Your breath is warm, and your mouth is hot. You are all I can taste, all I can smell, all I can feel. That’s what I want right now: just you. Your fingers are pressing hard into the back of my neck. At any other time, that would probably hurt. I would push anyone else’s hands away, but not yours, and not now. Right now I don’t mind at all.
Have you been waiting for this all day, like I have? It seems so. I should have said something.
I spent so long thinking about the impossibility of running my fingers through your hair, and here I am: my fingers are tangled up in it. I can pull you closer to me, I can feel the solidity of your bones, the heat of your skin. It’s reassuring, it’s overwhelming. I don’t think I can let you go now. Not anymore.
Your teeth dig into my lip momentarily, then retreat and are replaced by your tongue. Jesus Christ.
Let’s just stay this way, all right? Let’s stay as we are. Ignore Moran. Ignore the pings and beeps and rattles coming from every direction. We’re safe here. Let your brother handle it. Just keep kissing me. Don’t stop. Don’t let me go. This is a conversation we’ve barely started, and I’m not prepared to stop, Sherlock. Don’t stop.
Though, admittedly, my neck is getting a bit sore. I’m holding my head at an odd angle, I probably can’t stay this way too long. My foot is falling asleep. My shoulder is getting stiff.
Logistics always get in the way in real life, don’t they. Silly discomforts and awkwardness; they build in end points we don’t want, but have to expect. Gravity and space; muscle tension, a grumbling stomach, a full bladder, and the limited life of aching desire. It’s all necessarily transient, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I want to pin you down, I want to peel off your clothes, I want to press my lips against your bare skin. But there’s two sets of arms and legs to account for, muscles and old injuries, and clothes don’t come off that easily from a reclined position, as it turns out.
The sofa isn’t wide enough for any of this, really. In my fantasies I kissed you on this sofa for hours, I undressed you easily and stroked your endless pale skin, and both of us fitting into this tight space was never an issue. Reality is a bit different than fantasy, of course. Of course it is. Reality is better, in spite of the pulled muscles and your over-enthusiastic suction on my tongue.
Ouch. All right, all right. There. Yes. Better. Wonderful. See?
You’re experimenting with me, aren’t you. You’re pressing all the limits, seeing what works. I like it. I like being your test subject. I like the edges you stand on, the risks you take. It’s exciting. Keep going, Sherlock. Don’t stop. I like risks too.
I think you’re really getting the hang of this kissing thing. As if you’ve made some kind of postgraduate-level study of it since this morning and now you’re an expert. Your lips, your tongue: Jesus, what are you doing to me?
Kissing you is like a conversation with you; sometimes I can barely keep up, or quite understand where you’re going. It’s interesting: it’s a challenge. You force me to pay attention. I like it. It feels new, like there are no rules and never have been. And you’re right, you’re right. There never were.
It’s only been me then, hasn’t it. Only me. You haven’t so much as kissed anyone else, have you. All your experiments will be with me. I’m honoured, Sherlock. Delighted. Enthusiastic, even. Yeah: let’s do that. Let’s experiment. It will be great.
Your hands are tugging at the collar of my shirt, like you want to pull it off of me. That’s a good idea: yeah. Good idea. I want more of your skin, too. I will kiss every inch of you. I will suck on your skin and mark you; what do you think of that? You’ll have little marks on you from me to remind you, later, so you won’t be able to forget. We won’t go back to not touching each other, not again. Seal the deal; it’s not a fantasy, this is reality. This is a choice we’ve made.
Buttons: I can undo those while we’re kissing. I’ve done that before, with others. With women. That seems a long way away now, a thousand years ago. I can slip each button free with one hand while gripping onto your hair with the other. I like the sounds you make when I do that: yes. Like that, just like that. Christ, Sherlock. That’s incredibly–
What? What is it? Where are you go–
We were in the middle of something, Sherlock, what’s–
Oh.
Is that the important phone, then? You have to leap up and run across the room if it makes that particular pinging sound? Right. Of course. Serial killers, snipers, your faked death, all that. You distract me very effectively, Mr Holmes. I’d nearly forgotten we were on the brink of extinction.
Right. Moran. The failsafe. I suppose it’s good that you don’t get distracted.
“What is it?” God, I’ve got such a crick in my neck. And I think you might have bitten my lip a bit too hard at some point. Not that I mind, really. But it’s a bit sore now. It stings a little when I prod at it with my tongue; I think you bit down just hard enough to break the skin. Experimental, I presume: you wanted to see how far you could go, didn’t you. You and your boundary-pushing.
Wait, Sherlock, what are you–
You’re settling in.
