A.N- My apologies for being gone so long. I think L'amour D'un Tango Mort has run its course, so I will be leaving it as concluded. I was once very against slash, but have had a change of heart. I cannot stress enough how much I appreciate any feedback at all. Whether you like or don't like, please be respectful. I will be writing more drabbles to practise the craft of slash, so please, again, offer me some feedback. Thank you and enjoy.
In my military days, I was quite accustomed to staying up all hours of the night. Whether it be from shaken nerves or a sense of danger, I had become quite good at it. Now, at this later date, I am rarely up at this hour. I have not seen the sunrise in some time. It is London after all; a most uncharitable city for any of us wishing to see some glimpse or whisper of sunlight. It seems the skies will not grant me this honour tonight either.
Holmes is sleeping on the sofa. He is face up, with his head tilted away from me. One arm is draped over the edge. I try to ignore him by lighting my morning pipe, but I cannot help but steal glances at him. He really is beautiful. The first thought that enters my mind is how queer it is that he is so masterful at all other times, and yet looks so vulnerable now. I move towards him slowly and with growing fascination. Holmes's body is so thin that it looks breakable there on the sofa, like if I were to touch him he would break apart. Yet even in this immobile position, he retains the grace he emulates every moment of his life. I was now standing so close to him that I could smell his breath…pipe tobacco and honey; his clothes are reminiscent of ivory soap.
His skin too, is so pale, cold, and untouchably holy, like marble. He looks like an angel resting there…His chest slowly heaving up and down, up and down…and all the while a slight whistling sound escaping his firm, thin lips. His glossy black hair is unusually tussled compared to its typically well groomed and slicked back style.
I must touch his skin…if only once. I must be connected to this godly beauty somehow. I approach and lightly reach my hand to his forehead. I touch it, and it is somehow every bit as marble-like, and cold as I believed. I love its touch…I lust for it; and so I decide to play a more dangerous game. I unbutton his left shirtsleeve. It is just as I thought…fresh and familiar puncture wounds from that damnable habit. Holmes will be out for some hours more. I have plenty of time.
I push my arm up his shirt and start at his thin, hairless chest. My hands clumsily make their way down, past all the wonderful sinewy muscles and cold ice-like touch that feel as soft as velvet and smooth as silk, until they reach his trousers, and slip under. All the while I am on my knees, kneeling over him, careful not to cause some sharp movement to arouse his tendency of light sleeping. I am totally taken in by desire and curiosity and cannot restrain myself, and have no intention of doing so. My hand snakes its way to the bulge of his manhood. I caress the member and extend my fingers to tenderly clutch his sac. I feel his penis stiffen from my touch, and I confess that I feel a child-like glee at demanding such an action from this remarkable, bohemian man. I feel my own hardness raise and moan in pleasure. I stroke the wonderful anatomy, which to my hand judges quite long, yet not as hirsute as I would have thought, but every bit as silky and pleasurable to the touch as the rest of his faultless, lithe body.
I stare at his innocent, unaware face, now with a diminutive smile cross his features. His chest continues to raise and fall, now heavier. It is in a perfect rhythm with my delicate strokes. I lightly dare to touch his cheek with my free, outstretched hand, and am pleased to feel his searing face is in contrary to the rest of his cold body.
He coughs, and my lustful state is broken. I snap my hand back as quickly as my body lets me. I stand quickly, and dash to my room, carelessly knocking his violin on a side table to the ground. My door shuts quickly enough for me to lean my back on it as fall to the floor, my head in my hands. I am as utterly and perpetually in love with Sherlock Holmes as I am disgusted and shamed by allowing my traitorous hands to touch him. He is a prodigy amongst men, a luminous enigma totally separate amongst the rest of this mundane world. How many times have I stared at that distant expression of his, envious that he leaves all of us in the dust day-after-day with no effort whatsoever? Who am I to take such horrible liberties against him like I just have? I deserve to have my filthy hands torn off for this.
Even so…although I am disgusted, I am not regretful. I have yearned for this for years. Ever since his return from the accursed Reichenbach falls, the same old feelings come on harder as if making up for lost time. How dare I act upon them? An avalanche of tears and horrible feelings envelope me for hours it seems, until I fall into the worst, yet most appreciated sleep of my life.
Holmes is not home when I awake, still on the floor with aching muscles and a burning face. I am trying to entertain myself now by reading 'The Times,' and not daring to think about yesterday.
Holmes returns an hours after my awakening. He enters with the usual panther-like spring in his step and graceful yet quick manner. He smiles and nods at me briefly and hangs his coat on the rack next to the door. His hands always radiate such a grace, I love his hands. The sun shines in from the large bow window in our sitting room, and accentuates his frosty skin, and shiny black hair. He looks for the entire world like a Greek god. How can a man be so wonderful?
"Good morning, Holmes." I manage to say, feeling like an idiot for allowing myself to gawk at him so long.
"Watson," He begins to say, crossing over to the mantle in long graceful strides, his face never meeting mine. He begins to light his pipe. "The police force is a mess. I should like to give the man who had allowed Inspector George Lestrade charge of civilian life a thorough pummeling. If a man cannot distinguish the difference between the blue clay from the east end, and the blue clay from the Southern beaches of France, he is a complete fool."
I laugh merrily, partially because of his arrogance, and partially because of the great show he is making of lighting his pipe. I move to light a match for him as I speak.
"Holmes, not everyone has uncanny and seemingly useless knowledge stored in his mind like you do." His pipe is finally lit.
He appears a bit hurt, and puckers the stem, which causes me no small shiver of delight. "Useless Watson, is that what you think? I should not be exaggerating when I say that such knowledge is not a trifling factor in what has assisted you in the other half of the rent these past eight years!" He was beside himself. One does not insult Sherlock Holmes's pride without feeling the sharp consequences.
Although…I cannot say I dislike it when his pale face reddens and burns, or when his calm, grey eyes smolder in some intense internal fury. It reminds me that he is, after all, human. And that look is one of my favorites. But I cannot allow him to know this, so I act the mere roommate and friend, and shake my head, hoping he doesn't see the lust in my eyes.
"Really Holmes, I am quite aware of the value you place on trifles. I was merely pointing out that most men--ordinary men—do not take the time or energy to collect dirt samples and clay samples, cigarette, cigar, pipe tobacco, and every other kind of sample under the sun. You must know that you are unique in your field of knowledge. But if you think I regard your intelligence so shabbily, I may as well be quit of you now!" I am growing angrier by the moment. I know that I am over-reacting, but I really cannot withstand this closeness to him at the moment. He's too intoxicating. Giving in to my desires has opened a new experience of emotion and longing that has previously been closed to me. I just want to be gone.
In my attempt to leave, I feel his iron grip upon me. I look down and see his skeleton-like, chemical-stained fingers clench my tanned, rough wrist, and I am his. I always have been his. I make no effort to move.
"My very sincere apologies, Watson, I am merely unusually frustrated by my fellow man today." He says in that downy, charming voice he employs to allure his less stable clients and to woe women into bending to his will when they otherwise would gawk at his loveliness like the rest of us…like me. I know he has learned that applying this tone always rewards him with my acceptance. I could curse the man.
But I'll be damned if I remain this close to the man any longer. I merely huff and grab my coat with more force than needed. "You are forgiven as always, Mr. Holmes." I growl as I slam the door on a very confused Sherlock Holmes staring back at me.