"Do you want to talk about it?"
I continue stroking his forearm, taking pleasure in the way the fine hairs tickle my palm. It's a rare moment when Sherlock allows me to get this close. Usually he's on the verge of some sort of breakdown - Irene, potential drug relapse, both. At first I thought it was that he didn't like to be touched, but lately I've wondered if I have it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he likes it too much. I tug at his arm until his hand unsticks itself from the bed and hangs limply in mine. Sherlock has turned me into an excellent investigator. It's why I did some digging into sensory perception sensitivity and why I suspect Sherlock to be one of these highly sensitive persons. Looking back, I knew by our second day together that he was a man capable of great connection but one who was also incredibly afraid.
"I don't know what you're talking about Watson."
His voice comes out strangled, as if he's been cornered, and in a way I suppose he has. But he put himself in my room. As he so often does. I trace each digit with my index finger, memorizing the feel of them in case I never get another opportunity. It seems silly but I envy his sexual partners sometimes. I who have so much of him, more than anyone I suspect (except maybe for Irene), jealous of the women who occupy his bed.
And yet, on the nights when he's feeling particularly vigorous and I happen to be making tea in the kitchen, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have all of him. To feel this calloused fingertips slide against my bare skin after a particularly difficult case. In so many ways this man is mine, my permanent partner, and just once I want to feel his lips on mine. It's a greedy thought, one I don't often indulge. Tonight however is a different story.
"Okay."
His eyes can't meet mine, though he makes a valiant effort. I watch as they flicker up to the spot just above my eyebrows and back down to my lips. Does he feel something too? Sherlock has made plenty of sexual innuendos throughout the years but I've always figured any initial attraction he might've felt fizzled out long ago.
"Watson?"
Sherlock clears his throat, catching my attention. I was so tucked away in my own musings I failed to notice he is unconsciously returning my touch - caressing the underside of my hand as I trace patterns in his skin. I should stop now, respect the boundaries we've spent years tending. But they're crumbling the longer we live together whether we like it or not.
"I'm sorry" I say softly, dragging my hand away and tucking it under my other arm. The pull to continue touching him is so strong, I wonder idly if I should ask him to leave. But Sherlock, like the overgrown child he is, will take that as rejection and I will never reject him.
"Not at all." He leans down on one elbow, close enough for our lips to touch. He's slowing his breathing down. I watch in fascination as his nostrils flare slightly, wondering what he would do if I claimed him right here and now. Judging by the dilation of his eyes, he's certainly considering something similar.
"Go to sleep Watson," he says, placing a chaste kiss on my forehead. The spot burns as he disappears into the darkness, closing the door behind him. Sleep. As if I could sleep after the most romantic moment I've ever shared with Sherlock Holmes. I fall onto my back, laughing. My most romantic moment with Sherlock - allowing me to touch his hand and kissing me on the forehead. I was pathetic.
Tomorrow we are going back on trueromantix and we are not stopping until we've found someone to sleep with. Love is no longer something I'm searching for. After Andrew, I realize that no one will be safe from my life with Sherlock. But as the man has reminded me several times, sex is a biological imperative - one I would need in order to focus. And not to fantasize. I kick off the covers suddenly hot despite the snow right outside my window.
Two minutes pass before I realize I'm wide awake. Damn Sherlock and his prowling. I can still feel the place where his lips met skin, can still imagine the feel of his fingers. I close my eyes, sliding my hand down my breasts, tweaking them in my fingers, imagining him hovering over me in the way he so often does. My other hand drifts lower, across my stomach to the wet juncture between my thighs.
"Mmm Sherlock," I moan, louder than expected. My body is ready and in need of the fingers dipping deep inside. I make quick work of it, getting incredibly close in minutes, the squelching sound of my fingers rapidly pumping my wetness piercing the night. So close, my mind chants, painting Sherlock's face in my thoughts. It's only when I get close to orgasm that I hear it, the slightest creak outside my door. Tell me he didn't hear that. I stay frozen for a good minute, feeling a tiny bit guilty about fantasizing about my partner, until I'm sure I'm alone.
It's only as my body relaxes and I drift back into reality that I wonder what my partner would make of me touching myself while thinking of him. I doubt he would be disgusted, Sherlock is much too liberated for that. If he were in a good mood, he'd probably ask whether his fantasy self performed to my satisfaction. Worst case scenario he'd be unsettled. I frown at my ceiling, now more awake than I was before.