You’ve sat down at the desk, you’re tapping at your laptop and staring at the phone at the same time. You’re not going to answer me, are you. You’re engrossed; I’m not sure you even heard me. You’ve moved on, switched gears, you’re on the hunt again. I know that look; I’ve seen it a million times. There’s a case, something to solve, something to work out. You’re a million miles away already. I’ve lost you, haven’t I. I barely had you.
I shouldn’t be so disappointed. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not forever, it’s just for now. You’re busy. Of course: of course you are. It’s my life hanging in the balance. Your life.
“What’s he saying?” It must be Moran. I’ll flatter myself enough to think that you wouldn’t stop snogging me for just anyone. I mean, we weren’t kissing just because you were bored, were we? Obviously not. Right?
Christ. I need to learn to keep you and romance separate in my mind. I know you have no time for that kind of nonsense. Sentiment, you’d say. You’d scoff, more like. There’s affection, and connection with another human being, and you and I being a unit, a pair, joined at the hip quite often, yes, all that. There’s even desire, I’ve seen that. I’ve felt it against my thigh tonight, too. There is desire. But romance is another category, and it’s not one of yours. That’s all right. It is. It’s okay. There won’t be any flowers or declarations from you any time soon, I know that. I know. It doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings. It doesn’t mean you didn’t miss me and long for me. I know that.
Well, that’s it then. I should go to bed, I suppose. I’ll think of you, your lips, your skin, your hard cock on your thigh, and I’ll have a wank. It will be entirely unsatisfying, but it is what it is. Then I’ll try to sleep. Maybe you’ll come upstairs later. Maybe.
That’s all right. This is important work. I know it is; it’s my life you’re negotiating for. And the future of your own. Our life, here, together. I understand. I can’t help but feel some envy for that phone in your hands, though.
Jealousy of inanimate objects is probably not a sign of a healthy relationship. Well, who ever said it was possible to have a healthy relationship with you? You certainly wouldn’t say that.
I’ll make a cup of tea first. Two: one for you, one for me. I’ll drink it and keep you company, and watch you not touch it. Then I’ll go up to bed. When it’s cold, maybe you’ll notice that I’ve gone.
I don’t mean to be passive aggressive about this, but getting your attention is a kind of fine art.
You’ve set up a second laptop in the kitchen. What’s this for? I’d ask, but you probably won’t answer me. There’s some program running on it: it’s black with coloured numbers all over it. They’re ticking away, like tiny clocks. Shifting numbers. Latitude, longitude. It’s tracking something. Moran? You don’t know where he is. Is this thing looking for him?
If we’d kept on, I’d have to stop to pee at some point anyway. Bodies are weak, they have all sorts of unsexy and distracting needs. No one ever needs to pee in the fantasy world. Bathroom, then. You’re dialling a number. You’re actually going to call someone. Your brother, probably. At this hour. He’s most likely glued to a computer as well. Or he’s hired someone who is.
I don’t remember it being so bright in the bathroom; I think someone’s switched out the light bulbs for brighter ones since we lived here last. It’s nice, though. The light makes it seem a little bit bigger, and the tile looks whiter. The wallpaper looks even more garish. You have to admire Mrs Hudson’s sense of style, really. Victorian, but playful. You love it or you hate it. And I love it, I think. It makes a statement. It’s like you: it is what it is, unashamed, and awfully loud.
You’ve put out a second toothbrush. Why?
A second toothbrush; you know I have one upstairs. Two toothbrushes. The wrapping for the second one is still in the bin. Is that one for me? Is that the world’s most subtle invitation to sleep in your bed tonight?
Is it? Or is that the romantic in me seeing what I want to see? I’d love that: you thinking about it, thinking it through: what will John need if he sleeps downstairs tonight? A toothbrush, that’s all. Just a toothbrush. So I’ll brush my teeth while you stand beside me, your hand on my hip, watching me; or I’ll brush my teeth while you get undressed and slip into bed, waiting for me. Why else put out a second toothbrush?
Should I sleep here tonight? Maybe I should. You’re engrossed in your work, there’s nothing I can do. I could make tea and bring you a cup, sit and watch you for a while, glance over my pathetic chapter, then walk over, kiss you on the temple, and tell you I’m going to bed. I’m going to bed, Sherlock, and that means your bed. And maybe you’d look up at me, smile, kiss me on the lips and give me a fraction of a second of an apologetic look. And then you’d go back to your work, and I’d go to brush my teeth with my brand new toothbrush, take off my clothes, and get into your bed. And I would dream about you until you joined me. Maybe you’d kiss me and we’d pick up where we left off tonight. No more crick in my neck; just a warm bed and your naked body. Maybe.
I can hear you talking on the phone, but I can’t make out the words. The soft rumble of your voice through walls is reassuring. It’s your brother, who else would it be?
