"I'm bored, Holmes."

"Oh do stop complaining. It was you who insisted we took a holiday; the least you could do is sit patiently and let me enjoy myself."

"I've been sitting patiently for two hours! You haven't caught a single fish yet."

"Patience is a virtue, dearest Watson."

"I'm certainly not feeling very virtuous."

The words earned only a smirk from Holmes before his attentions were turned back to the river and the fish within that fairly refused to bite. Watson's arms crossed with a small huff of resentment. It was true that he had wanted to holiday with Holmes, and it was true that he had dragged the detective against his will to the small farm house in Cornwall that they were now occupying. He had, however, intended that their holiday might be spent with more... coupling activities.

Had he known that Holmes would take such an interest in fishing, he would never have suggested it. His ploy to attract Holmes to the secluded river banks had sorely backfired. Still, Watson saw no reason why he couldn't get what he wanted. A carefully planned decoy. That was all that was needed.

With a small smile the doctor came to kneel behind Holmes, his lips finding their way to the detective's neck; nipping and sucking and then kissing the purple love bites that promptly formed.

"Watson... I really must protest."

Holmes spoke the words, yet his voice was low, lustful, and his head tilted to the side - granting Watson greater access.

"Protest all you want, Sherlock."

Watson's hand snaked its way around finely muscled abdomen, untucking clean(ish) white shirt and pressing to flat stomach.

"Mmm. We'll... we'll be seen, Watson. Really."

"There's nobody here to see us. Trust me."

His hand ventured lower still, undoing the buttons of Holmes' trousers when he came to them. The detective was still tense, unwilling, but Watson felt the shorter man relax against him with a low moan when his experienced hand pressed to Holmes' semi-erect member through his under shorts. His hand rubbed in small circles, teasing the other man's member to hardness before wrapping his fingers fully around it and beginning a rhythm of slow, firm strokes.

Holmes' head dropped back against the doctor's shoulders; eyes closed, breathing slightly too heavy. Watson marvelled at the sight. How long was it since he had seen Holmes just let go? Even in the confines of Baker Street, locked in their bedroom, there was always a tension to the detective that Watson longed to see dispelled. That was the reason he had bought them away to the country, to see this, to see Holmes finally relax.

His own erection was hot, heavy, trapped in his trousers and pressed against Holmes' back, yet Watson ignored it. This was about Holmes, about pleasuring the detective and showing him that it was okay to just feel. So, instead of taking his own pleasure into consideration, Watson pressed his lips to Holmes' exposed neck, jaw line, cheek; any part of the handsome detective that he could reach. All the while his hand continued to stroke with a firm rhythm that had Holmes biting pretty pink lips against gasps and moans.

Eventually, after an immeasurable amount of time, Holmes became undone; spilling himself over his own thighs and Watson's hand with a shuddering cry of the doctor's name.

For several long the minutes the moment was perfect, Holmes' eyes closed , head lolling on Watson's shoulder until a splash reminds them both of the abandoned fishing rod lying at the detective's side.

"Watson!" Holmes' eyes widen, incredulous. "You've made me miss my fish!"