Pax VIII
Christmas Morning
When John opened his eyes the next morning, he came face-to-face with Sherlock's great gray eyes. Sherlock lay on his side, silently watching John, his head resting in his palm.
"What the hell!" John yelped. "Don't do that to me, Sherlock. You scared me."
"It's not the first time I've watched you when you were sleeping," Sherlock admitted.
"That's so reassuring," John said sarcastically. "So, tell me, what did you learn about me from the way I snore?"
"You don't snore, for one thing. You like to sleep on your back, which is why you didn't stay in my arms for long last night. But most people find it uncomfortable to sleep on their backs and will only sleep that way if other positions are even more uncomfortable. So, I surmise that you developed the habit of sleeping on your back after you were shot in the shoulder. As anyone with an injury to the chest or shoulder will tell you, the best sleeping position is on your back."
"But sometimes I sleep on my right side," John pointed out.
"You would, because it still hurts to sleep on your left, correct?" John nodded. "But it's interesting that you sleep on your back most of the time, and not on your side, because sleeping face-up leaves you very open and exposed. It's not the position I would expect someone with nightmares to prefer. Hence, I conclude that you feel safe sleeping next to me. Very satisfactory finding, I think." Sherlock smiled and looked down at John, stroking his hair away from his forehead. He traced John's hairline with his fingers, noticing how his lover's hair was fairest around his face.
"When you put it that way," John said, "it's hard to complain about you 'deducing' me. Good morning, by the way. How did you sleep?
"Why don't you tell me, John?" Sherlock reached down and kissed John's forehead. John sighed. It was this that was going to undo him: this unexpected tenderness from Sherlock. Remembering what Sherlock had done to him the night before, John closed his eyes for a second before answering.
"From the looks of things, you've been awake for a while, but you haven't got out of bed yet, so not too long. I expect you slept later than usual for you, if you slept at all. Am I right?"
"You're right." Sherlock lay down on his back, stretching his arms high above his head and arching his back like a cat. "Mmmm."
John lay next to him, his hands behind his head. "So, Sherlock. This is the 'morning after.' What was it that you said you wanted to do today?"
Sherlock rolled over suddenly and pinned John down. "First," he said, "I suggest we both brush our teeth and take a shower."
"Ever practical, Sherlock," John said. "OK, who's first, you or me?"
"You go, John. I'll jump in when you're done."
"Are you sure you don't want to join me?" John asked, hopefully. He still hadn't seen Sherlock naked and he was more than a little curious. But Sherlock shook his head.
Once John was done, Sherlock took his turn. He wrapped himself in his blue dressing gown and returned to the bedroom. John was seated on the edge of the high bed, wearing trousers and beginning to button up his shirt.
"Planning to go somewhere?" Sherlock smirked. John looked up.
"Err—not if you'd rather stay here," John said. "I just – I didn't want to jump to conclusions."
Sherlock laughed. "Of course I want to stay here, John. In bed," he clarified. "With you." Sherlock stepped closer to John and put his hands on the doctor's shoulders. John spread his legs and pulled Sherlock snug between his knees, grabbing the backs of Sherlock's thighs as he did so. Sherlock let out a pleased little yelp as John's hands moved upwards and grazed over his buttocks. Then they reached for each other, kissing frantically and purposefully. John could feel the stubble on Sherlock's chin and imagined that his cheek must feel the same to Sherlock.
It had been several years since John had kissed a man, and he was reminded anew of just how different it was – but still very pleasant – from kissing a woman. John wouldn't have characterised any of his former girlfriends as 'passive' or 'restrained,' but he had always felt the expectation, from them and from himself, to take the lead in these kinds of situations. Even a kiss could reflect a hierarchy, he realized, as Sherlock continued to work his mouth over John's. It didn't surprise him that Sherlock would want to be dominant in bed, and for once John was happy to cede this particular responsibility, but he also looked forward to seeing Sherlock lose some of his control. For now, however, it was lovely to feel Sherlock push him down and onto the bed, to grip his legs tightly around Sherlock's waist, and to listen to Sherlock's sharp breath as their groins met. And it was ever so pleasant to lie back and let Sherlock suck on his neck, and work his mouth across John's collarbone, and for John to realize that not only was he allowing Sherlock to explore his scar, but he found himself actually anticipating the feel of Sherlock's mouth over the wound. When Sherlock drew an outline around the scar with his tongue, John felt his chest grow tighter as he involuntarily blurted out Sherlock's name.
