfussed, laying it carefully to one side and working at his trousers.

His hand clutched wildly at the tigerskin rug as Holmes moved against him, ghost-like, delicately divesting him of his shoes, his trousers, his socks, his underpants, fingers dancing, examining, stroking down the outside of his thighs, pausing over the scar from that Jezail bullet, drawing away before returning, gentler, mapping every dimple and ridge from the hasty battlefield surgery, a fond sorrow delicately painting the aquiline features.

"My dear Watson...."  Those dark, liquid eyes drawing him in, drowning him and he clenched his eyes shut against them in a sudden, delicious fear as the hands moved downwards, stroking his calves, his knees, a slow, tender stroke up the sole of each foot.  Committing him to memory, worshipping, cherishing.   Fingers tracing the bony protrude of his ankles, turning, drawing up the inside of his legs, questing, drawing ever upwards.  The world narrowed to a single point, a crux, the feel of those fingers against his skin and nothing more.

Eyes opening with a sharp inhale of air at the feel of that sleek hair against his leg, the lips on his inner thigh, he shoved himself gracelessly upright and clutched at those slender shoulders, shoving at the dapper couture with wild abandon, head bowing to that slim, elegant chest, one hand fisting behind Holmes, twisting in the fabric of his shirt into nonsensical shapes.    He pushed a hand down the other man's waistband, hand moving clumsily, reduced to schoolboy fumbling and was rewarded with an exquisite hiss of air through the teeth gently nibbling his ear.

Encouraged, Watson withdrew his hand, drawing down the lean body.  Holmes lounged against the settee, the finest dusting of hair visible through the opened buttons of his shirt, eyes never wavering as Watson undid laces of his shoes, the fastenings of his trousers, lidding heavily with pleasure, hands draped over his head.

Naked beneath him, this Holmes was all planes and angles, not sculpted nor soft, but different, an ethereal creature to his Holmes' almost warrior-like physique, skin far paler and stretched across bone in starved beauty.  Watson stroked him, softly, almost pettingly, gratified with the way the older man arched at his touch, head falling back in sensuous pleasure.

Ahhh 

It was not quite a vocalisation, not quite an exhalation, utterly exquisite as Watson pressed his lips to the exposed flesh, his ribs, his abdomen, light, gentle, venerating.   His hands caressed the stark arch of Holmes' hips, sliding across the fragile lip of skin between thigh and groin.  He could feel the other man's erection, firm and proud against his belly, a single pearl weeping from the tip as Watson leaned in to nibble delicately at a smooth brown nipple.    A hand drew down his flank, curling slightly to the side, caressing him as if he were a finely designed thing, worthy of soft, reverent worship.

 The kisses were soft, undemanding, respectful and heady and Watson rocked back, drawing Holmes down on top of him, hands clasped firmly around the smooth upper arms. Chest to chest, he spread his legs invitingly, drawing his knees up around the other man, cradling him.  A tin of pomade rattled to the floor beside them and Holmes dipped his fingers in it, staring at them for a long moment. 

"I must confess," he murmured softly, leaning against Watson, cheek stroking against him like a giant cat. "I have never... that is..." his hand fluttered in unspoken admission.

Watson took those long, slender fingers and drew them between his own legs.   He pushed, gently, feeling them slip inside him and groaned.  The sound seemed to inflame Holmes, making him press his cheek to Watson's, trembling a little.   He flexed his fingers once, twice, breath stuttering and uneven then smoothing as he regained his equilibrium, the trembling motions becoming smoother, surer, gently twisting and scissoring, stroking gently inside him until he jerked and cried out.

He felt the fingers withdraw, then a surprising strength in that lean form as he was lifted, turned, Holmes lying across the rug, Watson on top, feeling his knees rest beside the hollow concave of a hip.  

Those eyes were still watching him, fingers tenting lightly on his hips, cataloguing, lovingly observing, noting every motion, every breath with a gratifying intensity as Watson raised himself, dipping his fingers in the pomade and stroking once, twice down the proud length in front of him before gently lowering himself.  This Holmes was longer, thinner, not as full but strangely satisfying.   It was his turn to watch, feeling those long fingers clutch suddenly at his hips, a shuddered breath, eyes closing in unexpected pleasure.  He began a slow, rocking motion, lifting his hips in gentle motions, palms braced against the other man's chest.  He spread his thumbs slowly over Holmes' nipples as he moved, watching the lidded eyes fly open, dancing with pleasure at the sensation.  "Oh. yes," it was breathed into the air, hands sliding up his back, fingers akimbo, each one playing a delicate adagio on his spine.  Yes, Watson."

