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You are the answer to my question,
You're my accomplice in a crime,
You're my wingwoman, and did I mention
That we were together in another life?
In that dreaming, you probably were my wife...
Cause we worshipped in sin for fun;
Two melting candles against the sun.
Modern angels they broke our wings in the wind, for what?
"Q&A" - Kishi Bashi
A jostling disturbance of the bed nudged me up out of my fitful doze, and I cracked my eyes open just in time to see Sherlock's stockinged feet disappear swiftly into the bathroom of our Billingsgate honeymoon cottage. What brought me to full wakefulness was my realization of how cold the attic had become, and I rolled my eyes up to the little window above the bed to find the morning sun struggling through a lacy layer of frost.
Cutting my eyes down to the fireplace, I perceived its cold pile of ashes as a mixed blessing: while I was pleased to know that Sherlock had actually managed to get a decent night's sleep while sharing a bed with me, I dreaded the necessity of leaving the bed's cozy warmth to start the fire. This is a domestic task which invariably falls to me, as Sherlock claims that his relative lack of insulation makes him more susceptible to the cold - although he seems to do perfectly fine when we're combing the grass for clues in the middle of an open field in the dead of winter. Complain about my duties though I occasionally may, in secret truth it pleases me to care for my beloved in these little ways - even as it sometimes makes me wonder how he ever got along without me.
I heard the commode flush and braced myself. As Sherlock emerged from the little bathroom, I threw back the covers and flattened myself down upon the mattress. "Here, hurry!" I urged through clenched teeth, but Sherlock was already moving, an impish little grin spreading across his angular adult face as he scurried quickly across the floorboards and dove over me into the bed. As soon as he had landed I threw all of his three dozen blankets over both of us, rolled over, and bundled myself tightly around Sherlock's shivering form.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked, kissing the part of him nearest my mouth, which happened to be the edge of his shoulder blade.
"Mmm - I may have lapsed into hibernation," Sherlock replied through clenched and chattering teeth. "It's cold as the grave in here…"
"As soon as I get you warmed back up I'll go start the fire," I promised. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement before being seized by another series of shivers. I tightened the curl of my body around him and he snuggled back into my embrace, pulling his nightshirt down over his feet, clamping my knees tighter between his calves and hamstrings, hunching his back into my chest, and wriggling his bum into place in a way which I knew was likely inadvertent, but which nevertheless…
My husband is a an exceedingly complex man of many parts, and therefore it was in parts which I came to know and love him. While conversing in the sitting room with a client or examining the scene of a crime with Lestrade, he is the Sherlock Holmes with whom my readers have become familiar. When he is in one of his talkative moods with someone or we are out for an evening he becomes Holmes - a more voluble and slightly more relaxed version of his professional persona. When we are alone together he becomes Sherlock - a version of himself significantly more relaxed than the others, but perhaps somewhat more unpredictable and taciturn for that. I believe he drops many of his defenses during these times and feels more comfortable to express himself in all his moods, so that while I am more likely to hear little compliments and teasing jokes at these times, I am also more likely to hear him snarl and grump at me when I displease him.
But he becomes yet another man when we are alone and he is in my arms, a man who emerges only for me: my Sherlock. This version is a simpler, stripped down version of the man he is when we're alone - a sensitive man who is capable of tenderness, an affectionate man who enjoys idle caresses and purposeless kisses, a playful man who giggles and teases and sometimes even laughs. The little grin on his face as he dove into bed and the way that he had wriggled back into my arms told me that my beloved was in one of his tender moods that morning, and I was prepared to make the most of it.
"…and to think that only a few years ago I might have been tempted to murder a man for the chance to hold you like this," I said presently, kissing Sherlock's nape.
Sherlock took so long to reply that I began to think he'd fallen back asleep, until finally his voice floated back to me - the soft, slightly scratchy tenor that I love so well. "Mmm…as might have I for the chance to be held…"
"Really?" I blurted, too shocked to formulate a less stupid response. "You've never told me this…" I realized that I had momentarily frozen in surprise and quickly assumed my previous drowsy manner, not wanting to make Sherlock too self-conscious to continue.
"I know I haven't," he answered with an easy little chuckle. Had he not been in this tender mood, Sherlock would have given me a little jibe for being so idiotically obvious, and it is by little clues such as this that I am able to decipher him.