"Shh, John," Sherlock said, fearing he had startled John. "Let me touch you like this. I won't hurt you."
"I know you won't hurt me," John said. "I'm just – surprised that I like it so much. What you're doing with your mouth."
"I'm so very glad that you think so," Sherlock murmured, still running his mouth over John's skin. "What else would you like me to do?"
John sighed. Could this man possibly be any more desirable? Unlikely.
John sat up, pushing back against Sherlock to give himself some room as he removed his shirt. Then he scooted backwards a foot, making space for Sherlock to sit in front of him, on the edge of the bed. John reached for Sherlock and turned his friend around, then pulled him close so that Sherlock was sitting on the bed, his back flat against John's chest. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's ribs and kissed the nape of Sherlock's neck.
"You are incredible, Sherlock," John whispered. "After what you did to me last night, I should be the one asking you what you like."
"There will be time for that, John," Sherlock said. "But you have to let me touch you again first. I can't stand not knowing everything about you."
John laughed, continuing to kiss Sherlock's neck as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair. "I understand the urgency, Sherlock. I feel the same way. I want you." He moved his fingers lower, brushing against Sherlock's neck again as he began to slide Sherlock's dressing gown off his shoulders. He ran his fingers over Sherlock's upper back, noticing how his shoulder blades jutted out under the blue silk. Sherlock arched his neck, dropping his head backwards as John ran a finger down his spinal column, stopping at each vertebra before reaching the sash that held the gown together. It was snugly fastened in front, and John couldn't resist sneaking his hands around Sherlock's waist and tugging at one end of the sash, loosening the knot. But Sherlock grabbed John's hands, stilling them as he said, "Not now, John." Instead, John moved his hands lower, resting them on the top of Sherlock's thighs, where his legs met his hips, and returned to kissing Sherlock's delectable neck.
John liked the feel of Sherlock seated between his legs; as they were facing the same direction, it gave John a slight advantage because Sherlock couldn't see what he was doing, and he couldn't guess where John's hands and mouth would go next. John spent some time kissing the back of Sherlock's neck and his upper back, surprised again at how smooth the other man's skin was. It is as if he has never seen the sun, never formed a single wrinkle, John thought. Or maybe I'm just used to seeing the sunburnt bodies of our troops in the operating theatre. John nudged closer to Sherlock, spreading his legs wider so that his inner legs pressed hard against Sherlock's lower back. When John leaned his hips forward, Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. He could feel John's groin move against his buttocks, and it excited him to know that John was behind him, choosing the direction that things would take.
"Remember what I said last night," John said. "We don't have to move quickly. We can take our time." Sherlock grunted in response, his hands tightly gripping the sheets. John reached and took Sherlock's hands in his, running his fingers over Sherlock's as he continued to murmur, "I want to learn your body, Sherlock. I want to know what you like, what you want from me." He paused. "What do you want?"
"I want you, John," Sherlock said. "I want – I want you to be my – my lover." His voice broke on the last word, as if he were unaccustomed to saying it.
"I think we're already lovers, Sherlock," John said. "That happened last night, when you got me off. If you want to be technical about things." John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and joined his hands together round Sherlock's chest. He rocked them slightly as he spoke.
"Yes, I think I do want to be technical. What constitutes being someone's lover, John? Did you say that I was your lover because I gave you an orgasm? Does that mean that I'm your lover, but you're not mine? Would it have been any different if I had just kissed you and held you last night? I would have felt the same way about you even if we hadn't kissed at all." Sherlock swivelled his long neck, trying to look at John's expression, but John's head remained down, tucked into Sherlock's shoulder.
John held Sherlock tightly. "I'm very glad to hear that, Sherlock." He laughed. "But I think there is something different that happens when two people become physically intimate."
"No euphemisms, John. I can't understand you when you use euphemisms."
John sighed. "Well, I guess by 'physically intimate' I mean when two people touch each other with some romantic or sexual intent. God, here I am turning into you, giving dictionary definitions of things!"
