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It wasn't difficult for me to realize that Watson's hearing was the one sense he trusted and used the most. At least as much as his seeing, wich is very unusual. At first I though Afghanistan taught him to trust his hearing; finding where the enemies were hiding, and where his patients felt most pain. But then I noticed he used this sense while in bed as well.
The first time he bent me over my desk I was worrying not crying out too loudly to realize he has his ear pressed to my lower body, making some impressive contortion. He was hearing what was going on inside me. I only realized it the third time he did so; but I think that whatever he was hearing was more of his imagination than any real sound. Yet, I wouldn't be a proper genius if I didn't have good ideas when they are needed; and pleasing Watson asks for my best ideas.
--Watson's POV
I came home and found a note over the table: “I'm ready for you”. I frowned, what he meant by that? Usually he was always “ready” for me, but if he did wrote me a note, probably he had pulled up some trick. Curiosity made me leap upstairs quickly, and I stopped in front of my room's door to listen.
A breathy moan welcomed me, and I gulped, feeling my trousers getting tight. Another moan, deeper this time, and a soft whisper of skin brushing linen. I knew Holmes knew I was there – probably the shadow under the door or the sound of my steps – but the sounds kept coming from the other side of the door. I can't recall getting this hard this fast, and I shoved the door open. If I thought I was hard before, I changed my mind when I saw him.
He was lying on our bed, like on a display, his strong legs opened and his fingers sliding in and out of his body. His skin was shining with sweat and oil, his usually unruly hair was completely messed, his scruffy face tinted red and pliant. His free hand was pressed to his lower body and it took me a second to realize he was holding the end of a stethoscope there, the earplugs in his ears.
“Watson...” he moaned, eyes closed and voice low and sweet.
It took me three steps and less than five seconds to get rid of my clothes and jump over him with the ferocity of a beast. He shivered when I pressed my full body against his. He was smelling like vanilla oil and tobacco, forever the smell of sex for me. I attacked his mouth hungrily, sliding my tongue in and out like I was fucking his lips instead of simply kissing him. As I kissed him nonsensically I slipped one of my fingers inside of him, side by side with his own, he groaned loudly and I drank in that sound, twisting my finger inside him creating an obscene noise of slick and wet flesh meeting and pressing.
“This sounds good” he moaned and with surprising dexterity for someone with three fingers shoved up inside him, he managed to slip the earplugs into my own ears. There was a sudden silence when all I could hear was my heart and the blood rushing in my veins, but then he moved his hips and I heard that same obscene noise but much higher now. I groaned and bit my mustache trying to focus on something other than that sound, but he seemed obstinate in making more and more noises. Moaning and humming and fucking himself in our fingers, creating a very distinct sound that went straight to my already weeping cock.
I removed our fingers from him and, with more force than I would ever admit, shoved my erection inside of him; his slick and loose muscles allowing my entrance with nothing more than a soft sound of skin against skin that sounded too loud for me.
“You like, it, don't you?” he was biting my earlobe while speaking close to me. “You like hearing what your rigid and blunt manhood does inside me, don't you?”
I wished I could have a good reply, but I was busy trying not to come right there and than. I bit his shoulder and thrusted harder and faster, fueled by both the sounds pouring from his lips but also by the ones coming from the stethoscope; the ones we couldn't avoid or negate. The ones that proved this was real and not some dream.
In Afghanistan I could tell dreams from reality because they sounded differently.
“If you keep going like this, this game will finish way too soon” he said, his voice a vestige of what it would sound in other situation.
“The sooner this finish, the sooner we can start another round” I managed to say, yet I knew that it would be too intense for another round. He knew it as well, but didn't retorted.
He tightened his muscles around me and started moving his hips frantically. He was, as always, right: we came way too soon. I closed my eyes and the world narrowed to the tight heat around my cock and the sounds we were making. I came rather forcefully, shaking all over and he came right after me, spilling hot and messily between our bellies.
We collapsed, breathless and sweaty; I brought him closer to me, wrapping my arms and legs around his strong form. The stethoscope was still in my ears and it felt right over his heart. It was beating insanely, hammering his ribcage and echoing in my ears.
That sounded real and beautiful and I happily fell asleep to that sound.