I think I could spend the rest of my life just like this.
I can hear the tiniest bit of your voice when you exhale against my lips; it's something between a moan and an honest attempt at breathing in spite of what's happening between us. It’s a herculean effort, I know. Because this is incredible. It really is. Do you have any idea what it does to me? Feeling that slick skin on the inside of your lips, then hearing you on the brink of moaning? Jesus. You must know. It's so obvious. You can hear it in my breath too, can’t you. Of course you can.
Kiss me. Yes. Don’t stop.
God, Sherlock. My god. Your mouth.
If I weren’t already so far gone, kissing you would push me over the edge. I don't think it's possible to kiss you and not fall hopelessly in love with you. That's ridiculous, but it's true.
God. Your breath on my cheek; that's all I want.
Well: not all. There's more I want. I can feel it; I can feel the tension in your shoulders, your chest expanding and contracting against mine. I can feel you hard against my hip, too. That's good. That's good, Sherlock. I can feel it. I know you can feel me too, in the exact same state, pressed against you as I am. The tiniest bit of friction across your bare skin when I breathe out, Jesus. It’s incredible. I won’t rut against you like an animal, not yet. Slowly; we’ll get there. I hope. The anticipation is like honey, it’s like heat enveloping me. Christ.
We don’t need any words; it doesn’t take any to work this out. I want you; you want me. It’s so simple, and yet it’s been so complicated for so long. Your tongue is stroking my lower lip. Your hand is resting on my waist. My fingers are tangled in your hair. This is perfect. Christ. My heart is racing. I could stay this way forever.
Kissing you is not like kissing anyone else. It's just not. This is you. There's no one like you.
I'm not entirely sure whether you've kissed anyone before. It's hard to tell. I mean, everyone's different, and the first few minutes are always a bit awkward, but this might be your first. God. It might be. And I sort of want it to be, even though that's ridiculous. It doesn’t matter, really; you don’t bring anyone else with you in a moment like this. Irene, or Mary, or anyone else. It’s just you and me, like we’re new. But this might be your first kiss, and I think I like that. You're mine, Sherlock, you always have been. I want to keep it that way. If it’s not the first, it feels like it anyway, even for me; I feel as if I've finally woken up. I've been asleep all my life until now. I’ve never felt this much for someone before I’d even managed to kiss them. I’ve never felt this much for anyone, full stop.
We should have done this years ago. It would have been all right, you know. We would have laughed more, I’m sure. It would have been bizarre, and funny, and awkward. Maybe we wouldn’t have been as certain. We would have worked it out. We waited too long. We made it mean so much I can barely breathe. Three years without you, Sherlock. I don’t think I ever stopped thinking about leaning over and kissing you. But it was never like this in the fantasy, somehow. You weren’t there, and even the most intense fantasy had an emptiness to it, I can see that now. It was only a sketch, it was an outline. It’s all coloured in between the lines now, full of texture and sound. And smell: your triple-milled soap, toothpaste, coffee, and that underlying rich smell that could only be your skin. Your technicolour skin. I can feel it. Jesus.
Your fingers are shifting against my hip; you’re pressing your fingertips into me. Unconscious movement, maybe. Do you have those? Do you do anything unconsciously? I don’t know. You’re trying to pull me closer, as if that’s possible. It breaks me a little bit, that motion. It answers a million questions I’d never be able to ask. You press your teeth lightly into my lip and I know I’m making incoherent sounds into your mouth. Kiss me, Sherlock. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please.
It was a bit awkward at first, but we’ve got it now, yeah. God. This works. I can't argue with this. I can’t help but marvel at it: you’re letting me do this, it’s like a gift. I can feel the muscles shifting in the back of your neck. You wanted this too. How long? How long has it been like this between us? Did you fantasise about it too? Maybe you did.
Breathe, Sherlock. Your heart is beating faster than mine. It's all right. It's okay. You breathe as if you’re starving for air. I press my lips against your jaw, down along your throat. To your collarbones. So sharp: you're too thin. You've been missing, you've been missed, you know that. I've been absent from you and I can feel it in you; your bony ribs, your waist dips in like a woman’s does, you’re so thin.
God, make that sound again, would you? Christ. The sounds you make are driving me mad.
Your hands on me are tentative. I think you’re not quite sure what to do with your hands. But that’s okay, Sherlock. It’s all right. This is new, for you, isn’t it. It’s new for me too. You’re a man; I’m not used to that. It’s always new at the beginning. It’s all right.
It's not that different, really, when it comes down to it: a body is a body, regardless of sex. I can feel you shiver when I run my tongue over your nipple, that's nice, isn't it? You like that? I hope you do. Yeah: you do. Your eyes are shut, you’re very nearly holding your breath. Breathe, Sherlock. Breathe. I need you to breathe. I kiss you over your heart, because it's still beating, against all the odds. Don't leave me again, all right? Don't. You rest your hand against the back of my head, you stroke my hair. That’s good, yes. You’re shaking a little, aren't you. It's okay, Sherlock. That's normal. Do you know that? That’s just desire. It rattles you sometimes. It’s okay if it rattles you now. I like it.