"Continue, please," Sherlock said.
"It could be a kiss or just holding hands, as far as I'm concerned; it doesn't need to involve genitalia." John blushed. "Is this blunt enough for you, Sherlock?"
"Mmm-hmmm."
"I don't think, Sherlock, that it matters whether we are talking about a man and a woman, or two women, or two men." He paused, and laughed, hugging Sherlock more closely to him. "Well, obviously I don't just go for that 'natural law' shite about love only being between a man and woman."
"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, but he smiled despite himself.
"I'm mentioning this because it's important, Sherlock. The way that we love is important. It's important to know what we consider love, and what we consider sex."
"Did we have sex last night?" Sherlock asked, curious? "Or was it love?"
"Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock. You ask impossible questions. And that is why I am crazy about you."
"Why are they impossible?"
"Why am I the one who is supposed to have all the answers?"
"Touché."
"Are you going to let me finish what I was saying, or are you going to keep asking me questions?"
"Sorry, John. I'll listen. Go on."
"It was one thing for us to share a bed three nights ago; it's another thing entirely to have woken up together this morning."
"Hmmm," Sherlock said. "Interesting. Go on."
"Something changed when you kissed me outside of the pastry shop. We went from friends to - something more than friends. I don't know if I would call us lovers at that point."
"But there was physical intimacy," Sherlock said. "The kiss."
"Yes, the kiss. That signalled your intent. Towards me."
"I thought I had signalled it when we were at the museum, when I told you that I wanted to try a relationship with you."
"Yes, you silly, silly man," John said. "But that was a bit like what happened when I told you in Wales that I wanted a relationship with you, and you rejected me! It takes two to tango, as they say."
"Trite. Let's avoid those kinds of sayings; they remind me too much of Mycroft." John shuddered.
"Sorry. All this to say is - I don't know where to draw the line, Sherlock. When did we cross over from being friends to being lovers? Was it when you kissed me for the first time? Or was it when we came back here, together, and you - you -"
" 'Got you off'?" Sherlock asked. "I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I'd never given it much thought before this morning. That's why I asked you. I figured that an army doctor, with your knowledge of the world, would have better formed opinions on the matter than I do. I have never been in a relationship before, after all, and this one is less than 24 hours old."
"This relationship began when you saw me enter the lab at St. Bart's," John said. "Don't pretend otherwise. And I'm not sure whether to be flattered or not that you think I am so wise in the ways of sex." John laughed. "I would have thought that you might have used a little of your considerable brain power to categorize all the varieties of sexual experience."
"Categorization is not the same thing as caring about someone," Sherlock said huffily. "And I am not a walking encyclopaedia of sexual techniques, despite what you may believe."
John giggled. "You aren't? Then what was I getting myself into here?"
"John."
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"You aren't being serious."
"No, I'm not. I don't care if you've memorised the Kama Sutra or are a virgin. It's not important. The important thing is that you're here, with me. And I'll take you any way I can get you."
"Madonna or whore?" Sherlock said slyly.
"Now you're the one who's joking. Do you know what I love, Sherlock? I love this. Just being here, pressed against each other, talking about being lovers and what it means to be a lover. I don't know the exact definition, but I know that I love the idea of you being my lover. God," he paused, overcome with emotion, "do you know what I would have given, six months ago, to have you say these things to me? To have this conversation?" Sherlock stiffened perceptibly. "Sherlock, I'm not saying that to criticize you. I'm telling you this because I want you to know how unbelievable it is for me to be here, with you, holding you and kissing you and just being here with you. What an incredible privilege it is."
Sherlock huffed. "It's hardly a privilege to be with me, John," he said sardonically.
"It is," John said. "And I won't ever stop telling you that."
"Are you serious, John?" Sherlock turned around fully and pushed John back onto the bed, lying over the doctor as he supported his body weight on his forearms. Sherlock's gaze was intense and almost sinister; John would have hated to have been a suspect under his interrogation.
"As serious as I can be, Sherlock," John said. "Now, as much as I enjoy discussing the ins and outs of our budding relationship - and believe me, it's rare to find a partner this communicative so early in the game - if you excuse me, there's something else on my mind right now." As an afterthought, feeling Sherlock's weight on him, he added, "And on my body, too."
