His Back Pages
By Taz

Dust motes floated in the bars of pale sunshine that managed to penetrate the dinge clinging to the outside of the windowpanes. Inside, the apartment wasn't dingy, or especially dusty; bachelor police officers, of a certain age, tending to be neatish creatures.

It was possible that, making allowance for itinerant window washers, the second floor windows of any converted brownstone in New York could represent the past century of intense technological progress. Under a magnifying lens, a core of the glass would present as a clear base coated with discrete layers of particulate matter encased in different binding mediums: coal, kerosene, heating oil, natural gas, the greasy exhaust of cars and diesel engines, and, maybe, a trace of Jet A.

The stairs in the hall creaked under the tread of another tenant heading out to dinner. It prompted Sherlock Holmes to entertain the thought of getting up, and surprisingly to discover that he was disinclined to do so. Curious.

"Is this what they mean by 'afterglow?'"

"God, I hope so," Gregson murmured in drowsy satisfaction that Sherlock felt through the broad chest that was rising and falling steadily under his not inconsiderable weight.

He should want to get up. He should not be this comfortable sprawled in the puddled aftermath of sex. Sometimes he found the thing animal and disgusting. Most of the time. It was one of those things his mind could not control. Odd that today… Make a note of the date.

An involuntarily quiver edged up his spine. The arms that were loosely embracing his shoulders tightened. "I thought you said Watson was having dinner with a friend?"

"I did. She is."

"Do you want to leave?"

"No."

"Mmm…" Gregson sighed. He had no problem finding pleasure in the moment.

As for him? Watson would say it was healthy Flesh glued to flesh. He should lie here and take notes.

He would have stayed where he was, anyway, knowing from experience that those arms were more than strong enough to hold him if their owner wasn't ready to let him go.

The front door slammed. A warm draft whooshed under the double pocket doors, the original parlor doors, never replaced. He concentrated on the elusive smells as they came swirling up his nose: floor polish, leather, fading wood smoke, snow, well-worn wool, and the same unfashionable aftershave that Tobias Gregson had been wearing eleven years ago.

He had noticed it when both of them had been working at Scotland Yard. They'd had nothing in common; passing acquaintances, who had happened to stop at the same pub one evening.

"I told Watson you were married."

"Why the hell'd you do that?"

"She was asking about you."

"I doubt that she…"

"She's not. It just slipped out."

Pretty obvious why.

It had been The Goose and Cloud. He'd been working a cold case, a girl, a student at King's College London in '96. Hemlock poisoning. In the Old Testament, Israelites who consumed quail fed on hemlock died. Who does that nowadays? You'd have thought the answer would have been blindingly obvious, but it hadn't been.

He'd been about to leave when Gregson had walked in and draped his trench coat over the back of the chair opposite him. There had been plenty of empty tables.

"Holmes isn't it?" Trust an American to presume. "Can I buy you one?"

Who was Sherlock Holmes to pass up a perfect target on which to vent his frustration?"Thank you," he had said. "That's very kind."

He recalled that the ink on his shoulder had been quite fresh. The skin still tender.

He had also said, when it was his turn, and he had paid for the second round, was,"You Americans had a sock in the eye coming," and proceeded to expound all of the reasons: historical and cultural ignorance, political arrogance… He had been so much older in those days, and certain of his judgment.

Gregson had taken every cruel thing he'd uttered with the same curiously impassive expression and, yet, Sherlock had sensed something lurking behind those cool chips-of-ice blue eyes. He'd kept pricking, while reviewing the few facts he knew of the man.

Gregson was working with Counter Terrorism, as he was with the SCD. Within Scotland Yard they were tolerated, differently, because of their connections, but it was interesting that the social response was identical. He, of course, had been aware the sniggers and snide jokes that Gregson was too obtuse to notice.

It wasn't until Gregson had gone to fetch the next round—how much had he drunk at that point—when he recognized what had been going on. He, Sherlock Holmes, was being studied. The fuck! Indignation hadn't been in it.

What form payback should take he hadn't known until Gregson had set the glasses down. The room had been warm. Gregson had loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves and exposed nicely muscled forearms furred with light brown hair. There were gold glints in the hair. He had noted the wedding band previously, but that he had caught that fleeting whisper of aftershave.

In those days when he had been aware of, but less attentive to, his need for a disciplined a routine of sexual hygiene, his brain could still be whip-cracked by his manifest response to certain sensations. But never doubt which part, body or mind, was in control. He had been certain. Oh, so certain that he was being subtle, as he had inched closer, hinting and insinuating.

Forty minutes later, he had been flung on the bed in a residential hotel room.

