I want to tell myself about the time I fell in love with a mythical creature.

Its name was Sherlock Holmes. I'm not going to dwell on what it looked like- I'd like to keep that gem of information to myself. Enough to say it was as pure as a unicorn, and just as rare.

I try not to let the pictures crawl into my mind. But I know they will with the same clarity a child knows that The Monster will eventually creep up from under the bed. Better to take cover and wait for the dawn.

My first impression of him was "pale". Vampyric pallor, stretched across monk-like limbs. So thin. I walked into the room and he raised his head, startled, and looked at me like the bearer of All Bad News in the world: I had managed to surprise him. A flash of fear and recognition, and at once I knew- yes, I think I knew- I was in love. I do not know if all new lovers feel like this in the beginning. I certainly did.

"One more 'I remember' and I'm gutting your bowels," I hear him saying through gritted teeth. Always so ambivalent, my Sherlock. But I remember his eyes closing, fluttering like birds' wings, groaning into my naked chest and holding on for dear pleasure. How could I not remember that?

"There's a problem with mythical creatures," I say.

"What's the problem?"

"They're not real."

Wait, what's the problem? You reply with a smile.

Back from my cigarette break.

An old man eyes me suspiciously as I search for my lighter, then generously offers me his.

"I've never seen a doctor smoke before," He comments as he shields me from the wind.

I chuckle and hand him back the light.

A few days ago I walk in on him in the empty bathtub. He is naked, grim, with a pen in his hand. I ask him what he is doing. He doesn't look back at me as he replies that he's marking all the scars on his body, counting them.

Why this scene of all scenes, Watson? Perhaps because I didn't tell you that you're perfect. Instead I backed away and lent you some privacy. It's a rare enough commodity, these days.

My rare and troubled creature has difficulties adjusting to its new surroundings. It moves its suitcase from here to there, finally settling on the couch with a huff. I eye him wondrously, not sure of what to do. I'm used to sharing my beddings from my time in Afghanistan- but here, in Civilized London, it somehow doesn't feel the same.

"I hope you don't mind me playing the violin in the middle of the night," He says matter-of-factly.

"Not at all," I reply blandly, not really listening as I make myself some tea.

"I thought so, since you appear to have a tendency to scream in your sleep- so you must be used to noise." I gape at

Sherlock. "It's one of the reasons I decided to take the flat in the first place." He adds brightly. How did he know that?

Sherlock. His hair. His fists. The way he cocks his head when he's amused.

I am totally, incredibly, head-over-heels in love with Sherlock. Gay love. Gay Sherlock?

Ha! I wish. The man has never had a dirty thought in his life, let alone a real lover. Which leaves me standing here, cock in hand, streaming water becoming increasingly colder as I pump up and down through gritted teeth.

John Watson- MD, war vet and all-around tough guy- wanking around like an amorous teenager. Even my internal narrator is slightly horrified.

"John?"

I shudder, trying to make the feeling last. I close my eyes and imagine that he's here with me, crying out my name because I'm fucking him hard from behind- and not, as things were, as he knocks annoyingly hard on the wooden door.

"John!"

I come just in time with his voice. My mind blanks out for one miserable, marvelous second as I double over and silently mouth curses into my hand.

"John? Is everything all right? I need to take a shower and you've been in the bathroom for ages!"

"Shi- Uh, I'm just cleaning myself up!" I stutter. I wash the cum from my hand and towel myself. Try and hide that blush, fool, I scold at my reflection. But the delicious thought of Sherlock's slightly annoyed features as I take my exit brings another rush of color to my face.

"Shit. John. I'm not- I mean- I've never done this before." His eyes burst open and I'm flooded with grey before he backs away again. "Sherlock." I can almost hear his mind whirring, trying to catalogue, to compare, to analyze. "Sherlock!" I need to turn him off somehow, to make him focus. I stroke his chin and force his gaze to meet mine once more. I bring our heads together, but instead of kissing him I touch his forehead to mine. "Listen to me. It's alright. I'll show you." His lips part slightly. At first we touch gently, barely feeling the other's skin. Then I grasp him hungrily and deepen the kiss, my tongue prying his lips open, trying to get inside.

This is what I'm going to do to you.

At first he doesn't understand, but then he opens up and lets me take control.

His shirt seems to melt away. I can't help myself- I have to kiss the skin I've just discovered, the skin I've never truly touched before. He makes a small sound and presses closer against me. His fingers, all ten wonderful digits of them, find their way to the front of my pants and start rubbing against the fabric. Shit Shit Shit Shit, I breathe.

"Take off your shirt, Captain." He orders playfully.

We're both shirtless, my erection is straining, and I have to do something to make sure that this is not real. I slowly drop to my knees in front of him.

(What kind of man would you like to be? I ask teasingly from below.)

He opens his mouth and gives me some kind of answer but I'm not really listening because my body is doing the thinking for me. "A beautiful man. A man you admire."

I can feel his temperature through the cloth, can hear his pulse racing through the air.

Sherlock buries one hand in my scalp and uses the other to open his fly.

When I grasp his length it's enormous, when I put him in my mouth it's just right.