"Are you saying that you'd like to proceed with physical intimacy?"
"I thought you'd never ask," John said, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss.
They kissed with a renewed vigour, as if their conversation had given them new ideas about the other and what it meant to be there, at that moment, commencing the physical part of their relationship.
John, your lips, there, across my neck, Sherlock thought. Yes. Can you doubt how I feel about you, when I am panting your name as if it were a mantra? Can you doubt it now, when I am dragging my fingers across your chest, mapping your beautiful, broken body with my palms? The fact that you are broken makes you all the more precious to me. I could not be with someone who was perfect, or with someone who demanded perfection from me; too many people have tried and failed. I'm not superhuman; I am so very terribly human, and thus broken. How could it be otherwise? That is why I wanted to show you Rodin's Adam and Eve, to have you see that I believe in The Fall, yes, with uppercase letters, The Fall as Milton wrote about it: the imperfection of our nature is what permits us to find grace.
And so I love your scars, your burns, the bruise under your ribs – where did that come from, John? Did it come from my fingers, last night, when I held you as you slept? I did not sleep, John, or if I did, I dreamed a dream that was the same as wakefulness: I dreamed that I was next to you, and you were restful, at peace, and I had done something to put you in that state. You slept because of me.
"Sherlock," John said, interrupting his reverie. "Stop thinking so much. Come back to me."
"Oh, John," Sherlock said. "I have thought of something else that I want to tell you."
"Can it wait?" John asked. "Because I very much want to keep kissing you. And I can't kiss you if you are talking to me."
Sherlock responded by dragging his mouth across John's chest, licking the areola of John's left nipple until John groaned with pleasure, convinced by this demonstration that Sherlock's mouth was now too occupied for speech.
Sherlock moved his mouth lower, following the trail of golden hair that ran from the centre of John's ribs and downward, to parts hidden by his trousers. John moved his hands to his fly, loosening the button and the zipper before he grabbed the waist of his trousers and pulled them, and his pants, off entirely. He lay naked beneath Sherlock.
"You are far too dressed right now," John said huskily. "I need to see you. Now." He reached up to pull again on the sash of Sherlock's robe. When it came undone, the dressing gown fell open and John glimpsed Sherlock's cock, long and straining, atop a mound of dark hair. It was as he had imagined it would be, and of course it wasn't at all like he had imagined. Certainly, the particulars were different than what he had expected – Sherlock wasn't circumcised, for example, which for some reason John found to be utterly astounding and attractive, just the thought that he might wrap his hand around Sherlock's foreskin and pull at it, gently, to reveal that tender skin underneath… - but what struck John the most was that Sherlock was showing him the most private part of himself.
You've seen this before, John scrambled to remind himself, so that he wouldn't get too overwhelmed with the image. You've seen plenty of men's penises; you've performed exams on them, even. Calm yourself before you come all over the bed. And don't forget, you've seen Sherlock's cock too, that time at the Palace – GOD, Mycroft, you were evil, pulling on that sheet. And Sherlock, I don't know if you were a babe in arms or just a very, very clever man – I'm inclined to believe the latter – because you knew that I was going to see that glorious arse sooner or later, if you kept on with the sheet wrapped around you. I was waiting to catch a glimpse of that arse and you knew it, I know you knew it. But it was just my luck that I had to see this, too. Though a limp cock is nothing in comparison with your cock right now.
John reached for it, cupping Sherlock between his hands. Sherlock struggled to support himself on his forearms, fearing he might have to roll over onto the bed if John kept doing what he was doing. And Sherlock rather liked being above John, like this, and watching the expressions on John's face as John pulled his head up so that he could gaze at Sherlock, at both of them together, in that space where their bodies and their erections met. It was beautiful to look at John, who was looking at them both, and then because John's expression was one of such awe and longing, Sherlock followed his gaze until he was also looking at the join where they came together. He liked the image and thought that he would like it even more if he lowered his body, just so, until their erections were touching. The sensation made John look up again, towards Sherlock's face, and they smiled at each other.
John's a doctor, Sherlock thought. You need to tell him. He'll be worried about it. But he didn't want to spoil the mood. And you need to ask him, too. You should have asked him last night, before you put your mouth around him. Even if you think he would have said something then. You need to ask him. Now.
