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The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

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Nothing is tentative now. Did not realise the degree to which he has been tentative until now. Petting me while half-asleep, pressing little kisses against my lips, his hand idly stroking my ankle: all just shadows. All merely a (potential) prelude to this. His fingers gripping my hair as if to hold me still, his teeth press into my bottom lip, his (left) hand tugging at my shirt. Undoing buttons, fingers brushing against my stomach as he undoes each. Transforming me. Leaving a path burned into my skin.

I was wrong. I didn’t understand this. Not at all.

The collection of chemicals (me) shifts, tilts, fills to the brim. Becomes unstable. Feel the surge of norepinephrine and vasopressin joining the constant flush of dopamine his presence elicits: feel it in the rush of emotions that rise to the surface of me. Aching (desperate and unstoppable) love, lust, adoration. For him. Only for him. (Always.) Imagine the brain MRI of this moment (his left hand rubbing a pattern against my ribs, his lips sucking a mark into my neck); my thalamus, my posterior hippocampus, occipital cortex. Bright spots of lust and desperate need visible and obvious. Undeniable. His name carved there in oxytocin. Chemical mind games. The brain’s natural addictions. (I love you, I love you, I love you.)

His hand sliding down against my hip (which he cradles for a moment in the hot palm of his hand) to the small of my back. Hand against me, fingers stretched out, he presses; grinding me into him. Varied pressure; hard and then soft. His fingers draw lines alongside my spine. Shiver: the tracks of his fingers trace hot residue under my skin that spreads out over me, envelops me. Leaves me hypersensitive, burning, everywhere he’s touched me. Heartbeat pounds in my ears, thrums through my body: fast. Not enough air.

Bury my face in his neck. Breathe him in. The smell of him; all the usual factors: his shampoo, his laundry detergent, that pleasant milky smell of his skin. A smell I would recognize anywhere. Breathe in his inevitable androstenol; his pheromones surely heightening my (obvious, palpable and prodding) arousal response.

My hands fall against his waist. Tug at his jumper; fingers feel thick and useless. Hint of a tremor that starts at my hands and moves through my whole body. His (left) hand shifts across my lower back, fingertips sliding under the waistband of my trousers. My head falls backward as if he’s triggered an autonomic response. Gasp. The moan in my throat is caught in his mouth as his lips caress mine. Right hand cupping the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair. The texture of tongues against one another; the taste of his Earl Grey tea. He sucks my tongue so hard it hurts.

Sound of non-words in the back of his throat, vibrating against my jaw as he kisses me there too, short fingernails digging into the skin under my shoulder blade. Hot breath on my ear. Lips on my earlobe. Teeth. Fingers on the button of my trousers; rapidly unfastened.

Panting; body’s need for oxygen rising. The world has become very small; it is contained within this room, within the space that holds me (him). World becomes even smaller as his hand wriggles into my trousers and makes contact with my over-eager erection. It might all be over in a moment; the heat of his hand on my (now damp) sensitive flesh; rush of sensation so intense my knees buckle a little. He catches me. His legs: perfectly strong, perfectly stable. I can feel him smile against my neck. Kisses me. Feel his eyelashes against my skin.

“Bed.” His voice is slightly hoarse. Takes my hand (his thumb stroking my palm). Takes me to my own bedroom. (Traditional location for such a tryst. He plays by the book.) It is hard to imagine that any other room (or any other place) exists. (The world consists of his thumb on my palm. Tiny movement, bit of friction. Volumes of words absent from any language.) I can’t stop staring at him. His lips are red and a little swollen. I can see my own teeth marks along his bottom lip (don’t recall biting him).

My bedroom. He pulls off his jumper, his shirt. My breath is shallow and fast, I take in gulps of air and watch as his skin appears in front of me. Familiar, but unfamiliar all at once. (More contradictions.) His body, military tight and lean. Straight lines. Familiar to me, but different now, somehow. Used to seeing his shoulders hunched over a computer, or hunched over the sink (washing the dishes), or hunched down with the weight of the groceries. His body padded and protected by jumpers and coats and distance. Stands straight now; unflinching. Unflinching in the face of certain danger, chaos (me). The circular bullet wound; angry red blotch when we first met, only months old then. Sensitive and raw, still swollen when I first saw it. Now a pale pink curiosity, nearly flat, the memory of an unthinkable intrusion into his body (how dare they!) filled in and healed over. A mark that helps to explain why he’s here (here with me, now, half naked, staring at me). Black is white, white is black; what is clearly dangerous is a comfort, and what is comfortable must be dangerous. Spun around.