Out the corner of his eye he could see his Holmes on all fours, stretched out, like a lazing cat, hands clenching in the carpet, could hear him giggling, laughing, a beautifully joyous sound as Watson murmured something in his ear.  It was a sound of pure delight, something he realised he himself had not heard for a long time and he slowed, movements becoming jerky in shame.

Long fingers touched his chin, bringing his gaze back, caressing his face with a tender delicacy.

"My beautiful boy.  Remember.  He loves you for your loyalty, your wit, your steadfastness.  You are the anchor to his fancies.  And my dearest, most beloved friend.  As you are drawn to his brilliance, so I am drawn to your sanity.  There is no shame in this; none at all.  For all we argue and remonstrate, you are the wind beneath my wings, Watson, the very wind itself."

 Distilled.  Refined. 

Watson leaned forward, the kiss a benediction, feeling the thin lips part beneath his own, the barest exhale of air as the motion shifted inside him, delicious friction.  He began to move again, gently at fist, then more urgently, feeling Holmes move against him, clumsily unsure at first, then with him, finding a rhythm of his own.   Fingers moved against his thigh, his hips, no longer quite delicate and worshipful, but insistent, desiring, high cheeks beginning to flush.   He could feel Holmes against him, inside him, the friction of his own penis against the smooth white planes of the stomach beneath him, maddening velvet and moved harder, faster, feeling the world shift away into a plateau of ecstasy.  Holmes' teeth were tight against his lower lip, hips jerking, hands bruising, pulling and Watson reached the edge of that plateau, tangling his hand with Holmes and dragging the older man with him as he stepped over that edge and took flight.

 The older Watson, for his part, was far from being a casual observer.

Whereas his Holmes was like a finely bred hunting dog, refined, honed, this Holmes was more like a prize stallion, wild, untamed, the refined, fastidious edges broken and scuffed in utter hedonistic delight.  The hair, the clothes, not to be fussed over and groomed, but to be torn and grubbied, flung carelessly aside amongst fevered gasps and wicked motions.

 "Breathtaking..."

 He wasn't aware he had uttered the word aloud until he sensed Holmes' eyes on him, an all-too familiar fond irascibleness at his fancy.   He started to stutter some nonsensical apology, but was cut off as hands grasped his collar roughly, knocking off his hat in an unseemly manner, pulling him down, the scruff of stubble against his cheek as his mouth was plundered, teeth too sharp against his ear.  Fingers stained with chemicals and lord knew what else seized him, clenching his buttocks and pulling him sharply down to grind against in wild rutting.

 Inelegant. Irreverent. Utterly abandoned. His loins actually *ached* with passion.

 Not to say that his Holmes was less than enthusiastic in their endeavours, but part of him always seemed to remain quiet, cerebral, as fascinated with action and reaction as with the act itself.   This Holmes had no such reservations, far more riotous, face flushing wildly and moving clumsily with him, against him, his prick remarkably unrespectable and depraved as it stood firmly between them.

"Mind your blood pressure old man," Holmes teased unmercifully.

"Mind yourself!" Watson snarled back in response, plunging his hands through that riotous hair and tugging the other man's head back, mouth going for that ridiculously enticing throat.  He heard Holmes utter a wild peal of laughter - not a sharp ejaculation of mirth but full bodied, boisterous, and the hands were once more at the back of his head, guiding him, fluttering, twitching in time to the soft groans uttering from his throat.

Even in this, he could see echoes of his Holmes. The sharp mind plotting, planning, figuring moves and responses and Watson delighted again and again at sharply foiling them, over and over until Holmes was wild-eyed and trembling under his assault.

In a shockingly bold motion, the young Holmes reached down and grabbed the front of his trousers. "God Watson. I want you inside me. Now, man! NOW!"

Watson flailed about frantically for some sort of salve, tangling himself in the remains of his shirt.  Holmes scrabbled under the couch for a moment, on all fours, then threw something at him, hitting him in the side of the head.  Pomade?  It would do.  Watson hurriedly coated his fingers and threw the tin carelessly over his shoulder, sliding one at first into the tight, puckered opening before him, then two.

Holmes was rocking back and forth against his fingers as they stretched inside him, making low, guttural moans that were almost his undoing entirely.  He hurriedly withdrew his hand, wiping it carelessly on his pants leg and scrabbled frantically at his trousers, cursing his belt as it slipped through his slick fingers.

"Now, Watson, now," it was a chant, a demand as Holmes rocked back and forth, pushing his backside into Watson's face and wriggling it.  Ripping his belt free with a cry of triumph Watson doubled the belt in his hand and gave the mincing derriere before him a hearty slap with it - something he never would have dared do with his own Holmes.  The younger man threw his head back and laughed heartily at the crack of leather on flesh, the sound ringing through the rooms.

