The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 21
Hello, my lovelies. I was very touched by the reviews left for the last two chapters. You are so kind. And since you seem to like the Cuddle'verse so much, I have decided I have to write a sequel. Our journey thus far will end tomorrow, but coming soon I promise a Post-Reichenbach reunion, and in the interim, while I write it, I have a few other little morsels up my sleeve to keep you entertained.
In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed and favorited my work. I am so moved and grateful.
Sherlock watched John fall into a post-coital doze, his cheek pressed against the pillow, mouth open. He snored softly. Sherlock smiled. He lay there for an hour or so, happily engaged in studying his lover. It was impossible to imagine that anyone could be more beautiful. But eventually, the pressure of brain and bladder became too much. He shuffled across the upper landing to the little shower room opposite, and relieved himself. He pulled the chain and washed his hands, splashed water on his face and then stared into the mirror.
Sherlock Holmes looked back.
A different Sherlock Holmes to the one who had left the house that morning. A different Sherlock to the one who had stared back at him from the mirror his entire life.
This Sherlock Holmes had a future.
He has spent his thirty-five years working his way from puzzle to puzzle. It had not mattered whether the puzzle was the latest locked-room murder, or where to get the next fix. His life had been a series of problems to be solved. He had never thought beyond the next conundrum, never considered anything except accumulating sufficient knowledge to assist him in working out the next twisted criminal mind. He had never considered the idea of long term planning because he had never conceptualised a future in connection with himself. Now, suddenly, he could look down the years and see himself and John together in their sixties, sitting in bed side by side, reading glasses perched on the ends of their noses, their hair grey (and in John's case, alarmingly receding), frowning at whatever book they had in their laps, John sipping at his evening cup of tea, and Sherlock at a mug of Ovaltine that John would have made for him.
He thought of the years in between, chasing over rooftops, evading criminals, detecting fiendish plots, escaping death by the skins of their teeth. Sharing a home, and a life together. Sharing a future. It had never occurred to Sherlock that such a thing was possible for him. He felt his heart swell with joy at the thought.
He put the lid of the lavatory down and sat on it to think. It was a very strange feeling, optimism. And entirely new to him.
He looked down at the flaccid flesh between his legs. It had never felt like part of his body. It had been an alien thing that had been attached to him in order to cause him misery and torture. Now suddenly it had become a thing of joy. And potential. He wondered what it would be like if it sat up, right there and then, erect. How long would it be? What colour? He found himself giggling at the prospect. It wasn't so far-fetched now. Tomorrow he would ask John about Viagra. He had never bothered to consider any treatments before, primarily because he never expected to be in a situation where anyone would want his body. It disgusted him, so he had assumed it would do the same to everybody else. He had not understood that it only disgusted him because of what had been done to him. Now, John wanted him. John had specifically said he found Sherlock's body sexy. And he had proved it. And against all of Sherlock's own expectations (and probably John's too) his body had responded. Sherlock actually felt sexy. And even better, he didn't feel bad about it. Perhaps an erection would happen in the future. With time and patience, and a few of those little blue pills, it may be possible.
He closed his eyes and remembered the experience John had just given him. He went through every sensation in meticulous detail. He had recorded it all. It was almost as sensational a memory as it had been to experience at the time. It left him grinning like an idiot. He had actually ejaculated. It was beyond belief. But it had happened. And it had been completely thrilling.
As making love to John had been. He allowed his mind to rove back over that strong, solid body and the way it had responded to him. The kisses, the scents, the flavours, the sounds. He realised he had begun to tingle again, just from the memory. He wanted to do it again. He wondered what John's refractory time might be. He wondered if he liked morning sex. He thought of all the places they might do it. He considered how he might press John against the wall of an alley in the dark, kneel down and suck him into heaven. He thought how they might loll naked together in a hot tub, relishing the sensuality of contact under water. He considered what it might be like to strip naked in the fresh air, in some country field, on a hot summer afternoon with bees buzzing in the clover. They would lie down on a blanket and make love in the sunshine, with the breeze cooling their skin. He thought of a hundred places around the flat they could do it, and then there was New Scotland Yard, and Mycroft's office, and the Morgue, although he thought John might have some qualms about that. And then there were taxis, heaven only knew how many there were of them in London – he knew the answer to that but he couldn't be bothered to dig it out of his immense brain. The idea of collecting those bench seats as sites of fellatio seemed infinitely stimulating. He had no doubt that eventually he would be able to get through a blow job without panicking. John would help him. Time would help him.
It was strange how everything in his life had suddenly fallen into place. John finally becoming his lover. The home they shared. His career really taking off. Lestrade and Mycroft settling down together (they hadn't been explicit about this, but it was clear from the way they spoke of one another that something profound was happening in that direction). Even Sarah marrying Andrew.
There was only one thing left to do before he could truly declare himself happy. And that was to take care of Jim Moriarty.
Tomorrow, in the final part, Mycroft has a premonition…