Naked to the waist, he reaches for me. Pushes my clothes off of me as though he is unwrapping a present. (The soft touch of his fingers against my feet as he takes off my socks, one by one.) Unfolds me from my layers of fabric, gently, leaving me standing in front of him entirely naked, trembling, as erect as I have ever been in my life. He stares. He touches my hip (lightly, as if I might break. I might). Leans forward and kisses my (left) nipple, slick tongue circles it. For the second time tonight I fear I am nearly finished. Choke back a sound I don’t even recognize.

He quickly undoes his belt, flicks the button of his jeans and undoes the zip; he pulls off the remains of his clothing in what appears to be one fluid motion. (Practiced. Feel a momentary stab of regret that I have not seen him unpracticed as well, for the sheer pleasure of the comparison.) Now visible: evidence I have correctly calculated (or, more properly: I have correctly fantasized about) the general size and width of his erect penis, based on the handful of times I have had the opportunity to come into enough bodily contact with it through the barriers of cloth and decorum to make an estimate. (Months of my own masturbatory fantasies proven right.) My blood must be filling with cortisol, my brain with dopamine. Unfathomably intense desire to touch him. Notice I am worrying the corner of my mouth with my tongue.

“Come here.” He pulls me onto my bed, onto him; awkward tumble. His skin (smooth, endless) presses and shifts against mine. Heady, overwhelming sensation of friction. End up half sprawled over him, knee between his thighs, one hand buried between pillows and the other on his shoulder. (Scar tissue.) Kisses me like he once did: on the forehead. Close my eyes and he kisses those too. Hands on either side of my face. Open my eyes again to see him looking at me, as if he’s trying to read me. Expression: tenderness. Affection. He’s watching my face, my body: wants to know if I’m all right, in favour, consenting. Kisses me gently, as if we’re starting over. Press my tongue between his lips as an answer.

His hands snake down my back and land on my bottom; hard grope that feels far better than it has any right to. Stifle a groan.

For the first time I wonder if he has a plan, a goal. (Series of steps that lead to an end result: copulation.) His hands firm on my bottom, shifting me against him, my perineum suddenly tingling with the closeness of his hands, desperate to be touched. Sudden desire to be invaded (by what?). Will say no to nothing. Have no boundaries. My penis, pressed between my stomach and his, is spilling fluid onto both of us; his is leaving a round wet patch on my pelvis. Friction. Sensation. Not enough but too much at the same time.

He breathes into my hair, a laugh. “This isn’t going to take very long, I don’t think.”

For a fraction of a second: hurt. Criticism? No. He’s talking about himself. Perhaps also about me, but definitely about himself. Shift to one side, put my hand on his chest, prop myself up on my elbow. Tuck one leg around his. Might as well be talking about me.

“No.” Agree. Lean forward and put my lips on his (right) nipple. Suck. A moan deep in his chest. Small fist of skin rises under my tongue. (The wonders of erectile tissue.) He strokes my back with his right hand, rubs his knuckles over my hip, slides down over my bottom.

Watch down the length of his body as my curious fingers slide across his stomach (damp now) and take hold of his penis. The sound this produces in his chest is needy and rumbling into his stomach. Hot and hard, living flesh made stiff by desire (for me). Squeeze. Run my thumb across his glans, feel the split of the skin there, slick dampness, the tight knot of his frenulum beneath it. His hips jump. He moans into my neck. These actions are not dissimilar to the only sexual act I have any experience with; run my fist down the shaft of his penis and back up again, run my fingers across his foreskin, thumb rolling around his glans. Even more fluid there already. His (left) hand joins mine, fingers in a knitted embrace. He is rough, desperate, fast. Speeds up my hand, then lets me linger on that knot of skin. Exploring him. Like me, but different. Fascinated.

