Under the Downs Chapter 5

A/N: If you are ever in Arundel, I thoroughly recommend the Bay Tree Cafe. There is also a brilliant second-hand bookshop that is a prime example of what Terry Pratchett calls L-Space. No really, go there and you'll see what I mean.

The Bay Tree Café is in a side street. We sit in the back garden. Actually, to call it a garden is a bit of a misnomer. It's a back yard, but since the building is on the side of the hill, it has an excellent view of the bottom of the town and the river. The food is excellent, and roses flower on the pergola that shades us from the late lunchtime sun. Sherlock is absorbed in the file while I eat.

'This is excellent, Sherlock,' I tell him. 'You really should eat something.'

'Mmmm,' he says and sips at his iced tea without looking up. Thank goodness we are booked at the pub later, I think, getting back to my pigeon breast and puy lentil salad. Need to get food inside him to keep his brain firing at optimum levels. It's a habit I've forced him into over the years – before we met, he would go for days without eating. Now I think he has come to terms with the fact that food might actually be useful fuel for his immense mind. But he's taken some persuading.

I watch him as he reads. Frowning. His curls flop over his face. There are fragile lines around his eyes now, little crinkles etched over the tops of his cheekbones that weren't there when we met. For a moment I wonder what he will look like as an old man. I imagine his hair white, swept back from his forehead, cheeks as sculpted as ever, eyebrows bristling like barbed wire. His mouth will still be beautiful, that pinched upper lip, the square, cushioned lower one. And something happens to me then that I never expected to experience, never dreamed would happen.

Those lips. I want to kiss them.

'John.'

'Hmm?'

'You're staring. It's distracting.'

'Oh. Sorry.'

Jesus, Sherlock, I want to kiss you. I want to stand up and grab your lapels and drag you across this table and snog you senseless right here, in the middle of this pretty little restaurant garden, surrounded by all these people, who will stare, and I don't care, because I want to kiss you so much.

'You're still doing it.' He doesn't look up when he says it. Granted, he is politer now than he used to be, but even so. I look down at my lentils, little greenish rabbit droppings in a swirl of rocket and creamy yoghurt dressing on the white disc of my plate. I push the pigeon breast about with my fork, and even that reminds me of his lower lip, the voluptuously full one, the one I want to bite and suck so badly – I've never kissed a woman like that, slobbering, messy, but I want to kiss him that way. Dear God.

I clear my throat. 'Ehem. Er. Just need to. Right.' He doesn't look up. 'Right.' I get up. He still doesn't get up, doesn't even look up. 'Need some air.'

'You're outside as it is.'

'Er, space. Need some space. Can you-'

'I'll get the bill. Go and walk it off.' He sighs as if he is talking to an irritating child.

I bolt. Two hundred yards down the road, walking on the cool, shadowy side, out of the sun, feeling the stretch of my thighs as I stride along, I stop and lurch against the whitewashed wall of a Georgian villa, and press my hand over my mouth. My knees are turning to jelly. I press my back flat to the wall, and slide down it till my bum is on the pavement. I am shaking. What the hell is happening to me?

I love him. I've never pretended otherwise. At least not since he came home. We both knew the truth then. We couldn't live without each other. I'd been insane with grief when he walked through the door that Thursday night. How many times had I thought about blowing my brains out with the Sig I kept in my bedside drawer? How many times had I longed just for the smell of him? And then he was there, shaking, on his knees, begging me to take him back, to be his friend, if only I would let him explain.

I gave in. He explained. I listened. I hit him.

I told him that the difference between bravery and stupidity was a very thin line, mostly comprising of whether you survive or not. I told him I knew this for certain because I'd seen it happen to other men on the battle field. I knew because it happened to me. I was lucky enough to survive it. Most people don't. But I know what it really was. Idiocy and luck. That's all. Sherlock had been trying to be brave, to save us all. He got away with it. That didn't mean I didn't know exactly what he'd been doing up there on that bloody roof. Which was, not to put too fine a point on it, being an idiot. Still, he gave his life to save mine. I'd have done the same. That was why I took him back. That and the fact that he is as elemental to me as the air I breathe. More, perhaps.

But I never expected this.

I'm straight, for God's sake.

I stare up the hill at the looming shape of the Catholic cathedral. It is beautiful, Gothic, and above all, pointy. Seems like a perfect metaphor for what loving Sherlock feels like. I love him. I know he loves me. But it was never physical. Until now. How can sharing a bed for one night have changed everything. Changed the integral polarities of my desires.

A woman is walking up the street towards me. She is dressed in white linen trousers and a white strappy top. The garments cling to her figure. She is probably in her forties, tanned and blonde, beautiful, one of those high-maintenance women you find in wealthy heritage towns like this. Her hips swing. Her makeup is subtle, elegant, a slick of lipstick, mascara, and naked skin that gleams with health. She is enjoying the sun and the feel of her body moving through it.

I desire her.

There's nothing wrong me, I realise, not that being gay is evidence of anything wrong as such. I mean, I haven't changed. I'd fuck her in a minute, given the chance. She's gorgeous.

She glances at me as she passes, smiles. Her teeth are creamy and even. She wears a little silver heart on a chain around her neck, so simple, emphasising the sweep of her collar bones, and it makes me want her even more. Crouching against the cool wall, I realise I am half hard just watching her retreating rear as she walks away, the luscious globes of her buttocks giggling under the thin cloth. She must be wearing a thong because I can see everything, and I'm pretty sure she knows it.

No, there is nothing wrong with me. I am still straight.

I'm just desperately in love with my best friend.

My phone bleeps.

When you have finished having your panic attack, may we please get on? SH.

Thank you, Sherlock, for your kind understanding and empathy.

I struggle to my feet, feeling a little more grounded for the heterosexual frisson of the passing woman with whom I have, by now, constructed an entire fantasy affair, including fucking in the loos at the Bay Tree Café.

I check my watch. It is half past two. Okay, better get on with it. I'll have to face him sooner or later anyway. Better make it sooner and get it over with. And I walk stiffly back along the street, hoping my erection isn't too obvious, and trying to think about a particularly nasty anatomy lecture from my undergraduate days to distract myself.

Tomorrow, our boys finally get on with some investigating...