He will look up at Holmes, see his eyes darken with something more dangerous, more primal than anger. Hunger. He will see Holmes’ bruised, split lips, slightly parted and releasing panting breaths. The strong, rough jaw twitching with suppressed emotion threatening to break free. Will feel the clenching and unclenching of hands on his upper arms, short nails digging into warm fabric and hot skin underneath. Will hear Holmes growl in the back of his throat, Watson. His name uttered as a threat, a curse, a vow, a plea.

*sigh* I wish I could write a screne like that on my own. Splendid. Awesome. I felt like standing in the middle of them - fascinated, rooted to the spot. Don't stop writing. Ever. Love u.