"John," Sherlock said, evidently with some distaste, "I know that this is not the right time to ask you this, but –"
"I've been tested, Sherlock. Recently, and few months ago. You?"
"Three months ago. And I've been on my best behaviour ever since." He smiled wickedly at John. "No sex, no drugs."
"That explains why you haven't been going out alone at night," John said. It touched him more than he could say to know that Sherlock might have planned this, in those months when John had despaired of them ever getting closer.
"I needed to make sure," Sherlock said, "that I wasn't just feeling a temporary urge to seduce my flatmate. I thought that if I waited three months, I'd have time to think it over."
"Seems to me that you might have made yourself even hornier in the process," John pointed out. "Though I'm not complaining."
"There's more than one way to skin a cat," Sherlock said dryly, raising an eyebrow. John laughed.
"Indeed. As there's more than one way to get where we're going, right now."
Sherlock flipped over so that he was lying on his left side, bringing John to lie face-to-face with him. "There are benefits to your sinistrality," he noted, as he reached down to take John's penis in his fingers. John laughed when he understood what Sherlock meant; the way that they were facing each other, their dominant hands were free to touch the other's body. John gripped Sherlock in reciprocal fashion, lightly running his hands over Sherlock's shaft and glans.
"Do you know, I still feel like a kid who has got to third base," John said, laughing. "Though there is nothing childish about this." He propped his head on his right hand as he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock. As they kissed, John loosened his hand on Sherlock's cock to bring it around to the other man's buttocks, pulling them even closer together. The heat of their chests pressing against each other was incredible; it reminded John of how much he had missed the feel of another body against his. He was a sensual man, fascinated with bodies and sensations and desires, and he did not like going for so many months without sex. In all of his mad yearnings for Sherlock over the past two years, John had almost managed to convince himself that Sherlock was some kind of ethereal wunderkind, beyond such trivial matters as sex and food and sleep. But with Sherlock's warm body in his arms, John could not deny that this man was just as passionate, and just as human, as John himself.
"There's something that could make this easier," Sherlock said, pulling back from John. "I'll be right back." He rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom, as John watched with delight. Sherlock from the back was a spectacular vision: his lean, muscular back and thighs, and that tight arse – oh, that arse, John thought. What I would do to –
His thoughts were cut off by the sight of Sherlock walking back to him, fully erect, with a tube of lube in one hand.
"Since neither of us are equipped with natural lubricant," he said sardonically.
"Thank you for the anatomy lesson," John quipped. "Now get back here, and let me get to work on you!" Sherlock lay back down, facing John again, as John rubbed some lube between his palms to warm it. Then he touched Sherlock again, with his slick fingers, and Sherlock bucked against him, gasping out "John!"
"I love seeing you like this," John said. "You are so passionate, Sherlock. You have so much to give. And I love knowing that I can make you feel good, that I can make you—"
"John!" Sherlock cried out. "You – you – are – the one – who – is good." He panted out the words; the feel of John's fingers had brought him to a dangerous point and he could not think clearly.
"I love it when you close your eyes like that, Sherlock. I love it when you hold me, like you are doing now. I love it –" John abruptly stopped his litany of loves – a list he had created because he felt that it was too early to talk of 'love,' even if they had talked of being 'lovers', and so he named the things he loved about his lover, instead – to watch Sherlock, who was now mouthing silent words.
John had found a rhythm that Sherlock seemed to like: he held his hand loosely around Sherlock's penis, running it up and down the shaft, pausing at the head to rub his thumb over Sherlock's foreskin and the sensitive tip beneath. Now Sherlock's body had gone tight, and Sherlock fell over on his back, in the same vulnerable position that John had assumed the night before – face up, torso and legs exposed, his very centre open and ready for John's touch. John kneeled above him, continuing to rub his hand over Sherlock as he leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock turned his head away – "Too much – too – much – stimulation" – and bit softly onto John's good shoulder. John could feel the tension rising in Sherlock, could feel it in the way Sherlock arched his back and clutched at the sheets beneath him. His toes curled under and his head fell back as John gave one last, firm tug and Sherlock at last reached that elusive, ecstatic place.