I adjusted our position and kissed his back twice more to buy myself time, as I was having difficulty sorting through my emotions. I felt flattered, delighted, and astounded; I was nearly overcome with an awareness of my deep, fierce, and abiding love for Sherlock; yet I was also more than a bit annoyed at him for having unnecessarily concealed this from me for so long.
"W-when did this come about?" I finally managed to ask. "And how?"
"We had gone out to a miniscule hamlet in Essex, the first time we were forced to share a bed-"
"That strange little burglary which ended up not being a burglary!" I interrupted with a rush of memory. "That was ages ago, Sherlock -" I cut myself off, nearly biting my lips in order to do so. How had he never told me this? For a brief moment I wanted to choke him. "…Sorry. Go on," I urged him instead with a gentle squeeze.
"There's really not much to tell. I'd been trying to sleep for perhaps an hour when you suddenly rolled over, slung your arm over me, and pressed your face into my back."
"That was the first time I did that?" I asked, snuggling against him, charmed by the sweetness of the image and by the fact that it had evidently moved Sherlock.
"I've just said it was the first time we'd shared a bed," he chided.
"Yes, of course," I muttered, now somewhat less charmed. "Well, then what?"
"You felt very hot and sticky and I extricated myself from the embrace."
There are times, dear Reader, when I suspect my beloved of being deliberately dense merely to irk me or to disrupt otherwise uncomfortable personal conversations; since I couldn't see his face, however, I decided to err on the side of caution and repress my frustration.
"…And that's what you would have murdered a man to experience again?" I finally asked in my most carefully moderated voice.
"Of course not!" Sherlock said scornfully, then continued. "But there were a few seconds of it which I found surprisingly enjoyable."
"Oh," I smiled, my enchantment returning. Then my mind went in rather predictable directions. "Did you get a stand-on?"
"Not on that particular occasion," Sherlock answered simply. My intent had been to humble him for his jeering with a bit of lewdness, so I was thrown off by his matter-of-fact response and its implications.
"But on others…?" I asked, realizing how close we might have been to sorting this all out ages ago. But that would have been before the Falls, and I doubt I would have survived that episode myself if Sherlock and I had already become lovers…and if I had survived, I likely wouldn't have taken him back after three years, either, so I suppose things worked out for the best…
"Once or twice…"
"And what did you do about it?" I asked, my mind now returning happily to the gutter.
"Do about it?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes - did you stroke yourself off thinking about me?" I moved my uppermost arm, running my hand briefly down Sherlock's belly before veering over at the last moment to rest it on his hip, feeling a twinge of arousal as my fingers curled around the flare of his iliac crest.
"What - with you laying there in the bed beside me?" Sherlock cried, twisting his upper body around to give me a sliver of mortified glare over his shoulder.
"No," I chuckled, "Sometime thereafter…" I admit to getting a perverse sort of enjoyment out of offending my rather prudish husband.
"No, I didn't have to." The smirk I heard in Sherlock's voice led to curiosity rather than disappointment.
"Mmm," I hummed, my lips moving amongst the fine hairs on the back of his graceful, slender neck "…And what does that mean?"
"It means that my slumbering brain provided me relief of its own accord."
"You had a wet dream about me?" I marveled after a moment, genuinely surprised.
"You have a remarkably sophomoric vocabulary for a member of the medical profession," Sherlock chided.
"What was it about?" I purred, ignoring his barbs in pursuit of the rather vulgar thoughts now arising in my mind. "I hope that I quite had my way with you…" I murmured, kissing his neck while stretching down and casually beginning the hunt for the hem of Sherlock's nightshirt. (I could likely compose an entire entry about the various ways Sherlock's nightshirts and blankets have hindered my amorous pursuits; he swaddles himself in an endless tangle of both so that getting to his actual body can sometimes be like an archeological dig, and one can throw their hopes of being suave or romantic about it right out the nearest window.) "Did I sneak down to your bedroom in the middle of the night and do all manner of naughty things to you?"
"Hardly that," Sherlock snorted, then astounded me by breaking into one of his silent fits of laughter.
"What's so funny?" I asked, so delighted that I was half laughing myself.
"You laid there like a log!" Sherlock giggled as he began reigning himself in.
"I what?"