He could admit it now. He hadn't been that subtle.

"Get naked!" Gregson had said. And he had gotten naked and lain with his legs spread, unabashed and rampant. A grown man is still an ass at thirty, and that had been about retribution, not affection. He had waited while Gregson stripped off coat, tie, shirt and trousers, folding everything over the back of a chair. He remembered clearly thinking that Gregson wore a ridiculous amount of clothing. So much simpler to pull a sweatshirt over one's head, and kick a pair of jeans on the floor. Gregson's forearms hadn't been misleading. He remembered also thinking that between the sexes, women first, but if it had to be a man, how more how much more attractive mature men's bodies were. The unfinished work-in-progress look of skinny spindle shanks had never done it for him.

Tongues tasting of beer, gold glints in soft hair, strong knowing hands and the weight that had pinned him down. The growing urgency and sudden surprising pleasure. He still replayed those memories as a set of kaleidoscopic impressions when the only choice was between frustration and masturbation. There was nothing more arousing…

The arms clamped tight. "Cool your jets, hot shot. It takes me a little longer these days." He must have been squirming.

Afterwards, as always, it had gone all clammy and manky, with the sick feeling starting his gorge.

That had been his cue it was time to teach Gregson what was what. He had sat up, reaching for his jeans, and Gregson had said sleepily, "Where are you going? I didn't think we were done."

They were done.

His mind balked at replaying what he had said then. Intending to prove to some thick New York cop that Sherlock Holmes was not a type specimen who was going to be weighed and measured and slapped with a label that said Typical Bloody Englishman, which was exactly how he'd been behaving, his words had been vicious, and cutting. He had capped them by standing up with his jeans and shirt in his hand, and saying, "I need to wash."

And then he was flat on his back.

"Get off!"

"Not yet. You ashamed of what we just did?"

"No!" His second attempt to dislodge the man had ended with him face in the pillow, with his shoulder smarting from a clout that could have been delivered by a Kodiak bear.

"Play nice. I don't want to have to hurt you." He had bucked and straddling thighs had squeezed, hinting how much it could hurt, holding him as Gregson had leaned over to open the drawer of the nightstand. The metallic clink had been unmistakable.

"The fuck with the handcuffs!"

"Relax. You're a pain in the ass, but I kind of like you. I think we should talk." Cuffed and secured to the headboard, the weight removed from his back, he had been rolled over and exposed. "Or maybe not."

He had jerked the headboard repeatedly against the wall, and tried to kick. But then he'd stopped. Stopped utterly still. Because Gregson had held his legs down and pushed them apart. Then he had bent over and touched him with his lips and, infinitely tender, had explored the inside of his thighs, and taken it in his mouth with evidences of pleasure, tonguing and sucking, drawing him in until he was at the center of the universe.

How could someone do that? And still be there, holding him, when he came to himself after the rush. He wasn't certain if it had been the hand stroking his hair or the smell on Gregson's breath that had caused him to shudder.

"You all right?"

"I'm not a faggot." That had been irrelevant, but it was possible Gregson expected him to reciprocate.

"Who said that you were?"

"You're a cop."

"So?"

"You're married."

"Wow! You must be a detective." That was the first time he'd felt the rumble through Gregson's chest and knew was being laughed at.

"How…?"

"None of your business."

"But…"

"I said none of your business. You need to get through your head that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your…whatever the hell it is you guys call it."

"Philosophy," he had murmured. Then he'd sat up. Then he had stood up. Actually he had tried to stand up, but one hand had been still tethered to the headboard. The headboard had rebounded against the wall. Once, only once that time. But next door had had enough. There was muffled pounding through the wall, and someone bellowing, "Shut the fuck up you bloody faggots! We're trying to sleep here!" Gregson had started pounding and shouting, "Asshole faggot yourself!" back, while he, caught in that pristine moment, had simply said, "Socrates! It was the philosophy instructor!"

That's who it had to be and, once you know who, you know how, and where to look for the evidence.

An arrest had been made. DIs who had been busy being so clever at Sherlock's expense that they could have cut themselves had gone chartreuse.

That part had all been very satisfying, the way it turned out. All of it. And none of it had been the reason that Saturday morning after that he had gone and knocked on Gregson's door.

He remembered that there had been a Do Not Disturb card on the handle, but that would hardly have put him off his stride.

What had put him off his stride was Gregson opening the door freshly showered, barefoot and shaved. He was wearing a plaid shirt. The shirt had been deep green, and purple. Sherlock had learned later that it was the St. Andrew Society of New Hampshire plaid. Gregson had been wearing it open over a t-shirt and a pair of soft grey corduroy trousers. The sleeves had been rolled.