John expected Sherlock to close his eyes and rest, or better yet, to pull John close to cuddle, but Sherlock surprised him when he wrestled John around so that John was now lying on his back, and Sherlock was on top. Before John had quite realized what had happened, Sherlock had lube in his fingers, and those long fingers were now firmly around John, mirroring the motions that John had just performed on him.
"You like it a bit loose, don't you?" Sherlock asked. "I can tell by the way you got me off, just now. You want my hand to stay a bit loose, so I don't pull on your foreskin – my mistake yesterday – and then you like a steady rhythm, with a few pauses here and there so that I…Yes, I'm right. You like that, John. You like it just like that. And what about your balls? You seemed to like what I did to you yesterday. I want you to like it again. I want to find out everything that you like. I want you to show me, when you touch me, how you want to be touched."
"Sherlock –" John began. "Kiss me. Keep doing what you were doing with your hands, and kiss me."
Sherlock obeyed instantly, leaning down to claim John's mouth. John moved his tongue eagerly across Sherlock's lips, urging him to hasten the pace of his fingers below.
And then, when Sherlock moved his mouth down John's neck, and across to his scarred shoulder, John was done. He screamed Sherlock's name as he dug his fingers into Sherlock's back, clenching as if for dear life, willing him on. And Sherlock's fingers did not stop. Even though John thought that he had arrived, thought that the orgasm was beginning, it hadn't begun quite yet, not until Sherlock sucked gently on his scar. And then it came over him, or, rather, he was coming, trembling and aglow underneath Sherlock, holding on to his lover – lover! – with all his might and praying that he might keep this man in his life, somehow, as long as Sherlock would have him.
Then they lay back together in a sweaty heap, kissing each other's mouths as John came down from his climax. John's senses were blown open: every caress from Sherlock made him tremble anew, until he finally pushed himself away from Sherlock, gripping the other's hand as he lay back against the bed and caught his breath again.
"Good?" Sherlock asked, turning on his side once more to watch John. He ran his hands lightly over John's chest, avoiding the sensitive nipples. Sherlock gently traced the outlines of John's ribs, then skimmed downwards towards to draw circles around his navel. It tickled, but John did not protest. Just lying there with Sherlock, in the aftermath of sex, John felt happier than he ever had hoped to be.
"You are so beautiful, John," Sherlock said, continuing to admire John's body with his hands and eyes. "You are so small and perfectly shaped. All of your proportions are correct. I can't get over just looking at you."
John laughed. "If I had known that you would be such an appreciative lover, Sherlock…" he began.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's true, John. I wonder if I could prove this. Da Vinci determined the perfect proportions for man; what the ratio of the thigh to the calf should be, or the head to the body. What if we measured you to see how you compare?"
John laughed again, a big hearty laugh that shook his ribs. "No, thank you, Sherlock. I'm perfectly content with being an ordinary man. And you're not difficult to look at, either." John rolled over to kiss Sherlock lightly on his mouth.
"I am too long and thin," Sherlock complained. "I am like one of Giacometti's statues, all stretched out and ghastly."
"You are not ghastly," John stated plainly. "You have your own proportions, and you are fucking gorgeous. Don't give me that 'too tall and thin' nonsense."
Sherlock sighed. "Are we to belong to the Club of Mutual Adoration?" he asked. John giggled.
"That's one way to put it," he said. "Or we can just say that we're crazy about each other, and there's an end to it."
"There's never an end to it," Sherlock said softly. "I mean, I don't want there to be an end to this." He pulled John closer to him. John, moved beyond words, did not respond, and Sherlock began to worry that he had said something wrong. "Is this too early to say that?" he asked. "In a relationship, I mean?"
John pulled Sherlock to him, cradling him in his arms. For all that the detective was so worldly, so hardened to crime and other misdeeds, he had little first-hand experience with the nobler sentiments, and John was flattered that he might be the one to help Sherlock find the better angels of his nature.
"It's not too early, if you mean it," John said. "If not – then I'd rather you didn't say anything at all."
"Of course I mean it," Sherlock said snappishly. "I wouldn't be here with you if I didn't mean it."