"In my dream...you laid there like a log…"
Sherlock finished his laughing fit and threw himself over onto his back, pushing the blankets down to his chin, giving me a twinkling glance with the corners of his mouth curled up into a mischievous grin, and as he began to explain himself I worked on reconfiguring myself around him, now being extremely curious to hear where this story was going. Another lovely aspect of these tender moods is that my beloved becomes more tolerant of contact, an interesting anomaly which supports my suspicion that part of his affliction is somehow mental in nature. "More tolerant" is really something of an understatement, as it seems to me that Sherlock quite enjoys my physical affections in these moments, therefore I try to make the most of them when they occur, for both our sakes.
"You, being perhaps more familiar with my anatomy in some ways than I am myself, may have had occasion to wonder how I managed on my own," Sherlock began, and I was amazed by the ease with which he had decided to first discuss the topic of self-abuse - although I knew by then that this was the abrupt method by which he tends to reveal himself.
"I rather thought you avoided it entirely," I answered.
"For the most part," he nodded. "It was rare once I became an adult, something I did more as a matter of maintenance, I believe - just to make sure things were still in working order. I largely avoided it as a lad because of the discomfort."
"What does it feel like?" I blurted. I knew that Sherlock disliked persistent, localized friction anywhere on his body, I knew that he described it as irritating, and it made perfect sense to me that his erect penis would thus be particularly sensitive in this way - unfortunate though that fact may be. I understood Sherlock's problems in an anatomical and intellectual way, but I knew very little about how he actually experienced them, and he was typically diffident when I made further inquiries.
Sherlock shrugged and I watched his eyelashes while he thought. "I suppose it could be compared to the heightened sensitivity one feels after climax, although not as intense…I could manage things with my hand well enough, but after fifteen or twenty seconds it ceased to be strictly pleasurable; the sensitivity increased, and this made completing the act a bit of a grueling and ultimately purposeless process, I came to believe…Something like scratching an itch after you've already scratched yourself raw. Satisfying in a way, and yet..."
"I'm sorry, love," I murmured, silently filled with horror as I tried to imagine getting through my own adolescence without recourse to such activity; it whiled away significant amounts of boredom, if nothing else. I began to have a new appreciation for my husband's intellectual acumen, understanding now that while I had been out chasing the neighborhood girls and falling silently in and out of love with my cricket mates, Sherlock had been putting his time to much more productive use; his genius had come with no small degree of personal sacrifice, in my opinion.
Sherlock shrugged and gave me a sly glance. "Don't feel too sorry, for I eventually found a friend who was uniquely suited to assist me me with this predicament," he began.
Still being rather unclear on the timeline of my husband's personal history, I confess that I was expecting to learn that he had carried on some sort of dalliance with his friend, Victor Trevor, whom, though I had never met the man, I have always suspected of having been interested in Sherlock for reasons which extended beyond the bounds of close companionship. It wasn't the way that Sherlock spoke of Trevor, but rather the way that he described Trevor's behavior towards him. Had my poor beloved not inadvertently upset the apple cart by solving the problem which I have documented in The Gloria Scott, I think it quite possible that Sherlock would have been laying with Trevor in that attic on that frigid morning. I also confess that this expectation made me feel a twitch of anticipatory jealousy, and I'll be forever grateful that I kept my mouth shut and avoided embarrassing myself.
"I've told you about the outdoor camp I had constructed for myself as a lad," Sherlock said with a glance, and I threw one of my legs over him to get more comfortable. I very much enjoy the rare occasions when my beloved becomes willing to talk about his past, particularly his childhood. I also admit that I had realized Sherlock now being on his back meant that his legs were no longer curled up underneath his nightshirt, that I would now have to do less excavating to get my hands on him, and thus I was devising a means of sneaking his hem up to where I could seize it with my fingertips. I had already likely pushed it halfway up as I had thrown my leg over, and I was fairly confident I could drag it up the rest of the way with a feigned adjustment of position or two.
And lest I be criticized for having a mind which plods in one direction like a mule in traces, I ask you to imagine for a moment, dear sympathetic Reader, of what an exquisite and subtle form of torture it can be for your humble Narrator - a thoroughly ordinary man with thoroughly ordinary appetites - to be wedded to such an extraordinarily handsome and well-constructed but rather…ethereal man like Sherlock. I can tell you that it gets so bad sometimes after a fortnight or so that I can start finding erotic things about the way he eats his eggs in the morning, and meanwhile he's inadvertently flaunting himself all over the flat, maddeningly oblivious to my suffering, members of bloody law enforcement in and out all day long and half the night...
