His eyes are closed but I can see them moving underneath the eyelids, scrutinizing the darkness. We are both lying down on his bed – our bed? – and I listen as he speaks. He does it well.
He spends days on end without saying a word, but when he does speak, he fills the silence with wisdom. He does not waste the speech, he shapes sentences that matter. He is good at telling stories, but he does not do it often.
'Don't turn your gifts into something ordinary,' he would say.
He is right.
So he talks with restraint, certainty and beauty. He tells me stories about his childhood, tales no one could ever guess and as I listen to him, I see a different man. He does not wear a mask around anyone; he is exactly who he seems to be. But around me, he allows some walls to break, some breaches to open. He invites me to understand there is a heart underneath. And not an ordinary heart either. He does not hold my hand as any lover would do, without thinking about it, a reflex of time and closeness. No, he does it with meaning and he does it right. Hugs are scarce but they enclose all the comfort in the world, all the sentiment he allows himself to feel. He embraces.
Yes, he would approve this choice of words.
His voice became a whisper, and I can tell he felt the slight shift in the air, the way I am trying not to reach out for him and hold his hand. I know he wouldn't mind, but I don't want him to think I am not listening. I am paying attention and I want him to finish the story. He has never told this one before. It's brand new and this is how he connects. He travels to the past and exposes it in front of me, unashamed and without secrets, knowing I would never judge him. Even when the stories made me flinch, out of angst or sadness, he never stops. He waits patiently for me to take them in. Then he goes quiet for a long time and we both stare at the ceiling, contemplating the moments that made us get here, now. The way I ran into Mike that day and, despite his warning, decided to give Sherlock a chance. And long before that, a life of turns and choices that led us right here.
Sherlock calls it coincidence; I call it fate.
He finishes his story and looks straight at me, no stops on the way from the ceiling to my face. I smile sheepishly and nod, grabbing his hand as I do it, finally. I roll over and he stays still. I kiss his forehead. He closes his eyes again, receptive to my touch. Then, as the signal to advance is given I make my way. I kiss his eyelids and I whisper names. Left eyelid, right eyelid. Nose. Cheek. Lips. I bite his chin lightly and he smiles, trying to get me to kiss him again. I reach his Adam's apple and he interjects.
'It's called the laryngeal prominence,' he tells me.
I know. I'm a doctor.
He smiles again and I feel his long fingers closing around my wrist. He is serious now and he looks at me as if he wanted to tell me something, but he can't.
"I love you." I tell him for the tenth time that day.
"I love you too." He replies.
He says it only once like this. It's quite enough for me.