A/N: Written for a prompt from the shkinkmeme community on LiveJournal.

_Sight to Behold_

I have always thought Holmes an attractive man. Others might perhaps call him striking, though his nose is too hawk-like, his forehead too high, and his face too lean for him to be judged truly handsome. But they do not see him as I do. I am captivated by the emotion in his eyes, the way his lips curl in a wry smile when he is amused, the fondness apparent in his expression when he looks at me-and that is just his public face. His private face is mine alone and I cherish the way the hard lines of his stoic mien melt away, the way he laughs quickly and deeply at my jokes, his utterly content look when we are in bed.

Time has not left him unchanged, of course, any more than I can claim to be in the same physical condition as when we first met. His thick dark hair is shot through with silver. Some of the sharp angles of his face have softened even as some lines have become permanently etched into his skin. I confess I feel pride whenever I note that the laugh lines are deeper even than those worn in his brow from intense thought, for I know I am largely responsible for his laughter.

One change recently wrought by time that Holmes himself refuses to admit is the weakening of his once-keen eyesight. The change isn't obvious to a casual observer, for he can carry out his daily activities uninhibited; it is only when he attempts to read that the alteration is evident.

He squints and peers, moving the paper this way and that, forward and backward, until he finds some acceptable placement where he can read the cramped print. Unfortunately for the morning paper, these exercises usually result in a corner or an entire edge being dragged through his breakfast, leaving it in a less than ideal state for my turn at reading. Holmes has long had me read the mail aloud, and so he neatly sidesteps the issue as far as his correspondence is concerned. He has left off reading monographs almost entirely, though I am uncertain whether it is due to his eye troubles or merely that he has already read everything that we own and no recent titles have caught his interest.

I waited for at least six months, watching him struggle with the paper and frequently providing relief for the headaches that followed, before I gently suggested he consult an optician. He was having none of that and waved away my objections with a huff of exasperation. I continued making the suggestion whenever an opportunity presented itself, hoping he would feel compelled to go just so I would stop mentioning it.

As it happened, he continued his refusals until his sight caused him embarrassment in front of Lestrade-he was examining some documents in connection with a case and did not realize at first that they were, in fact, upside-down. (To be fair, the handwriting on those pages was poor and it was quite a mess no matter which way it was turned.)

Holmes had an appointment with an optician the following afternoon. I offered to accompany him but he refused, looking much like a man headed to his own execution as he departed our rooms. He was gone for several hours and was in a mood very like a sulk upon his return. When I tried to ask about how it went, he would steer the conversation to a new subject or refuse to answer at all. So I stopped prodding and let him be-living with Holmes for so many years has given me a good sense of when to insist and when to refrain and this was definitely a time to refrain. I can only guess that his considerable pride was smarting from the indignity of needing something as mundane as spectacles.

Several days later there was a card in the morning post for Holmes, announcing that the optician was ready to do a final fitting. As soon as I read the text Holmes snatched the card from my hand and tossed it quickly into the fire. I asked teasingly what he had gotten, not expecting a reply and not receiving one.

Holmes disappeared for about an hour right after tea; it did not take a detective to deduce that he had put off the return visit to the optician as long as possible that day but had finally decided to bite the bullet and finish the task he had started. I burned with curiosity but managed to remain in my chair, quietly reading, even as I heard his tread upon the stairs.

A small leather case landed in my lap and Holmes turned away again to hang up his coat. I glanced at him, then carefully opened the case. "Why, Holmes, now you have your very own pince-nez!" I teased, recalling that investigation from several years back where one of the vital clues was a woman's gold pince-nez. "Though, of course, your glasses aren't nearly so strong," I added, carefully peering through the lenses at him.

Holmes scowled as he cast himself into his armchair. I put the glasses back in the case and returned it to him. "Are you going to wear it on a chain?"

"No," he said shortly, dropping the case onto the table beside his chair. "I do not expect to need them that often."

"Well, go on. I want to see how you look in them," I urged.

He sighed heavily but did as I asked, setting the pince-nez on his nose somewhat awkwardly. He fidgeted in his seat, visibly reluctant to meet my gaze, but finally he looked up and my breath caught.

He looked magnificent. The silver mounting for the lenses was, to my eye, a pleasing complement to his coloring. The lenses, though not strong, seemed to concentrate his piercing gaze and I was transfixed.

"You like them," Holmes said dryly after several moments of silence.

"They suit you very well," I said lamely, trying desperately to determine what it was about a simple pair of glass lenses that made me want to kiss Holmes senseless and then ravish him. It had been some time since I'd felt such a sudden wave of lust.

Holmes continued staring at me while I stared at him and I thought surely he had noticed my overwhelming reaction to his eyewear. "You look older," he said, sounding surprised.

Taken aback, it took me a moment to respond. "Time happens to us all," I said lightly.

He frowned. "But if I was not aware of that, what else have I failed to notice?"

I rose and went to him, insinuating my knees into the space between his thighs and the sides of the chair so I straddled his lap. "Now that you can see properly again, you have the opportunity to find out." Before he could say anything more, I leaned forward and kissed him deeply.

Holmes sighed and his hands cupped my face, fingers lightly stroking my skin as if he intended to learn my newest wrinkles by touch. My own hands went to his chest, smoothing over his shirt and dipping beneath his waistcoat to circle his nipples.

We occupied ourselves in this fashion until Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and inquired when we would like our dinner. "In five minutes, if you please, Mrs. Hudson," I said quickly.

The good lady agreed readily and returned downstairs. While I extricated myself from the chair and stretched my stiff knees, Holmes put away the glasses and straightened his clothing.