It was honestly easier before we became lovers, before it was possible for me to take him in my arms and kiss him when he looks particularly kissable, before I knew what he looks like sweaty and panting on top of me, before I learned that a certain expression he sometimes gets when interrupted from deep thought is similar to an expression he often gets during intimate congress. And before he started asking me to do things like massage him or sit/lay upon him for some obscure reason which I often suspect is merely to torture me. Imagine, dear Reader, after having spent years lusting after my closest and near constant companion, finally getting Sherlock in my arms to find that half the time he wants me to merely lay chastely on top of him like a bloody sandbag; it feels like a prescription straight from the Witchfinder General - and yet I can't turn it down, either, can I? Therefore by the time I'm presented with a window of opportunity to further dent and tarnish Sherlock's halo I sometimes feel rather like a race horse who has been waiting two weeks at the starting line for the gates to drop.
Thus far Sherlock had remained unaware of my amorous machinations regarding his infernal nightshirt and carried on with his unexpected revelations.
"It was there at the camp that I met my special friend. He was quite tall and sturdy, strong and broad of limb, perhaps fifty or sixty years old, I'd guess -"
"What? Sherlock ho-"
"He didn't have much to say - a rather taciturn fellow, really. But of course those types are good for keeping a secret, aren't they?" Sherlock carried on, the corners of his lips continuously threatening to curl into a smile. I knew there would be some kind of jest at the end, but I also knew my husband's unusual and rather cynical sense of humor, and I didn't know how I would manage to laugh along with him if his story ended up being an unfortunately common and upsetting one involving one of his tutors or some such personage.
"What he lacked in personality, however, he more than made up for with his dependable and obliging nature. Not once did he ever decline one of my bids for his affections, night or day…"
Now I was beginning to feel a bit jealous again, dear Reader. Not only was there some strange old man Sherlock had never told me that he'd been carrying on with, but he'd been actively pursuing this man and making bids for his affections? When was the last bid he made for my affections, I thought grumpily. It took him seven years to even make the first one...
"A very selfless fellow, too. No matter the frequency with which I called upon his services, he never sought my services in return and would let me remain in his arms long after our sordid doings had ended…"
This was too much.
"What was this man's name?" I finally asked, probably giving myself away by the sharp tone of my voice, and Sherlock broke into laughter once again. I seized the opportunity to stealthily readjust my leg over top of his and managed to make more progress with his nightshirt.
"Betula Pendula…"
"What?"
"Betula Pendula, the weeping birch," Sherlock said, giving me his most delightedly mischievous grin, his glittering teeth and perfectly crooked incisor peeking between his lips, briefly tempting me to simply rip the damned nightshirt right off of him before I realized what it was that he'd said.
"The weeping what?"
"The weeping birch tree which grew beside the stream at my encampment," he beamed, extremely pleased with himself for having fooled me. "We shared a rather intimate relationship for several years," he chuckled.
"A tree?" I said, now remembering precisely what we were talking about and probably failing in my efforts to control my facial expression. "But…but how?"
Apparently the limb upon which Sherlock preferred to lay while reading had a scar which aligned perfectly with his pego, whose sides and bottom were smooth and snug enough to provide the type of indirect friction that he prefers, provided that he left his drawers on, and it was by more or less rutting against this scar that he was able to achieve a more satisfactory form of self-pleasure.
"And so in your dream, then," I said, finally returning to the original matter, "I played the part of the weeping birch?"
"I presume it went something like that; after all, there wasn't much other fodder for my imagination." Sherlock answered with a half shrug. "I don't remember much about the dream itself…it was as if I came to and realized that you were, were...already there beneath me, and I was holding you, or holding onto you in some fashion…and then the sensation of release…and I woke up immediately thereafter..."
"Pity I didn't at least get more handsy, if nothing else," I said, now reaching down to quickly and successfully locate the hem of his nightshirt and run my hand up the soft hair of his skinny thigh.
"You've made up for it since," he said as my hand slipped up the leg of his drawers and found the smooth, warm skin of his hip. I reached around and wiggled my fingers until I had worked my hand under Sherlock's backside and left it there pinned beneath his right buttock, the main portion of which fits neatly into the shape of my palm as though it were made to do so. Sherlock enjoyed this because it sealed us more tightly together in our embrace, and he worked his left arm out from between our bodies, slipping it beneath my neck and shrugging my head over onto his chest.