Fuck.
Yeah, I really like it. I like that I can feel it radiating off of you: that’s desire, it’s shaking you at your core. It’s uncontrollable, have you felt it like this before? The only way to stop it is to turn away, get out of this bed and go back downstairs, but you’re not turning away from me. There’s no denying it, there’s no confusion in it. It’s desire making you needy. I love seeing you like this. That’s for me, and I love it. It’s for me.
Your erection is impossible to ignore, not that I want to. It’s obvious when so little is obvious about you, even at the best of times. It’s a hot siren against me, constantly forcing me to remember that it’s there. It’s foreign and a bit strange, I have to admit. But so clear and plain; there’s no hiding it. No hiding what it means. It’s demanding just in its presence; touch me, don’t stop. It’s evidence. You’d like thinking of it that way, wouldn’t you. That’s how you’d think of it, if you were still thinking in deductions just now; clues, observations, the things that tell the truth when nothing else will. I want this. That’s what it means.
I want you too, Sherlock. So much. Jesus. I can’t even say it, it’s too much. There’s no point in trying. You can tell, can’t you? You can feel it too. It’s so obvious.
Oh god, your mouth: move away for a minute and coming back to it is heaven. Kiss me, Sherlock: yes. God. I'm shaking a bit too. Fuck. We're like kids, here. Virgins. It's the adrenaline, it's our libidos gearing up. Our bodies can anticipate what’s coming even if we can’t. I’ve been dreaming of this. Let me just–
Come here, Sherlock. I want to feel your weight on me a little bit. Come here. Kiss me; let me stroke your back. That's it, that's good. Shhhh, it's all right. I'll never leave you. No matter what. Even if this is the only time, Sherlock. Even if I can only have you just this one time. Even if you stop now, sit up and laugh about it. Or call it experimental. Or think it’s all horribly funny, these things people do with each other. Messy and unhygienic. Sentimental. You can laugh; it’s funny. It's okay. Kiss me; I'll never stop kissing you back, as long as you want me to. God. Your mouth.
Jesus, Sherlock.
I can slip my hands down under your pyjama bottoms. Just a little, the tips of my fingers, a few inches at a time, then slide them back up into the small of your back. I can and I do; I keep my fingers light against your spine. It’s just touch, Sherlock. Just my hands on your skin. Do you like it?
Yeah, you do. You do.
Back down again, past the boundary of that waistband. It’s that singular a border. The difference between friends and lovers, that border. Do you know that? Borders and boundaries mean nothing to you, do they. You want what you want, regardless of customs and conventions. Conventions are for other people, as are the rules of social engagement. And sentiment. So what is this, then? Your heart is beating so fast, and I can feel your lips on my earlobe. You want what you want. Right now you want me. It’s all right. It’s good. Yes. It’s perfect.
I press my hands hard against you. Not a teasing touch there, no. Press down hard and rub my palms into you, and I can feel your cock grind against me. That feels good, doesn’t it? You like that? You’re breathing so hard against my neck, your hands are grasping at my shoulders, your nails are probably leaving red marks across my skin. I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all; it feels good. You’re clinging on to me for dear life, aren’t you. Yeah, I think you like it. One more moan like that from you and I might not need any more friction either, you know. Jesus. Yes: like that, Sherlock. Let go. Don’t think too much. I love it. I want to feel all of you. Make that noise again. Christ. I want to feel you shiver and twist when you come. You’re close, I can feel it. And I haven’t even touched you, not really.
Jesus.
You roll back over onto your back, flat on your back. You pull me with you, you don’t want me to let go. Teeth and lips and saliva; it’s desire making us a bit mad for each other. I certainly am: I’m mad for you, I can’t stop. Your hands are under my t-shirt now, christ. Just flesh against flesh, it’s wonderful. I’m moaning now too, aren’t I, moaning against your skin. I can’t help it. You’re pulling it out of me.
This is nothing like how I imagined it; I didn’t think you would do this, not really. I didn’t think you’d want me like this. Your tongue in my mouth like this: no, I didn’t picture you quite this way. I thought it would be a controlled descent, more experimental, more cerebral. Not like this: this is wild, unsystematic, primal, with that low moan that seems to live in the back of your throat now. It’s beautiful. I want this over and over, you know that. God. I’ve just got started. Sherlock, there’s so much more. I haven’t even–
Oh, do that again, Sherlock. Do that again. Oh god. Your hands. Jesus.
The things I want from you, Sherlock. The things I want. Christ. You can handle it, I think. I think you’ll like it. All right? Breathe, Sherlock. Don’t stop now, all right?