After dinner Holmes set about reading the paper with the aid of his new eyewear. I watched, curious about the lenses' effect on his sight and still enamored with how he looked in them. He was able to read without the usual twitching and angling, but when he finished, he removed the pince-nez and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?" I asked sympathetically.

"The words seem almost too clear," Holmes said.

I wanted to tell him it wouldn't be such a dramatic adjustment if he'd take care of it months ago, but I bit my tongue. Instead I persuaded him to take a mild painkiller and go to bed, where I set a warm cloth over his eyes, then laid next to him, tucking an arm over his chest. I dearly wanted to resume where we'd left off earlier, but Holmes was tense under my arm and I knew he wouldn't be receptive. I contented myself with the feel of his bare skin against mine.

When I woke the next morning, Holmes had already risen and I could hear the clink of his cup as it was returned to its saucer. I got up and threw on my dressing gown, deciding not to concern myself with clothes just yet.

Holmes was seated at the table, the morning paper obscuring his face. He must have heard my approach, for the paper lowered and he smirked at me over the top edge. In that moment I observed two things: Holmes was wearing the glasses, and he, too, was naked beneath his dressing gown. I was immediately and achingly aroused.

I crossed the room quickly, bent over so I could whisper into his ear, and said, "Sherlock Holmes, do you have any idea what seeing you in those does to me?"

He set the paper down and blatantly, almost leeringly, looked me up and down. "I have an idea," he said blandly, pushing his chair back from the table, "But if you would like to demonstrate, I am amenable."

I kissed him eagerly, pushing the loosely-tied dressing gown from his shoulders. He in turn grasped my hips and pulled me toward him so I was straddling his thighs, our groins tantalizingly close. My dressing gown was soon dangling from my elbows and I impatiently shook my arms free; Holmes was already disrobed and wearing only the pince-nez. I rocked my hips against him but the angle was unsatisfying and I had something else in mind.

I carefully inched my way off his lap and urged him to stand. I was gratified to see he was just as aroused as me. He read my intent without a word spoken and headed to the settee while I retrieved the oil from the sideboard cabinet.

I found Holmes draped enticingly on the settee, stretched out on his back with one leg bent and resting against the cushions and his other foot braced on the floor. He looked at me with half-lidded eyes-the lenses intensifying the look that could already bring me to my knees-and shifted his hips suggestively, his cock standing proud and practically begging for attention. I was more than happy to give it.

I knelt between Holmes' spread thighs and leaned forward without touching him to give him a quick peck on the lips. Then I shifted back and took his cock in my mouth while I slicked my fingers with the oil.

Holmes groaned as I licked and sucked and his hands cradled my head and tightened in my hair when I slipped a finger inside him. The preparation did not take long and soon enough I was ready to finally follow through on what my body had wanted hours earlier. Holmes murmured protests when I pulled my mouth away.

I, too, braced a foot on the floor as I moved into position, then took a moment to breathe and kiss Holmes gently before abruptly pushing into his waiting body. The rhythm I set was hard and fast and Holmes met me on every stroke, hugging my side with his raised thigh to draw me that much deeper. I kept my focus on his face, the thrill of watching him come apart piece by piece urging me on. He climaxed almost as soon as my hand grasped his waiting cock; I managed two more thrusts before I joined him.

Both of our chests were heaving and glistening with sweat when I finally lifted myself off of him. "How was that for a demonstration?" I asked mischievously.

Holmes smirked. "It proved my hypothesis was correct."

"What, that I find you even more irresistible in your glasses?"

"More or less."

"Can it really be a hypothesis if you already know it's true?" I teased.

.

If I had expected the effect of the glasses on me would lessen as I became accustomed to seeing Holmes in them, I was proven incorrect. I spent a good deal of time trying to shift my trousers to a more comfortable position around a sudden erection and attempting to hide the fact that I was aroused from anyone nearby, especially Holmes.

It was embarrassing, the way I was reacting like a pubescent boy, and I frequently had to resort to relieving myself; I did not wish to disturb Holmes with my constant need, his inclination toward sex being highly variable and never as robust as mine even before this.

My humiliation was complete one afternoon when Holmes was embarked on a case and we were in a carriage, going from the library to the client's house on the outskirts of the city. Once we were underway, Holmes moved to sit next to me, sliding close, and reached out to caress me through my trousers. (Holmes at the library had always been a remarkable sight and the addition of the glasses to the scene was more than I could stand, case or no.)

I blushed and tried to move away, but he had pinned me between his body and the wall of the carriage. "Holmes, please, you're making it worse," I protested, squirming.

"With your permission, I intend to make it better," Holmes said. "You have, after all, been depriving me of many opportunities to fully appreciate the effect I have upon you."

I realized I had been a fool to think he hadn't noticed despite my efforts to be discreet. "Is there enough time?" I murmured, my throat suddenly dry.

"Yes," Holmes said confidently. Taking my question as permission-which it was-his agile fingers rapidly undid my flies and exposed my cock. He nudged my legs apart then, in a rapid motion, sank to his knees on the floor of the carriage and took me into his mouth.

Then, well, suffice it to say I was quite overwhelmed

We did indeed have more than enough time for Holmes to see to my need and to straighten up afterwards; by the time we disembarked, the only clue to our activities was a weakness in my knees.

After that Holmes developed a system by which to signal that he would attend to me at the first available opportunity or that I should handle the matter myself. It continued to fluster me that the sight of Holmes in glasses was such a remarkable stimulant, but for the most part Holmes was gracious about it. Sometimes I thought he wore the pince-nez specifically to elicit a reaction from me, but of course I could not prove that. On other occasions he would tease me good-naturedly about it, then take me to bed and let me have my way with him, which we both enjoyed very much.

Sometimes I wonder if Holmes regrets waiting so long to have his eyes examined in the first place.