The outside world rushes by, a stunning array of colors catching my eye as the day passes to twilight. The gentle sway of the train carriage helping to soothe away the stress of the day, the long case Holmes had insisted upon us investigating. Our day started well before dawn, my sleep broken by a gentle caress across my brow, a simple glide of fingertips from my beloved’s hands, a whispered, “Watson.” Opening my eyes, I immediately noticed Holmes was dressed for the day, and a twinge of disappointment flared in my gut that this was not to be one of those visits. Of late, our night-time activities had become more frequent, and I often woke to Holmes creeping into my rooms to celebrate our affections for one another.
Truth be told, I went in search of him just as often, seeking to quell the desire that lay between us during our waking hours, desire that for propriety and our own safety must be carefully hidden away and confined to darkened rooms in our flat. How I longed to have him beside me always, be permitted to caress those defined cheekbones, pull that lithe body close, press my kisses across those lips whenever the desire struck me. But, society dictates it not to be so, and we must confine ourselves to the roles of Detective and Doctor, friends and consultants, never more while the sun is alight.
His voice roused me from my maudlin thoughts, and sighing, I flung myself out of my bed and dressed quickly, ready to follow the madman on our next adventure. From that moment, there was no chance to rest as Holmes traipsed us up and down the English countryside. In the end, as always, Holmes proved triumphant. There was a moment, a fleeting breadth of a second where I had longed to pull him to me, for watching him in the midst of his investigations never fails to bring about a rise in affections for this beautiful man. But instead, I only had language to explain the heated emotions coursing through me.
“Amazing. Brilliant, my boy.”
How he had preened at such language. A delicate blush blooming in that beautiful face, as he knew the true meaning of my words. And how I would later tonight kiss each syllable into his flesh, inch by agonizing inch.
Presently, we are sat in the train carriage on our way back to London, and the fatigue has caught up with my dear companion. I glance across the small compartment to the unusual picture of Holmes in repose. It is not often that he lets himself relax, actually stops moving long enough for sleep to catch him and pull him under, but when it does, it’s a sight that never fails to make my heart expand. His gorgeous face, which I have admired in both day, with my eyes, and night, with lips and fingers, is serene, composed into a slumbering mask of beauty. He looks so far younger than his current years, the worry and strain of our profession wiped from his features. His hands, violinist’s hands, rest peacefully in his lap. How I adore his hands. Large and soft, tender and strong, during our nights those hands have massaged and caressed my skin, pulled forth cries and incantations from my lips as they have wrung the pleasure from my body. Just thinking now of all that lay ahead once we reach our destination has me flushed and eager, thoughts of chiseled planes and smooth alabaster skin pervading my brain. We are quite alone in the private carriage car Holmes has procured for us, and it is tempting to risk fate, close the distance between us, trail my fingers and lips up those long legs and take our release right here on the plush cushions. But to do so is madness, a step too far. So I remain on my side, looking for all the world as nothing more than two men sharing a train ride, when the truth is I would share everything with this man.
Holmes makes a small sound in his sleep that scares me from my thoughts, and as I watch, he begins to slump over in his seat. He is threatening to tumble forwards, which would provide a humorous vision, to be sure, but he needs this chance to rest. Swiftly I am on my feet and move to his side of the car, pressing my body close into his, using my weight to hold him in his place. Even in his state he senses my presence, that brilliant mind never quenched. He shifts ever so slightly towards me, laying his head to rest on my shoulder.
“Mmm, John.” He whispers, so softly it is little more than a puff of air.
The sound of my Christian name escaping his lips is a heady thing, it never fails to send a tingle of warmth coursing through my veins.
“Sleep, Sherlock. I’ll wake you when we arrive.” I press a small kiss, just a brush of my lips across his brow, and he nestles closer, wrapping his hand around mine.
For a moment, I freeze. Is it too much? We have the private car, but anyone may happen by. What would they see? But as night fully descends outside the moving window, I decide that for this wonderful man, I will take this small risk. Perhaps some day, some time, we can share more with no need to consider privacy. Perhaps someday I can wrap my arms fully around my beloved, hug him to me, stroke his hair while he sleeps, even when we are not alone. But if this is all we can share, here and now, I will take it, and enjoy what I can. For this man. For Sherlock.