“Sherlock.” Look at his face, his eyes half-closed, his mouth half open. Lean down and kiss him, slip my tongue into his mouth. Follow the dictates of his fingers; fast and rough. He cries out into me. Feel the heat of his semen on my hand. His fingers slow down, a languorous pace. Then he lets go, his lips still sucking lightly on my bottom lip. Spent. Breathing deep and fast. His body stills; his (right) hand resting on the small of my back, fingers unmoving. Watch the rise and fall of his chest, his eyes falling shut. Shift a little, bring my hand up to my face. See his ejaculate on my fingers. Put them in my mouth: taste. John. He hums; feel it vibrate through his body, into my skin. Look over, fingers in my mouth, see him watching me.

He takes my wrist. Let my fingers fall and he takes my hand; puts my fingers in his mouth, too. Nimble tongue; his mouth: hot. He pushes lightly on my hip and rolls me onto my back; my eyes flutter shut for a second and he is everywhere at once. He parts my legs and climbs between them; can guess what he’s going to do next and screw my eyes shut. Anticipation. Heart beating fast. Breathe.

But I am wrong. (How does he keep proving me wrong?) He lies on top of me, his skin against me. Damp and loose-muscled and warm. The tickle of his pubic hair against my pelvis. He kisses me: first on my mouth (gentle lips), my neck, my chest, across my stomach. He kisses the hollow spot at my hip bone, the inside of my thighs. A pause. Feel his breath against my erection. Open my eyes to see him staring for a moment, calculating. His hand hovering. He leans in, his hand grips my penis, and presses his tongue against my glans, eyes closing.

World condenses into one sharp point. Body shuts down all non-essential processes. Given over.


His tongue. (Rough. Hot. Nimble. Oh.)

Mouth. (Wet. Suction. Hint of teeth. Hot and certain.)

Feel his soft palate. Pressing. Pressure. His tongue. (Christ.)

His lips envelop me. All of me (transport, brain, all deductive abilities, all victories) condensed into him. One jut of erectile tissue. Under his lips. In his mouth.

My useless hands dig into the bedclothes.

His fingers caress my scrotum. Squeeze. There are sounds in my ears (my own voice) I don’t recognize. Can’t. Bliss. Perfect.

His lips against my frenulum. Slight brush of his chin (stubble). Growl in my chest. (More.)

Moaning, begging, words fall out of my mouth. No control. (Don’t want any.)

Hot damp thumb (my own pre-ejaculate, his saliva, indistinguishable now) on my glans, my frenulum. Pleasure: intense, severe like pain. Bliss. (Oh. Please. John.)

Fingers against me, rubbing, stroking. Hard friction, cool hands. He is talking, (a question?) I can’t understand. There are no words. (More. Please. More.)

My hand: pried away from bedclothes. He kisses my palm. Puts my (left) hand on the back of his head: fingers tangle in his hair. His (left? no: right) hand curls up against my hip and takes my (right) hand, laces our fingers together. Five points of contact. Groan. (Please.)

His lips, his tongue again, hot, wet, perfect (I missed them, don’t stop). Rumble of his voice around me, his voice humming through me.

Thumb: slips low. Under my scrotum. Circles my anus, presses lightly. (Slick thumb.)

Nimble tongue. (God yes. Never stop.)

Thumb rests hard against my perineum. Presses in circles. Prostate. Grip his hair, tug. Hard suction, swirl of stiff tongue. Pleasure in neon.

Explosion: starts on the inside, pushes outward in a rush of pure bliss. Waves; thrash of hips and legs. Shameless. Thoughtless. Possibly shouting. Sound vanishes into whiteness.

Wrapped in warmth and safety. Words come from my mouth unbidden. His name. Declarations. Remember: chemical alteration post orgasm. Rush of adoration overtakes me. Am limp and boneless. Cannot move again. Never move again. Try to think.

Remember. Oxytocin. Endogenous opioid peptides. Results in pair bonding in moles.

Don’t care. Feel his fingers laced in mine. Cannot let go (will not). His body against me, his thigh rests over mine. He kisses me, so lightly I barely feel it. Too weak to properly kiss him back.

He forgives me. Feel his chin against my forehead (stubble). Perfect.

“I love you too.” He whispers it into the top of my head.