I must confess that I sometimes find my beloved's skin anomalies completely baffling, dear Reader. I don't doubt their existence - as soon as we began living together I could tell that he was very particular about his person and was different somehow in that way - I simply don't understand some of their contradictions. It seems to me that if one were averse to being touched, then one would prefer lighter, gentler contact, but Sherlock prefers the opposite. It seems to me that someone who had such particular preferences would be more comfortable with the minimum amount of contact over all - and Sherlock is, for the most part, except for those occasions when he isn't, and then he wants to be all over me, or for me to be all over him.
I mean this quite literally. When he is in one of these moods he will treat me like one of his blankets - hugging me to him, pulling me over on top of him, entwining his legs with mine, vining around me like ivy, sometimes deranging my clothing or moving one of my limbs in whichever way is more comfortable for him. Or else Sherlock becomes something like an enormous housecat with no appreciation for its own incongruous size, trying to squeeze himself onto my lap or curling up halfway on top of me, draping himself over me, pushing and rooting into me until he has almost worked me over the edge of the damned furniture. While it's true that my beloved doesn't enjoy contact with his fellow man as a general rule, it's also true that at times I believe he would quite happily allow me to strap him to my back and wear him like an article of clothing, and I don't pretend to understand how both of these traits can coexist in a single person. It's enough to simply keep up with the man from day to day.
I had no idea what he was doing the first time Sherlock started carrying on like this; to be perfectly honest, I thought he simply didn't know how to lie down with someone in an embrace and was perhaps attempting to clumsily approximate descriptions which he'd read in books. Then I decided, as I often have when it comes to my husband's intimate quirks, to simply let him do whatever it was he was trying to do and see what I could learn about him. In the beginning it was exciting enough that he wanted to touch me at all; to lay in any sort of embrace with me, no matter how strange the configuration; to kiss me as I had so yearned for him to do; as long as I had that, I thought, I could figure out how to make the rest work. Sherlock was still a human male, after all, I reasoned, and he is not the only one in this relationship with an arsenal of knowledge derived from past research and experimentation.
Now, after learning about his habits with the weeping birch, I saw that my approach had been a beneficial one. Whatever one might call Sherlock's curious squeezing, rocking, and rubbing routine during physical intimacy, it was evidently something natural to him which I wouldn't have been able to change, even had I decided I wanted to do so. I was exceedingly happy that I hadn't, for not only is my beloved quite a good throw, his peculiarities make him surprisingly easy to manage, believe it or not. If I have any difficulties in that area with Sherlock at all it tends to be not realizing that we are engaging in intimate congress until he's halfway through with things; and even then, nearly all that's left to do is relax and enjoy the rest. So our intimate relationship may be a bit unusual but a man could certainly do worse for himself.
"I've never had such a dream about you," I informed Sherlock presently. "Even though I used to pray for one..." I tipped my head back and kissed his stubbly chin. "Probably spent too much time consciously fantasizing about you during waking hours..."
"It's a wonder I've been able to get any work done at all..."
"You've no idea..." I sighed.
"Which did you think about the most?" Sherlock asked after a pause.
"Which fantasy about you?" I asked, raising my head an inch to look up at him in slight surprise. Normally this sort of thing turned him into a blushing schoolboy, and I was pleasantly shocked by his question as he gave the ceiling a smirking nod. "Good Lord, Sherlock, I have quite a catalog; I'm not sure I could narrow it down to one..."
"The first, then..."
Now it was my turn for the wicked grins. "Does trying to imagine what you might look like naked about five minutes after we first met count as a fantasy?"
"Perhaps, but you've already told me about that one," Sherlock returned, for all the world like a boy demanding a bedtime story.
I thought back to the day that we viewed the flat together. Looking back, I knew that Sherlock had been in one of his talkative, excited moods, when he is his most charismatic and often his most handsome, as the sternness smooths out of his face and the light dances merrily in his eyes. I remembered watching him standing at one of the windows, peering down onto Baker Street and informing me that we would be only so many yards from this or that establishment ("...and even a cursed barber, so that we need only walk to the end of the street for our biweekly inquisition," he'd said, a strange comment which I hadn't understood at the time). I remembered how Sherlock had grandly opened the street door for me as we exited and had so easily, naturally taken my arm in his own as we began our first search for a Baker Street cab, so that it felt like we'd been bosom companions for years already...I had been utterly swept off my feet, and I don't believe I'd thought about shagging him even once. My first real fantasy had been about spending the rest of my life with this unbearably fascinating man. But I've told Sherlock this before and he merely scoffs at my overly romantic nature - and besides, I was becoming fairly certain that my husband was feeling a bit amorous that morning, and therefore the game was afoot. I wasn't interested in appealing to his loftier sentiments - he could find plenty of that in his dusty old Petrarch and Hafiz.
