Transport Me
John reminded Sherlock there was no food in the fridge. Sherlock grinned broadly and said he was in the mood for seafood and knew just the place. The service was fast, the food was as good as advertised, and soon John felt up for conversation.
"Sometimes I don't understand you. You spent most of this evening engaged in "transport" not brainwork, but I can't remember when you've looked happier."
And more alive, and more commanding. I wonder if you know how sensual you are when you move.
"Ah, you're referring to what I said that night at Angelo's. I wasn't lying. You just misunderstood."
But I knew you'd catch on, tonight, perhaps. Yes, definitely, it has to be tonight.
"How so?"
Don't lie, Sherlock. I can handle it. Although, if I watch you suck in and savor another oyster (Oh, god, you did!) I may pass out.
"Observations and deductions are the foundation of my work. But if I didn't enjoy the physical aspects as well, I'd be Mycroft, hiding behind a desk in an insular office, sifting through security memos and statistics."
But instead, I'm out with you, John. If I fed you some of my desert, my fork entering then sliding slowly out of your mouth, would you blush? I'd like that.
"So you do enjoy "transport"?"
Oh, that sounded too hopeful. I don't care. And better still, he knows I don't care.
"Not for its own sake. It has to support the work."
It has to fit. It has to feel right, like it's part of me. And I've been taking your measure, Doctor, and you fit me like a tight latex glove.
"Do I support your work?"
I'm stronger than I look, Sherlock. I could show you. You think you know everything about me, but I will make you look again.
"Oh, decidedly so."
That smile, John, would look so much nicer when viewed from another angle. Where's that bloody waiter?
"Glad to help."
Just say when, Sherlock. I know where, and I sure as hell know how.
"Let's go. I have cash; no need to wait for the check."
Now, John-I need you now!
-fin-