Author's note: This was written many months ago for a prompt on the LJ kink meme for "punishment sex" between a jealous Watson and a cheating Holmes. The setting for this story is sometime before the first movie.
Warnings: Per the prompter's request, the sexual content is very rough and features some manhandling and name-calling. Watson in this story has a rather violent dark side, while Holmes has... a different darkness.

Disclaimer: These incarnations of Holmes & Watson are the property of others. This story makes no money whatsoever.

"Just popping out to buy more tobacco," I repeat Holmes' words of an hour ago as I stare out the window. I tried to believe them then as I try even harder to do so now as I clench my hands on the window frame. "Where is he?" I ask the glass of the window. Give him to me.The words are as useless as the inchoate mental flames from which they smoke. The panes, rendered semi-opaque by the comparative darkness beyond them, only give me a vengeful ghost of myself.

"He wouldn't." Not again. Not after the last time. My image in the glass gives me back my disbelief, mocking me, stoking the growing anger within me. That's what you told yourself the last time,the jeering specter whispers.

My hands tighten their grip on the woodwork as the rage within me bursts into full flame, dizzying me with its heat in my face and its roaring in my ears.

"Not again." I cannot hear the words - a dark promise this time, rather than an impotent denial - but I can feel their roughness in my throat... taste their bile on my tongue.

Senses so consumed at the moment, I almost miss the sound of the door to the street closing, the shuffle of feet on the stairs. Even with a faint penetration of these sounds into my consciousness, I cannot master myself enough to turn from the window.

"Watching out for me, Mother Hen?" Holmes says as he closes the door behind him.

Slowly, I turn to face him. "What took you so long?" I hear a tremor in my low voice and feel that same violent vibration in my hands when I unclench them from the window frame.

"It hasn't been more than fifty-five minutes." His cool reply and his unperturbed motions as he peels off his wrinkled waistcoat do nothing to quell the anger that has spread now to boil in my gut. "You don't realize what a trial it is to find decent Shag at this hour."

Cheating whore, the flames in my mind hiss those words as they feed on the suggestion in his reply. Shameless slut.He doesn't try to hide it. His latest betrayal is there in his words, in the tangle of his hair, in the entire dissipation of his appearance.

"Watson?" He asks as if the answer were in doubt. He parts bruised-looking lips to say more as he tilts his head to the side, revealing a livid mark on the side of his neck.

SHAMELESS, CHEATING WHORE!His words, the room... everything is engulfed in an inferno. When it abates, I find myself on the other side of the room, my body pinning Holmes face-first to the door, my hands already ripping away his shirt. "Who was it?" Some distant corner of my mind is frightened by the growl of my words, the violence of my actions, but it shrinks further away as my eyes take in the guilty imprints of lips, teeth, and nails that litter Holmes' back.

"I say, doctor, this is a bit rough for a medical examination." The harsh quaver in his otherwise smooth voice, the odd fires in the eyes he coolly narrows as best he can in my direction... No part of me can recognize their meaning, except that my animal rage knows it is not the submission it requires. "If this is your bedside manner, you can hardly blame me for your dwindling prac- Mmph!"

I press my left forearm hard against his back, thumping him again into the door and knocking wind and words out of him. "Who was it!" I repeat, impossibly more savagely, as my right hand begins work on his trousers. "A woman? A man?" The smell of sex, sickly sweet like rotting fruit, rises in the air as his lower garments fall away. That odor, and the sight of his marked and stained body, arouses me even as it disgusts me. "Another whore?" A shudder passes through him, whether at my words or at the stinging slap of my hand against his backside I do not know.

"Does it matter?" He asks the worn grain of the door.

"No." Whoever his partner (Partners! the beast of anger in me howls, smelling both male and female on him) was, it was not me. "Yes." It was not me.

"It's all the same in the end."