"Well then it must have been you napping on the sofa," I decided while Sherlock was working his left leg in between my own, likely beginning his vining process. "That used to drive me wild in the early days..."
"Mmm?"
"That's when I probably began to develop an appreciation for your body. I suppose I thought that you skinny chaps were too sharp and angular for my tastes, but there you would be, sort of draped along the sofa, all long, languid lines, as if you were a fluid which had been poured there..."
I pulled my hand from beneath Sherlock's buttock, tugging lightly at his shoulder so that he rolled obligingly over and into my arms. I thrilled as I pressed my hand against the small of his back, feeling the sweeping curve of his lower spine and its twin ridges of wiry muscle, feeling the slenderness of his waist...Abruptly realizing that I needed more than one handful of Sherlock's body at that moment, I clutched him to me and threw myself onto my back, heaving him over on top of me. (Indeed, this is another benefit of my beloved's lighter construction - I've learned that I can sling him about on a mattress with a bit more ease, and he would never admit it in a thousand years but he loves when I do it.) Sherlock melted down into my arms for a kiss, then bounced up again, twinkling down at me while I rearranged the blankets around him.
"Those are observations, not fantasies."
"Ah, so you're willing to admit that I'm capable of observation?"
"My darling John," Sherlock said, giving me a nibbling kiss on my lower lip; "I never said you weren't, merely that you don't go further on to deduction and inference..." He kissed me again. "You aren't bold enough -"
"Yes, yes," I said, distracting him by taking two handfuls of his little bum and pulling him down into me, rocking slightly side to side to roll his swollen cock between us. I wasn't going to listen to a lecture about criminal investigation. "I thought you wanted to know what I first fantasized about." Sherlock lowered himself onto my chest and began to kiss my throat, and I relocated one hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tendons shifting beneath my fingers as he moved.
"Indeed, indeed..." Sherlock sighed.
"Probably better to ask what I didn't fantasize about..."
"That's not a proper answer."
"Mmmm," I moaned, trying to think, temporarily distracted by the things that Sherlock was doing with his mouth. I noticed that he had begun pulsing his hips lightly against me as he busied himself with my neck, and it is in this way that he can sneak halfway through intimate congress before I've realized that it's happening. Almost seems a rather convenient ability sometimes, really.
"Then the first one must have been about me kneeling down beside the sofa and waking you with a kiss -" Sherlock lifted his head to plant a quick, smiling kiss on my lips, then ducked down again. "Which you find pleasantly surprising and which subsequently fills you with the desire to kiss me in return -"
"Mmmm, surprised, certainly...pleasantly, perhaps..." Sherlock's lips had roamed lower, to my upper chest, and the blanket had fallen forward on top of his head so I pushed it back.
"And eventually you're overcome with passion, and you tell me that you've been wanting me to kiss you since the first day we met, that you've been aching for my touch -"
"This is getting rather purple, John, don't you think?" came Sherlock's muffled riposte, his lips now on my sternum, and I smile up to the attic ceiling.
" - and your cock has been aching for my mouth -"
"Good Lord!"
" - and as you're telling me this you're tearing open your trousers and you pull out your magnificent organ, enormously engorged and -"
"I don't know about magnificent, but it's certainly not enormous any more than yours is..." That stung my pride a bit, dear Reader, but I reminded myself that Sherlock had limited possibilities for comparison.
"I said enormously engorged, meaning fully erect - it's a fantasy, Sherlock, one isn't supposed to think this much about it."
"Well it would seem that you certainly have..."
Sherlock had worked his way down to my stomach and was beginning to form himself into a kind of huddle at the bottom of the bed, only the top of his head visible now, both of his legs curled around one of mine, cock pressed and gently wiggling against the side of my knee while his lips and fingers busied themselves tantalizingly upon my torso.
"As I was saying, once I lay eyes on your turgid, crimson member (disdainful scoffing sound) I find that I'm completely incapable of controlling myself and absolutely must suck you off, right then and there-rrre..." I drawl as I suddenly feel Sherlock's breath hot against the end of my rod.