He pushed his penis against the tight ring of muscle, gently at first, but Holmes was having none of that, bracing his arms against the base of the settee and pushing backwards, taking him in a single thrust, the tightness claming around Watson and making him gasp.   His hands fumbled for Holmes' hips, his shoulders, stroking against him, firmer, harder, getting into his stride, almost draping himself against the younger man's back, teeth grating against the exposed knobs of his spine.  

Holmes arched against him, into him, laughing wildly.  "I feel...like I'm being buggered...by a particularly depraved....Sinterklaas."

The statement was so ridiculously at odds with the moment that Watson felt a delighted laugh break from his throat.  "Be a good boy, and maybe he'll leave something in your shoe," he said, rather giddy with the complete impropriety of the phrase and felt laughter shake the firm muscles beneath him.

"Don’t want to be a good boy..."  Holmes rocked back on his heels, taking him in further, deeper, head leaning back against Watson's shoulder.   He pulled his hands away from his own cock as Watson's hand took over, stroking and gasped, straining against him, hands interlacing behind the older man's neck and pulling him down, teeth bared and eyes wild. 

"....want...need....Watso.....fuck."  The last word was deep, growled, and Watson tightened his grip to almost painful proportions, as he stroked, feeling the younger man's hands clench against the back of his neck.  Holmes was wild, sweat-sheened, flushed beyond redemption, teeth driving deeply into his own bottom lip, eyes lidded and flickering with hedonistic pleasure.  He was bucking in pleasure, losing all rhythm, utterly debauched and Watson was lost.  He leaned down, biting almost savagely at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and felt one hand fly from the back of his neck, coming down to clench his thigh painfully, nails digging and drawing blood as Holmes howled, jerking against him, semen spurting madly from his prick in orgasm. 

The sound of that utterly fallen roar, the muscles spasming around his penis were finally too much, and Watson felt himself tighten, losing all control, thrusting once, twice, one arm around Holmes' waist,  crushing against him as he jerked.  "Holmes!"

"Ahh yes...home sweet home." Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. "A bath is first in order I think, and then a hearty breakfast." He clapped Watson warmly on the back and puttered to the door, bellowing for Mrs. Hudson.

"And sleep." Watson all but fell on the couch, arms shaking a little. "A great deal of sleep."

"Sleep? Sleep!" Holmes threw his hands up in the air. "Sleep is for tortoises, my dear Watson!"

"Tortoises aren't known for the sort of thing we just got up to." Watson slumped on his side, burying his face in the cushions. "My god, man," he moaned. "I had no idea you were such a jackrabbit."

Holmes chortled. "Nor I you, my friend. It was most...stimulating." his index finger drew across his bottom lip in reflection. "Yes, most stimulating indeed." He laughed suddenly, a sharp ejaculation of mirth. "I suggest we repeat the experience at the first available opportunity."

"Oh, Holmes...."
 

"Holmes. Holmes." Watson flailed himself out from under a thoughtfully placed afghan. The Great Detective was sprawled naked on the floor some distance away, snoring heavily. He couldn't be bothered crawling over to kick him awake, and fumbled for a discarded boot, limbs loose and heavy as he threw it, making it land far short of its intended target.

"Fna?" Holmes jerked upright, hair scrunched and flattened on one side. "Watson. Gnh.” He crawled over and threw himself gracelessly to the floor beside the taller man, stealing the majority of the covers. “Leave me be, man," he grumbled. "Leave me be, for pity’s sake.”

“Did that all really happen, Holmes?” Watson stared up at the ceiling. “Or was it all just a fantasy?”

Holmes’ hand landed on the end of his violin bow and he flicked it upright, pointing to the ceiling. “Those underpants hanging from the rafters, Watson. They are not mine. Nor are they yours – at least not for a great many more years.”

“So it did happen.” There was a quiet sort of pleasure in that thought, and he felt a smile twitch at the edges of his lips.

They laid there for a moment in content companionship, heads tilted together. After a while, he felt Holmes’ hand shift tentatively under the afghan, clumsily patting his knee.

“My dear Watson. It is of great comfort to me to know that even in your later years you will remain as steadfast, reliable, and incredibly filthy-minded as you are now. A source of great comfort.”

Watson shifted a little to the side, folding his hands behind his head contentedly. “I am the wind beneath your wings, Holmes. The very wind.”

All Content Copyright © 2001 Taleya Joinson
Last modified: November 12, 2010