"Well, that's a relief," John said. "Because I like this all a bit too much for this to be just a matter of convenience. And I was serious when I said that you'd regret playing with my heart, if you weren't serious about it." He grinned. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get up and get dressed. Surely there is something else that you want to show me in this big city before it's time for the ball tonight."
"The ball," Sherlock groaned. "How could I forget? Mycroft will be there."
"Is that a problem?" asked John. He thought for a moment. "Oh. Mycroft. He'll never let us live it down if we dance together tonight."
"I'm not passing up on the opportunity to dance with you," Sherlock said. "I would just rather it weren't in the presence of my meddlesome brother."
"Your brother has other things to think about besides you, Sherlock," John reminded him. "World peace, for one."
Sherlock grunted. "If he spent half as much time spying on terrorists as he does spying on us, then we'd all be a lot safer."
"Why don't we go as a couple, despite it all, Sherlock? That's what he's been teasing us about for years. Let him think what he's going to think. He's the one who will look like a heterosexist pig if he makes a big fuss about it in public."
"He would hardly do that," Sherlock said. "He's nothing if not image-conscious."
"Then let's make sure he never has a chance to speak to us alone. That shouldn't be hard, seeing as he appears besotted with the Ambassador."
"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked, curious.
"I have my sources."
"You continue to astound me, my dear doctor Watson."
"I hope I never become too predictable, Mr. Holmes. Now, let me show you that new jumper I bought. Black cashmere. You'll like it."
"Only if you promise that I get to take it off you later," Sherlock said.
"With what other purpose would I put it on?" John laughed. "And I want to see you in something other than a suit for once. Don't you have a pair of jeans tucked away in that enormous suitcase of yours?"
"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "But I don't want to distract you too much." He grinned.
"You arrogant sod," John said. "Go on, try and distract me."
"Is that a challenge?"
"You bet."
Nota bene: Thanks to a few awesome PM convos and reviews from some of you (haveacreamteaonme, lastew, I-am-the-Wolf, SeenaC, SkyfullofStars, thedaringkurtsie,CKerased, tsukinoblossom, ContntlBreakfst, Zarra Rous, CarefulSteps, Pilikia18, Blue TARDIS Everdeen, I'llbeyourPatronus, CaptainBetty, Khorazir), I have been thinking a lot about eroticism and what, exactly, makes a literary scene sensual rather than just pornographic.
I've always been fascinated by sex – who isn't? – and I've been lucky to have been able to study sex and sexuality in my academic research, but it's a different thing altogether to figure out what is sensual to me, and to my readers, than to administer a survey about sexual behaviour to a bunch of strangers. J
For me, it's important to portray the emotional connection between the characters, even more so than the physical connection. I'm tired of reading "put Slot A into Slot B" sex scenes and I'm trying my best to do something different here. I'm also aware that slash is not everyone's cuppa, but my goal isn't to write smut, it's to write a love story with a lot of sex. To the extent that I've accomplished this, or not, I'd like to know.
Sex is such an important part of a relationship, and it can express so much between two people, that I think it's a worthy topic of literary exploration. That's why I think D.H. Lawrence's work said something really original, for his day and age, and also for ours. Sensuality is something that has been lost, or overlooked, in our hypermedic society. I think that words can evoke mental imagery that is even more powerful than visual depictions of sex, such as pornography or centrefolds. And what's more, in literature, we can hear what is going on in the thoughts of the characters. The brain is the most powerful sexual organ, after all! That, for me, is much more erotic than simply seeing a couple of people 'going at it' on the big screen. Not to mention, I hate how film depictions of sex are always abbreviated, and unrealistic. When the partners are heterosexual, it's usually a vision of sex that is male-oriented, where after just a few minutes of penetration (under the sheets, of course), both partners arrive at an orgasm at the same time. What a fantasy! No one ever has to stop to go find a condom or lube, no one ever says 'Hey, that doesn't feel good," there is little negotiation or exploration of what each of them like, what works for them. So while my sex scenes may not be ideal, I do strive to make them realistic, as realistic as they can be, given that I am a woman who is writing about two men.
There is more to come, but with these last two chapters being so long (I didn't want to break up the bedroom scenes), I may wait a few days before posting again. As always, your comments and PMs are much appreciated.
Emma