"...Yes? Pray continue..." Sherlock said expectantly when I paused and lifted the blankets to see him peeking up at me with his smirk. As I watched he wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock, prising it up from my belly and rubbing the tip softly back and forth across his lips. From the way that he moved his own head along with the motions, his eyelashes momentarily dropping to his cheeks, I could tell that he genuinely enjoyed the sensation of my organ upon his lips, and I must say that I don't think I've ever had my penis treated so tenderly; it was curiously touching.
"Well I shan't be able to continue if you keep doing that," I said when I regained my faculties of speech.
"That's too bad," Sherlock murmured, his lips brushing and nibbling at the edges of my crown, occasionally coming together in a half-formed kiss. I watched as he turned his head sideways to slowly run his lips up and down my shaft. "I shall have to find other means of entertaining myself. You're letting in a draft," he said simply, yanking the blankets out of my hand so that he was lost to sight beneath them.
For several minutes Sherlock continued softly lipping and kissing and nuzzling my cock until I had been pampered half out of my mind, then went on to give me a thoroughly enjoyable sucking off that I was regrettably unable to prolong as I might have liked. When he burst up from beneath the blankets a few moments after finishing me off he fell into my arms with a low growl of my name, panting and sweaty, immediately latching onto me and pressing his lips fervently to mine. While Sherlock had been pleasuring me he had been wriggling and writhing up against my leg in his quiet little way and had worked himself up into his present state; now it was my happy duty to bring him off.
I quite enjoy these occasions when my beloved gets a bit overcome; it's so unlike his normal self. Gone are Sherlock's air of darkly austere and deliberative reserve, his quietly elegant physical grace, and his carefully composed stoicism; this Sherlock, my Sherlock, is clumsy and hasty and inarticulate, trembling and gasping and wonderfully, wildly, imperfectly human, and I love him all the more when I am with him in these moments.
I flipped us over to give myself a bit of space; I'd just gotten one off myself and needed to catch my breath. I occupied myself by working his blasted nightshirt up in between us - no easy task between the lack of room, his sweaty body, and his hungrily roaming hands. Once I had managed it I began to maneuver my way down Sherlock's body with the idea of sucking him off a bit in return, but was then seized with inspiration.
I worked myself down onto my belly between Sherlock's legs, my arms propped up over the tops of his thighs, and before I had even gotten into position Sherlock had anticipated my idea, reaching down and lifting his cock until the underside met the center of my chest, watching with gleaming eyes and parted lips as he rubbed it back and forth through the hair which grows there. Sherlock has always been inordinately fascinated with my body hair, which he claims is lavishly soft, particularly the hair on my chest and stomach, and I couldn't believe that I hadn't hit upon this use of my lucky asset in the past.
I quickly realized that Sherlock would have to sit slightly up and that I would have to adjust my position in order to avoid laying on his trinkets, and once this was managed the result was rather glorious. Sherlock hooked his legs around my hips and I lowered the middle of my sternum onto his cock, propping myself up on my elbows as my beloved began to grind himself against the thick hair in the center of my chest.
"You like that, love?" I asked, allowing myself a bit of a smug smile because I had rendered my beloved quite incapable of remarking upon my redundantly obvious question. Sherlock's eyes watched me with a feverish sort of helplessness as I dipped my head down to casually suck on one of his nipples, and was pleased by his squeaking little whimper and by the way one of his hands began to scrabble purposelessly with my head. When I felt the rhythm of Sherlock's hips begin to falter it was quite easy to push myself up and back and to scoop Sherlock's cock up into my mouth, where, after a few deep, swift plunges, my beloved had a rather loud and vigorous spend.
I worked my way back up to Sherlock's side and pulled him into my arms, and for a split second his unusual limpness and lack of resistance caused me to worry that he had passed out again.
"Are you alright?" I murmured, kissing the part of him nearest my mouth, which happened to be his sweaty forehead, relieved when I felt him nod against my chest. While Sherlock recovered and collected himself we sat in a pleasant and companionable silence, and I gazed idly at the constellation of little moles on his left shoulder.
"You know, I'm quite happy to be your weeping birch tree," I said presently.
"You're not my tree, you're my John," Sherlock said after a moment. "And if you were a tree, you wouldn't be a weeping birch..."
"What would I be, then?"
"You would be a mighty oak."
In some ways it's the nicest thing Sherlock's ever said about me.