"…The expression of a well-made man appears not
only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in
the joints of his hips and wrists…"
Did he know? So mesmerising. His limbs glided through the air to align with each other. His joints were smooth, unmarred. When he walked, it could have been on air.
When he was surprised, pushed, punched, he held a grace that was almost unworldly. John figured that it was so much more noticeable due to the fact he had been around stiff, tense, organised movement all his life. War was not a place for elegance. Did that explain his unhindered interest in the way Sherlock Holmes moved?
Inclined forwards, over a dead body, his hips swayed. While running, they swung from side to side, no curve, no clicking of joints. Velvet. Suave. And his wrists? They were loose and mobile. One of the more active parts of his body. They revolved swiftly, the smallest fraction of movement conveyed infinitely. Chalky, creamy white skin spread like warm butter over the bulging bone (the ulna). His veins, vivid against the complexion of his skin, trailed in a string of blue and turquoise. Such small, minute details. And John saw. Oh, he saw.
Wants to press lips to the veins – taste, smell, absorb. Would he arch sinuously?
"…It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex
of his waist and knees—dress does not
hide him,
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes
through the cotton and flannel…"
Thin fabric stretched across Sherlock's chest. It fluctuated and contorted as he strode - no suit jacket. Donned with a coat and scarf, it was no less molten. He travelled with a solid stance, pale neck expressive, knees unflawed, waist released and watered.
Clothes were an obstruction and yet weren't. The weight did nothing to hamper Sherlock's fluidness. Dark navy shirts rippled like waves, coat emanated his flow, trousers pinched and pulled in places that throbbed. John wondered what it would be like without them. Would Sherlock's body move with equal beauty?
Dry mouth, flushed cheeks, chapped lips. Tongue darts out to dry them.
"…To see him pass conveys as much as the best
poem, perhaps more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his
neck and shoulder-side…
Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the
ears…"
Snowy shirt - it echoes in the coolness of his skin. Translucent, the shadow of his back glows. Darker shades are produced when he moves his shoulders, the blades slicing through the white ice. John can only imagine how it would be like to see it bare. Freckles, sparks of imperfection – would there be any?
Sodden tendrils of his luscious brown curls stuck to the back of his lengthy stretch of neck. If they were longer, the brown dripping past his gloriously slim shoulders, would it contrast against his naked skin? All swept over one shoulder, entwined together.
Deadly burn, severs itself throughout his body, downwards, further. Pleasurable hardness arose, ferocious and thick.
"...Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and
the waking or sleeping of the lids,
Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth,
jaws, and the jaw-hinges…"
Shimmered, polished, iridescent. An impossible blend of ash, grass and sky. John, as a doctor, was enthralled. It was his favourite part of Sherlock. So much was spoken with those hopeless, unviable gems. John's crystal ball of emotion. Loud, sharp, unspeakable eyes, lined with thick strokes of black. Eyelashes, fringes of the eyes, protruding and pert and beckoning. How would it feel?
Fluttered eyelashes against his chest.
Half-heart lips, always damp. Wide, part delicately; thin, quick tongue darts out to satiate once dry. Gleaming, white pearls, rarely visible and for good reason. They were magical jewels that could steal your invisible breath and patter your heart with running kisses.
Oh, John craved. Dangerous, unavoidable hunger. A vacant thirst that lingered eternally. He wanted his own bland, boring tongue around Sherlock's. He wanted to explore and conquer.
"John?"
Eyes rise upwards, gazes lock. They're standing, loose, breathless, in the flat. Case over, adrenaline thrumming.
No better time.
John's there, twitching hands pressed into Sherlock's shoulders. Those shoulders – damn, those shoulders – his mouth devouring Sherlock, consuming him. Want, need, lust, regret, relief. Sherlock's hands, fingers, knuckles, fingernails, captures his hair and pushes harder, lips submerged and famished.
Those hands. Those angelic, perfect hands. Such tiny, lonely fractions of movements that leaked fire. He loved to touch. Sherlock stroked pipettes, glass, material, phones, skulls, technology, his own fingernails. So unrequited, the contact.
The shirt is off, releasing a fountain of buttons. Oh, oh, oh. Magnificent. Exquisite. No time to waste. John dives down, tongue flat, wet and rough against that pert nipple, so immaculate, surrounded by a moat of pink.
The sound Sherlock makes is heavenly. A guttural, chiselled groan that reverberates though John's body. John, mind hazy, flusters with Sherlock's trousers. They're down, boxers too, and his erection pops loose. John's warm, trembling hand covers it.
Higher, stronger, intense – Sherlock's moan steals his breath. Those gentle hips break their reverie by jerking into John's grip. Those eyes, hidden from the world, squeezed shut into a mass of perfect little wrinkles. That mouth, so controlled, is now split, gasping and begging in time with John's rapid movements. Lubricated, slippery and quick, John watches, wide-eyed, picking up every detail.
Sherlock's jawline, pulsing and contorting. He leans forward to bite it.
It lines a perfect face. A streak of architecture, built with only the best material. Silk, cotton and cream. When angered or frustrated, it pulses. John wants to lean forwards and kiss away the rhythm. Pure jawline.
"John, John. I…I think I'm going to..." His voice, perfect resonance, untameable melody. John's too aroused, the pain is pleasure. He wants to watch Sherlock.
"Sherlock," he gasps into the shell of those ears that never listen. The lust and relentless passion sends Sherlock over the edge.
He arches. Oh, he really arches. His head slams back against the wallpaper, his neck bulging upwards and revealing the tantalising contours of bone and skin. The chest pushes towards the world, ribs shuddering and stomach thrumming. Hot, thick liquid coats John's hand and John trails his index finger up the quivering chest, watching with painful interest as the trail shines.
"…Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of
the neck, neck-slue…"
Sherlock's panting, inhaling oxygen like a hungry child. John leans forwards and plants kisses across his face. The mountainous cheekbones, the marred forehead, the round chin, the mouth-watering throat. And then his coated hand tugs gently at the tendrils on the back of Sherlock's neck. John's lips are at Sherlock's ear again. He opens his mouth, breath hot, and whispers;
"You're art, Sherlock."
Poem: I Sing the Body Electric
By Walt Whitman