The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

His (left) Hand

Supper in a paper bag on the table (getting cold). His face in my hands, his tongue caressing my bottom lip. One hand against my lower back, fingertips inching into my trousers. The other gripping my hair. All I can hear is a pounding heart (mine) and laboured breathing (mine; also his). Like we’re running. Tracking a serial killer. Same rush of adrenaline. Drop hands down to his waist; stroke his left hip. Hook my (right) thumb under his belt and pull. Can feel his erection press against my thigh. He groans. Smiles against my neck, laughs lightly. (Huff of his breath on my skin.)

“Christ.” Kisses my jaw. His (left) hand is resting on the small of my back as if designed to fit there. (Poetic license: a means to express that which cannot be proven or tested, but is true nonetheless.) Fingers stroking my coccyx. Shiver; his fingers trigger my vestigial pilomotor reflex. Gooseflesh. Sign of sexual arousal. (Accurate.) Senses on alert; can smell his skin, hear his breath running over his larynx. Feel his heartbeat through my fingers. Hyper-aware of him, every motion, every tensed muscle. (Kiss them all.)

“You make me feel like a bloody teenager.” He whispers it. Telling me a secret against my ear. An accusation. What I make him do. Feel. Feel what? Awkward? Confused? Angry? Sullen? Words that aptly describe my own teenage years. (How do normal teenagers feel?) “You touch me and I very nearly come in my pants, it’s ridiculous.” Ah. Sexual excitement leading to a premature ejaculation. A compliment? Possibly. (Probably.) Press my lips against his neck, hear the soft sounds in the back of his throat. Run hands over the (hot) skin of his back, the curved indentation of his spine. Kiss him. (His insistent tongue.)

“Sherlock, I-” Mrs Hudson. In the flat. Oh dear.

Realization in rapid retrospect: heard Mrs. Hudson’s kitten heels on the stairs. Heard her faint knock on the door, even. But ignored both sounds in favour of the breathy noises coming from John, his hot mouth, his fingers gripping my right buttock. Brain is selective in what it chooses to register.

A gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry, I...” Mrs. Hudson. John freezes, then quickly pulls his hand out of my trousers, disentangles himself from me. Her face goes from apologetic to apoplectic in a half-second. “John Watson!” Her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Uh, I...” He clears his throat. Laughs softly. “Hello.” Adjusts his jumper.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised!” Puts her hands on her hips. Anger readable in her every limb. “Just when he was finally moving on after you dashed his heart to pieces.” Crosses her arms over her chest, taps her foot. Have never seen Mrs. Hudson so angry. “Would it kill you to let poor Sherlock be happy for once?”

John opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again. Turns to look at me. Question on his face. Looks startled.

“Now what are you planning to tell your young man, Sherlock?” She tsks at me. Oh dear. Ought to explain.

“Mrs Huds-”

“You can’t have both of them!” She throws up her hands. “That goes for you too, John Watson. Make a decision and stick with it! I give up!” She turns and leaves, slamming the door behind her. Mutters all the way back down the stairs.

Silence. John’s hand reappears on my waist. Firm fingers. “Your young man?” (Is that jealousy? Can John honestly justify jealousy after all this? Him with a wife?)

(Flattered all the same.)

Sigh. Explain. “You.” He raises an eyebrow at me. Isn’t sure what to think. Doesn’t consider himself a young man. “She overheard us. Last week. She imagined you must have been someone else.”

“Moving on from...” Can hear him thinking, can almost feel it under his skin. Press my hands against his hips again. “Did she think we...” John and his perpetually unfinished sentences.