"NO!" There is no ambivalence in the negation I snarl at him this time. I push him once more into the door and my right hand grasps his member where it is pressed between wood and flesh, pulls at it roughly, not caring about the scrape of its knuckles on the door. "This," I hiss, wiping the fluid I found upon his cheek. "And this," a growl mingles with the hiss in my voice, masking the sharp intake of Holmes' breath as I forcefully insert a finger into his opening. I draw a second stripe on his cheek with the fluid I find there. Holmes, cheeks flushed with anything but shame and body heaving against mine with his agitated respiration, fades from my vision momentarily as the flames of rage once more try to consume my mind, fueled by images of sordid, shadowy figures laying their hands all over my lover, claiming his body, claiming his seed... Claiming what is mine.

"You're forgetting something that matters very much, Holmes." Somewhere I find coherency enough to begin naming my rage.

"And what is that?" The tremor in his voice, whatever it is, is more pronounced as my knee moves up, levering him up just enough, his legs apart just enough. I take my hardened member in hand - only now realizing how painfully aroused I am - and guide it to his entrance. He shudders again at the contact.

"Who you belong to." With these words, I thrust into him, hard, savagely. My passage, prepared by some other man, is smooth enough and I almost fully encase myself with that first push.

"And just... to whom... am I supposed... to belong?" He is not so glib now as harsh breaths of pain or fear or excitement (not shame, not contrition) punctuate his speech.

His words, their tone, the very ease of my entrance... I cannot answer him for a moment. I growl as I jerk my hips back and then swiftly forward again, pushing further into him. I pull my arm away from his back and grasp his hips in both hands, fingers tightening to bruising strength as I pull him closer, push myself in deeper (deeper than that other).

"Who do you belong to?" I growl the question low against his ear and he shivers against and around me - once at that and again as I bite at the mark I see on his earlobe.

"Mmm..." He bites his lips against a moan, but it hums out his nose. He repeats the noise, louder, higher, as I seek out every mark on his body that I can reach at this moment and replace it with my own.

"Go on," I grunt, pulling my lips away from another reclamation. "Moan like the whore you are if you will not speak." His lips whiten as he presses them more tightly closed. "Whose are you?" I piston my hips harder, shift my tight grip on him farther forward, suck hard at his neck to make a new mark, all my own. Still, I cannot drive the answer from him. "Whose are you!" I move one hand to grasp his dark hair, pulling his face back, closer to mine, as I repeat the question in a snarl. "Whose!" I tug again at his hair.

"You... tell... me..." He gasps out, his brown eyes locked on mine, but unreadable.

"You're mine," I growl, releasing my hold on his hair to pull at his hips again, driving hard into him. Finally, he frees his voice, moaning sweet and high as his passage shudders, tightening around me. "Mine," I repeat inarticulately in time with another thrust, another moan. So close now... So close to reclaiming what's- "Mine!" With a near shout of my possession of him, whiteness other than overheated rage explodes in my head... and into Holmes. I dig my fingers into his hips, clawing them, as I empty myself as deep as I can within him.

"Mine," I whisper as I finally withdraw from him, spent, the beast within me satisfied... but the rest of me feeling hollow as fury and passion drain away.

Holmes sinks to the floor in front of the door and I, having no better idea what to do, follow him.

"Holmes," I call him softly, drawing him into my arms, turning his face toward mine - this time, gently. There is an odd, bright, glazed look in his brown eyes. It looks akin to satiation, yet I can see that my lover has not spent himself. "Why do you do it?" The fires of anger have left behind the dark, bitter ashes of sadness and regret - just as they always do. "Why, Old Cock?" That look dims in his eyes. He does not turn away, but he doesn't answer, either. "You know how much I care for you?"

"I do," he replies softly, after a pause in which his fingers stroke the mark I've left on his neck.

"Then why do you do it? Again and again?" Pain clenches my fists this time: pain all the sharper in the raw aftermath of fury.

He only shakes his head, lips closed against any answer.

"This has to stop, Holmes."

But he simply turns away, eyes briefly betraying something I can only describe as "need" before going opaque, deeper with secrets and darkness than the night outside.

"This has to stop," I repeat, holding him more tightly. Before my rage consumes both of us.

And if Holmes will not stop, then I will have to. Somehow.

And... here's another story that probably seriously pushes allowable content here...