The Quiet Man

Fast and Slow

I have to remember this is new to you.

It is, isn’t it? You haven’t been naked in your bed with anyone before me, have you? I don’t think you have. I know I should ask. And I will, at some point. Once all this is over. When the dust has settled. Not now. It really doesn’t matter. It’s new enough in any case. It’s new between us, that’s all that matters.

It’s new for you, and I’ve never done this before. I mean, not like this. With– Well.

I’m nervous.

But that’s all right. We’ll figure it out, Sherlock. Fast and slow, over many nights in this bed, and the one upstairs as well, maybe. I hope so. You and me. Neither of us are averse to learning new things, are we. You’re certainly not. You take great pleasure in it. Obviously.

In with both feet, aren’t you. Jesus. Look at you. No hesitation at all. God.

I’m in with both feet too, you know. I am. There’s no going back. Not anymore. Not after this, at least.

God: I hope you don’t want to go back. I can’t reverse myself now, I can’t be with you and pretend I don’t want you. I know too much: Your skin tastes very slightly sour, and a bit salty. I know that now, and can’t just forget. I don’t want to stop this, it would kill me.

Keep breathing, Sherlock. You’re holding still but you’re anticipating, aren’t you. It’s as if you’re counting down to something; your breath slows down and speeds up again. Fast and slow: that’s how it is with us. How it will always be, maybe.

Your skin with no boundaries is fantastic. Hip to stomach to chest and back down again; hip to thigh. Nothing in my way but me; you don’t stop me or direct me. You just let me go, let me touch you. I love it. You don’t care about normal, it won’t matter to you if I reach down and stroke your knee, so I will. I want to: I want to touch the familiar parts of you along with the unfamiliar. You bury your fingers in my hair; you encourage everything.

I remember your knees next to me in cabs and on sofas, digging into me sometimes at crime scenes, in alleys: I remember. I stared at them in the half-light of dawn and in twilight, moving from gory crime scenes to back home again. I could have cupped my hand around your knee then and felt your bones, felt the heat of you through the fabric of your trousers, under the cover of your coat.

It’s a classic act of affection; resting your hand on someone’s knee. If you’d been a woman I’d have done it sooner, because I felt something for you. I did. But I kept my hands to myself. It was habit; it was what was expected. What would you have said if I had touched you like this? A hand on your knee in a cab on the way home, a small gesture; would you have pushed me away? You’re not the sort of person anyone’s allowed to just reach out and touch, or so it seems. You’re beyond human, you’re machine-like, you’re untouchable. But, as it turns out, that’s a lie. You’re infinitely touchable. Your skin is thirsty for touch. You’re human, just like the rest of us. Who knew? Me: I knew. I knew, but I waited. I shouldn’t have.

You’re very pliant; you understand body language better than I thought you did. You do what my hands ask you to. You shift your leg, move your arm, you make room for me. Your hand is stroking my back in a pattern I can’t quite discern. You’re taking cues from me, you’re listening with your skin. You’re trying to understand the conversation I’m starting, aren’t you, you’re looking for the logic of every motion of my hands and my mouth. You’re looking for the meaning, as if there is any. Stop trying to make sense of it, Sherlock: there’s nothing rational here. There is only the irrational, only desire and affection, it’s wordlessness. It’s love, Sherlock. Have you figured that out yet? I can’t tell. I don’t know. You’re very pliant. You’re still and open and I think you’re waiting for something.