It has been three weeks since Sherlock came home, and John can safely say he now knows pretty much every inch of Sherlock’s anatomy. The personal geography of their love. But there is one place he can’t keep way from. A little stretch of skin that calls him back time after time. At night, after they’ve made love, or when Sherlock is reading (‘It’s so middle aged’ he complains when John does it, and then does it himself), lying on his belly, and John answers the siren song of that secret place. Nuzzles. Nestles against it. Strokes, unable to help himself. Tests it with his upper lip to feel its smoothness, its perfection. (For John, every part of Sherlock is perfection, but this little place has brought that perfection to its apotheosis.)
Let me give you longitude and latitude.
That little triangle of skin just above the cleft between Sherlock’s buttocks, and below the small of his back, where the luxuriant dimples are. That little cushion of flesh that overlays bone. (John knows his anatomy of course, but he does not use the medical terms for Sherlock’s body, even to himself. For him, this beautiful creature is too sacred.)
Here, where the skin is silken, gleaming with splendour, John’s fingertips find their rest, not looking to arouse, merely to feel, to experience magnificence in human form. This is the place John returns to for comfort, for fascination, for peace. These few inches of skin are where his Nirvana lies, where Heaven has come to rest, where love is sharpened into devotion.
John pulls his fingers away, embarrassed at his own addiction to stroking.
Naked, stretched out on his stomach, a book at his nose, Sherlock says:
‘Did I say you could stop?’