You know what I did on your back; press my fingers down under the fabric of your pyjamas. I’ll do the same on your stomach, Sherlock. You understand. So I run my thumb in a circle around your navel, let my hand amble down. Below that waistband. Next time, if there is one (christ there’d better be a next time), I’ll take those off first. That way there will be nothing between us, no false barriers at all. Just skin, just you. I rub my hand along your hip, and rest it above the scar I find on your lower stomach. Appendix; you had your appendix removed at some point. That’s before I knew you; someone took a scalpel to you just here. I can feel your pubic hair against the tips of my fingers.
You know what I’m about to do, Sherlock. Don’t you? Of course you do. Let me, Sherlock. I don’t want to rush you, but please. Let me touch you, all right? I’ve never done this. I never really thought I would want to. I thought you were dead. It doesn’t matter now. I want to touch you. God. Let me.
Your fingers make that motion again on my back; closer. I’ll take that as consent. Can I? I hope so. I don’t want to do this wrong. Not the first time. You’re breathing hard against my neck. Oh god.
I take your cock in my hand and you moan; oh fuck. The sound of you. Jesus. You can stop me, if you want, you know. If you have to. If I’m going too far. Push me away if you want. All right? Please don’t push me away. God, please don’t.
It’s hot in my hands, thick and heavy, and your hips twitch when I touch you. Christ, that’s fantastic. Fuck. I could get addicted to this; look at the way you move. God. I’ve never done this, I’ve never wanted to, not with anyone else, but you’re different. Of course you are: you’re you. You’ll always be different. I’ve gripped onto myself this same way, so many times, imagining it’s you. This is completely different; this is wonderful. The sounds you’re making; Jesus. Oh my god. Your skin in my hands; I can feel the pulsing of your heartbeat.
You catch your breath and it’s shaky when it comes back out against my neck. I can feel your whole body tensing. Your hips thrust up, your stomach trembles a little. It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s all right. Your hands grasp at me as if you’ve forgotten how to use them.
I love how your cock feels in my hand. I love it. Christ, the sounds you make. Jesus, Sherlock. The things you do to me. Honestly. I’m a new person with you, you know. You bring out something different in me. You make me into someone better than I am. How do you do that?
Has anyone else touched you like this? Did you let Irene touch you, even once? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. But I hope not. That’s terrible, isn’t it. But I want to be the first. I want to be the only one. I don’t know why. It’s selfish and stupid, but I just do.
This is simple: not too fast, not too tight. You’re close; it won’t take very long. I could try and drag it out, but I won’t. Not tonight. It’s okay this way, it’s fine. It’s perfect. Jesus, Sherlock, you’re perfect. Stay with me. I’ll do this for the rest of my life. God, the sound in your throat, Jesus–
Oh god, I can feel that. You shudder, you exhale, and there’s a desperate groan in my ear. I know what that means. My god, Sherlock. You would dissect me right now and tell me which sets of chemicals it is that makes me feel this way, wouldn’t you. Their exact proportions. There is nothing else in the world but you right now. Nothing. It’s you, and my hands on you, and my lips against yours, our shared breath. That’s all. There’s a splatter of fluid against my hand, and on my t-shirt. Your body spasms a little, I can feel your hips thrust against me. And again; fluid, a groan, a spasm. There. Good. Yes, that’s very good. I’ve turned you inside out, I’ve still got hold of you. Your shaky inhale, exhale against me; breathe, Sherlock. It’s all right.
I can feel you relax against me, you’re going limp now. You’ve been so tense; you’ve been nervous, I think. Maybe just cautious, I don’t know. Uncertain. But you’re still shaking a little, even now. I kiss you again, because I can; your lips are still. I’ve stilled you. Your bliss is heavy and warm. I love you, Sherlock. You know that.
I press my lips against your sharp cheek bones, the corners of your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. I love you. You have to know that. You were my whole world. When you left, everything fell apart. Especially me. Don’t leave me again. Stay here with me.
You won’t mind if I...will you? You’re soft and sleepy now, you’re a tangle of limbs beside me. I’m as close as you were. It won’t take long. Oh, christ. That almost hurts. We waited too long, you know. Far too long. I bury my face in your neck and breathe you in. You smell like sex now, you’re hot and sweaty and beautiful. You’re breathing through your mouth. You run your hands along my back, you stroke my wrist. Yes. God. Do that. You rub the palm of your hand against the head of my–
Oh. Oh my god.
I can feel that everywhere.
Fuck. Yes. Am I shouting? Are there words? I don’t care. I don’t care. The world is pleasure, the world is only you.
You’re holding onto me, your fingers are entwined with mine. I’m shaking. You’re kissing me, I’m coming and I’m sobbing into you. Jesus christ, we waited far too long. Don’t let go. All right? Don’t let go of me.
In the end, there’s only breathing. That’s all I can hear. Mine; yours. That’s all there is.