Look at me: just look. I’m too old for this kind of nonsense. Most men my age are married with children, or divorced with children and getting married for a second or a third time. The effect of the new light bulbs means I can see exactly how rapidly my hair is turning grey. I can see the last three years on my face all of a sudden. It’s aged me, you being gone. I’m too old to be so ridiculously in love and so ridiculously uncertain about it. Men my age are more direct, more worn down, more settled.
I’ve never settled down. I’ve never wanted to. I never will; certainly not with you, you’re hardly the type to settle into anything. And not with Mary. I tried, I really did. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I can’t stop and put down metaphorical roots, I can’t live a normal life. Things will never be settled for me, will they. We’ll live on the brink again, in every way. In new ways. This brink I’m standing on now, to stay, to go, to hold on or give up; will it always be like this? Maybe it will. Maybe that’s okay.
“Two hours.”
There you are: standing by the door. You followed me in here. You look– I don’t know. Uncertain, somehow. Why? Will this happen every time we stop touching one another? Is it always going to be a question, whether we’ll ever do it again? What will it take for us to trust each other in this? Time, I suppose. Time and experience. Or just time. “What?”
“He says we’ll meet in two hours at Trafalgar Square.”
Who, Mycroft? No. No, not your brother, no. You mean Moran. Don’t you. Right. That’s what he wants, of course. He wants your head on a platter. He wants you to surrender yourself rather than risk a potentially successful third attempt on my life. Your life for mine. It’s really only your life he’s interested in, in the end. Mine is inconsequential. “Or he’ll detonate the failsafe?”
“He’s not saying that, but I think we can presume so, yes.”
Two hours then, before he detonates it. At least. Two hours before he finds out you’re not there, you’re not complying with his commands. You won’t be there, right? You won’t leave the flat. Will you? “You’re not thinking of going, are you?”
You sigh. You are, aren’t you? You’d like to. You could watch him, follow him, find his safehouse and destroy it. “No.”
Your brother said you couldn’t, didn’t he. Why are you listening to him? “Why not?”
You lean back against the doorframe and look at me. Your hair is even wilder than usual; your shirt is half undone. You were on the verge of something with me, and you look it. You press your lips together, lips that were all over mine a few minutes ago. You look debauched. My mouth is watering just looking at you. Christ. “He won’t be there anyway.”
No, I suppose he wouldn’t be, would he. He’ll send someone else to take you down, chain you up, beat you and bring you to him, is that it? Is it too dangerous to go where he asks you to? It’s not like you to be deterred by danger. What is it, really? Why are we staying here? Why are we taking the safest possible road? You’ve changed over the years. You have. Well: that’s all right. I’ve changed too.
“We can watch him better from here.” We? It’s good to hear that again. Yes. We. All right. Not that I’ve done much watching to date, but all right. “If I went after him, you would come with me, wouldn’t you.”
It’s not a question, but I’ll answer it anyway. “Of course I would.”
“Another reason to stay here, then.”
Why, Sherlock Holmes. That’s practically romantic of you.
Are you trying to protect me, staying here, in this deadly boring safehouse, rather than meet Moran’s men head on with me in tow, an irresistible glowing target on my back? We could find him either way. You know we could. There’s a safe way, and a dangerous way. Normally we take the dangerous option, but not this time. Sentiment, that’s what that is. Pure sentiment. I appreciate it. I do. The risks to me are too high. And to you.
You’re not prepared to lose again. Lose me, lose everything. The flat, Mrs Hudson, your life. You want your life back. And this is how we’re going to do it.
Oh, Sherlock. God. I’ve missed you so much.
Well: let’s get it over with, then. Let’s get through it. We’ll wait. Your absence will anger him, and he’ll trigger the failsafe at some point in the night. Or very early in the morning. And for once, just this once, you’ll leave it to your brother to catch him and finish him. And it will be over. Then we can roam the streets at all hours again like we used to. We can visit crime scenes and do things that are on the edge of illegal if not entirely so. We’ll go back to Scotland Yard, back to staying up all night combing through evidence, back to eyes in the microwave and liver experiments in the sink. Kiss me again, Sherlock. We’ve got the time.
“Two hours, is it?”
“Mm.” You take a step closer.
Yes. Yes, all right. It’s bright in here, so I can see the grey hairs all tangled up in yours, too. It’s starting from your temples, as grey hair often does. Just a little. We’re not untouchable, you and I. We age, we change. Everything is transient. Two hours, two lifetimes. Come here. Take your clothes off, in the light. We’ll leave them here on the tile. And we’ll get into your bed, and continue the grand experiment.
Two hours is plenty of time.