III: Set Down Your Glass

My jumper tears,
As we take it off.
And you say you'll sew me good as new and I know you will.

And I'm shaken then I'm still,
When your eyes meet mine I lose simple skills.
Like to tell you all I want is now.

…

We don't say anything to each other as the taxi weaves effortlessly through the straggling late-night London traffic. I don't think we even look at each other, but that's ok because I can hear him breathing and that's enough for me. I don't want to talk, to discuss, or procrastinate. Just this once, I want to feel and do. I haven't wanted that for a long time.

We arrive at Baker Street and I look up at the Victorian buildings and the gleaming number on the black door in front of us that proclaims '221'. He leads me inside, stopping at the door marked with a brass 'B', slotting a key into the Yale lock and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from reaching out to touch his hand. We still don't speak as I follow him inside his flat and he puts deliberate space between us. The silence should calm me, but in reality, it riles me up more than any speech could. The only sounds I can hear are his deliberate breathing and his feet pacing across the room. In a second, his head snaps up and he walks towards me with a determination I haven't seen since my time aboard The Crucible. His hands fly to my wrists, pinning them above my head as his lips finally, blissfully, crash against mine in a desperate bid for control over something that we haven't quite defined yet. Maybe we're rushing into something, but his lips on mine aren't clumsy or wet; they're fire, and they're ice, and somewhere in the midst of the chaos that my thoughts have become, I think that I can smell leather for a moment. Only this time, I let my imagination consume me. I gasp out for breath, clutching at the precious oxygen from the air as his lips move with carefully detached precision down my neck and along my collarbone. He is no longer holding my wrists, but even in their freedom, I still find them scrabbling for some purchase on the smooth mahogany of the door; anything to keep myself upright as his clever tongue explores my body.

All too suddenly, there is nothing, merely cool air settling into the hot trail of his kisses on my skin. I open my eyes to see him staring at me as if deep in thought. Self-consciousness sweeps over me like a white-hot blush and I smooth my dress down, pulling it a little further down my legs than it's really meant to go.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asks, and I'm beyond puzzled.

"W-what?" I stammer, still wondering what the hell is going on.

"The necklace, the boyfriend, the martini…" he says, as if it should make perfect sense. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"You mean you were thinking about psycho-analysis while you were doing…that?" I gesture wildly, completely incredulous.

He looks at me in that unabashed way that he does so well and simply says, "Yes. Did I get anything wrong?"

"Yes," I mutter, a little too viciously than I truly mean to. "There was never any shine between us."

There is silence for a moment; the pause hanging in the stuffy air like a promise until he finally speaks. "Good. That's an error I can live with." Within a second, his lips are on mine again and I can almost taste the victory of his latest assessment on his tongue; it just serves to remind me how right I was that every man is the same territorial bastard.

I take a moment in the haze to reflect on kissing. It can be soft, hard, demanding, passionate, yielding; you name it, a kiss can embody it. And yet with Sherlock, no kiss feels the same, no kiss has the same emotion or urgency as the last one. The only link between his lips and my skin is the burning trail he leaves along it. It almost makes me laugh out loud at the idea that even his kisses are an enigma.

His hands across my skin are light, gentle as if he is almost afraid of breaking me. The most feathery of his touches sends me into a furore of sensations, threatening to weaken me and give over all my power to him. I pull him back, pushing his long black overcoat off his shoulders, followed closely by his dinner jacket, as I marvel at the beautifully hidden planes of his chest and the slight, sculpted shoulders that are to be seen only by me. I revel in the possessive nature of it all, this act of rebellion with a stranger who seems so familiar to me that I almost hear the whir of a screwdriver and catch the faint scent of bananas. Similar, but not the same; it's more comfortable this way. Healing. Like a drug that I could never get a prescription for. A placebo.

We never talk; not as he unzips the back of my scarlet silk dress, letting the material fall carelessly into his waiting hands, not as I remove his shirt, ripping off two buttons in the process. The moves are just like our dance earlier in the evening – effortless and familiar, as if we have practiced the moves so many times before, ready for this very performance. He slips the back of my bra out of its hooks letting it fall to the floor along with my dress and I suddenly wonder why I don't feel exposed to this stranger's eyes, but all that is forgotten when he cups my breasts in his soft palms, rubbing the nipples gently as I begin to think that I must have forgotten what surrender felt like until that moment. I give myself over to the moment and the touch of his hand, reaching my own out to stroke down his naked chest. If I close my eyes, I can imagine whomever I want, and I somehow don't feel guilty for it. It's quietly freeing.

I open my eyes to find the piercing grey-blue of his boring into me. The intensity of his gaze shakes me from my pretence and suddenly I'm caught in the moment again and the movements seem more pronounced, less controlled, as he pushes me onto the bed and tears my knickers off, burying his dark curly head between my thighs until I feel the heat of his tongue against my clit, licking experimentally and curving upwards, making me let out noises I didn't know I was capable of. The frustration and bitterness that surrounds my everyday existence comes to a head because of this wonderful chance to escape and suddenly my body is tensing and I come silently, my mouth open, my face wet with the tears I didn't realise I was crying.

Reciprocation seems moot at this point; I owe this man nothing, and he expects nothing from me as he peels off his purple boxers and pushes his cock inside me. Taking and giving, like a contract that we have yet to sign off on; our souls for one night of escape. But how can I give this up after just one taste of such exquisite freedom? His hips roll above mine, thrusting carelessly, roughly even, as if this is his one chance to completely lose control. I feel a flush running through my veins and almost as soon, his thrusts become more erratic, giving themselves over to whatever nature has in mind for us. We come together, each shouting a different name that neither of us wants to own up to or explain. It's enough.

He collapses on top of me and then rolls away. I lay my head on his slender chest, settling to sleep above the rise and fall of his breathing as he collects himself and it calms. My mind is foggy with the sluggish spread of exhaustion and, a lazy smile warming my face, I lace my fingers between his, whispering, "That should have been our first time…"

He lifts my chin with the index finger of the hand he extracts from mine, his expression sharp and quizzical, despite his obvious tiredness. "It was," he says slowly, deliberately, his eyes focusing on mine before he turns his head away. I lay awake for hours, dozing in and out of consciousness, ticking my words over in my mind. I understand perfectly…but I wish I didn't…