Sherlock had stood there like an ass, until Gregson had raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Yes," Sherlock had said. "You must be wondering why I'm here."

"Not particularly, but come in." Gregson had stepped back.

When Sherlock was in, and the door closed, Gregson had gone to sit in a chair at a desk that was some kind of hotel bastard by Chippendale out of Queen Anne. The top had been cluttered with ashtray, cigarette packs, coffee cups, an open laptop, notebooks and a jumble of service manuals. "I should have called ahead," Sherlock had said. "You're working."

"I've got a limited amount time here."

"You said that we should talk."

"Yes, it seemed like a good idea." Gregson had leaned back in his chair. "The other night."

That cool qualification had left Sherlock pin-balling from point to point. The room hadn't been tidied. The bed was unmade. There was a box of Kleenex on the nightstand. One could obtain a pleasant view of Regent's Park out the window. He had finally blurted out, "I don't do people well."

And Gregson had said, "Color me surprised."

That had hardly been warmer, but he'd seized on it. Words and questions, dammed up for days, came flooding out.

"What do you call your shaving balm?"

"My what?"

"What you're drenched with. Your shaving balm. What do you call it?"

"You mean my aftershave." Gregson had leaned further back, crossing his arms, and spreading his legs. Invitation. Intimidation. Masculine aggression. "I don't call it anything. It's English Leather."

"I didn't know that."

"You can buy it at the drugstore."

"We don't have drugstores."

"You call them chemists."

"I know that."

"Do you know that you're nuts? Excuse me; do you know that you're stark staring bonkers?"

"Yes, I've been told. I see too much. I hear too much. I—"

"Talk too much? Is there a point to this?"

"I don't like sex."

"Well, you sure pick a strange way to show it."

"That was… I was…" He had sighed. "It's messy enough with a woman, all those juices, and doubt and confusion. And with a man…it smells like bleach in the laundry. I mean, I've done…not the way you did, but fair's fair and I think I should..." It was important that Gregson understand. "What I like is solving puzzles. When the pieces come together, and you see the thing whole and perfect for the first time—that moment—that's better, for me, than…than…" He'd tripped the word and stumbled to a halt. "Never mind."

"Orgasm?" Gregson had offered.

"Yes. Thank you. Often. Quite often."

Gregson had stared at him. Gregson had put a hand up to support his chin. Eventually, Gregson had said, "Let me see if I've got this straight. You're saying, in some special, weird-assed way of your own, that in spite of the jizm, and confusion that it was good for you?"

"Yes. I believe I am."

The next few moments had been what the novelist refers to as pregnant with question. In the end, Gregson had re-crossed his arms, looked head down, and said, "I take it that you don't want to use the handcuffs this time."

"No," he'd said, from where he was kneeling on the floor.

The next day he had worked out how he'd effected the translation from one side of the room to another. At the time he'd been so focused on uncovering the swelling mound under the folds of corduroy, he hadn't been being particularly conscious of doing it. Button through button hole. Zipper teeth parting. White cotton exposed. A pungent burst as golden-brown curls and flesh sprang free. Test the thing. Probe. Feel the nubby tip with his tongue. Spongy. The taste? Sweet. The column. Solid. Close one's lips over it, and be baffled by the size and length.

Unsure how to manage, a nudge at the back of his throat had nearly ended the whole experiment.

"Slow down," Gregson had said, pulling back. After that he'd let himself be guided by the hand at the back of his head, and concentrated on the single sensation of it moving in his mouth.

Dried blood tasted tinny. Matter from the sole's of a dustman's boots tasted earthy. He had recorded that first intentionally intimate impression of Gregson as soap, salt and musk. The mouthful he had swallowed hadn't been bad, although the aftertaste had been astringent. He had learned to keep a glass of water on the nightstand.

He found a dot dried shaving soap under the edge of Gregson's jaw and tasted it. There was a tremor underneath him.

"What's so funny?"

"You are. What did you do that pair of grey cords?"

"What pair of grey cords?"

"Come on! The ones I kept finding you with your face buried in the crotch of, even when I wasn't wearing them. Somehow they weren't in my suitcase when I got home, and I had to make up some lie about they got ruined to tell Angie."

They had kept in touch. Things happen in ten years. Sometimes the things that happen, after they happen, you know you'll never be the same again.

"Haven't a clue what you're talking about," he said. He wasn't about to tell Gregson how many nights he'd woken up with a pattern of parallel lines impressed in his cheek…all those dreaming months before he'd forced himself down a jet way onto a plane bound for New York.

Finis
26 January 2013