Imagine Sherlock twirling John's moustache between his fingers
“That was utterly brilliant, Holmes,” I say as I follow him into the carriage and pull the door closed behind us. He is barely visible through the dim light thrown by the gas lamps on the front of the manor, but his small, pleased grin is still evident. I adore that smile–a little shy but one of the most genuine expressions Holmes ever shows, something reserved almost exclusively for me. “How on earth did you determine that Nelson’s brother stole that decanter?”
“Oh, Watson, as ever, the evidence was right under your nose,” he says in mild exasperation before launching into one of his long explanations, highlighting all of the things he saw that everyone else missed and the way he connected the evidence, piece by piece. It’s intoxicating listening to him like this. I never tire of hearing how his extraordinary mind works. As he explains his process, the cab carries us away from the manor, off on rural roads, back toward the inn. Emboldened by the cover of the deepening darkness and the vast emptiness of the countryside, I slide closer to Holmes, our thighs and knees brushing together. “In the end, it could only be the brother,” he finishes. “Elementary, really.”
In the privacy of the inky night pressing in around us, it is safe enough for me to demonstrate just how amazed I am by his abilities, even after all these years. I feel rather than see him turn toward me as he finishes his explanation, and my hands find his face by muscle memory, thumbs swiping reverently back and forth over those familiar, sharp cheekbones. “That’s astounding. Truly,” I say with all sincerity, feeling his cheeks tighten under my hands as a smile slides onto his face again. “Amazing, my dear Holmes,” I whisper, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose and sliding my hands back to rest on his nape, careful not to muss his hair. “Wondrous.” A kiss to one fine cheekbone. “Brilliant.” A kiss to the other. “Genius.” I pepper his face with kisses between whispered words of praise, my lips fluttering against his chin and brow and eyelids.
In the dimness, I can’t see the flush creeping up his neck, but I know it’s there all the same. For a man so comfortably the center of attention at a crime scene, he is always endearingly uncomfortable as the recipient of my private litany of praises. He adores it, too, but he is a man who so long went without the kindness and regard he so deserves that being the focus of such lavish attention still embarrasses him. (And as such, I have of course endeavoured to laud him as often as possible when we are alone together. I do love to make him blush.)
I rest my brow against his, our eyes finding each other through the darkness. This man–this exceptional, talented, beautiful marvel of a man–is mine, and I am his, and the enormity of that is sometimes overwhelming. We have said no vows, made no solemn promises before God and men, offered no public declarations of our affections. We cannot, as we must always fear reprisal, and yet we have bound ourselves as wholly together as a man and wife would, the strength of our convictions evident in deeds both public and private. It can be witnessed in the cock of my gun and the steadiness of my aim when Holmes faces a threat, in the gleam in his eye and the quirk of his mouth when I make a proper deduction, in the quiet moments we steal for ourselves–shared breakfasts, late lie-ins, evenings in front of a crackling fire. And this. These rare instances when I can manage to get Holmes alone and still for a few tranquil moments, whispering my adoration against his skin so that he may soak it up and hold it in until the next such moment we can thieve, never knowing how long the wait may be until I can once again express my admiration and desire for this remarkable man who is my husband in all but name.
“You are certainly the most extraordinary man in all of England, Sherlock.” I close the remaining distance between us, pressing my lips gently against his. It’s chaste, a simple touch of lips to lips, tentative and a little tense. But that’s the way it always goes–necessary caution making us hesitant, nerves and worry staying tongues that seek to twine together and hands that long to explore the curves and planes of each other’s bodies. But slowly, as our lips join again and again, as we quiet the parts of our minds that say we shouldn’t, as we slough off the habitual distance and allow our intimate familiarity to take its place, our kisses grow warmer, linger longer, come quicker.
Holmes’ lips part against mine, allowing my tongue to slide past and curl against his own. He tastes positively sinful, a heady combination of tea and smoke and that unnameable essence all his own. A moan, low and needy, slips from his throat, and I pull back to breathe a shhhh against his lips. As alone as we feel here, we mustn’t forget the cab driver’s presence. It is unlikely that he can hear us over the clatter of horse hooves and the din of carriage wheels on rural roads, but it is still a risk we need not take. “Stay quiet, my love,” I remind him before slotting our mouths together again, pulling his full lower lip between my teeth and nipping it teasingly, enjoying the way his chest heaves as his breath quickens, the way his body tenses as he tries to hold in his sighs and moans and whimpers, the way his long fingers rove up and down my back seeking purchase with which to pull our bodies closer together.
“John,” he breathes, and I lick my name from his lips. Four small letters shouldn’t say so much, but all of his fondness and hunger and veneration is evident in the way his mouth curls around them. The sound of it pulses in my veins, spreading heat from my chest through my stomach and down to pool between my legs. I thrill at the thought of dropping down in the cramped space between his knees, continuing my quiet worship by giving him the pleasure he so deserves, but there isn’t time; the ride is not long, and we have no more than a few minutes for heated kisses that leave us both longing for more, reassurance and need and mutual affection spoken in the wet slide of lips on lips, of gasped breaths, of stroking tongues and hints of teeth, of soft suction mimicking our more prurient desires.
As the distant light from the inn draws closer, we slow our exploration, the craving for more warring with the need for discretion, until eventually discretion wins out and, returning gradually to chaste presses of our lips to each other, we part with one final tender kiss. When Holmes pulls away, he regards me with soft eyes and a small, sad smile before turning his face toward the window. I know he hates this, this need to hide our love away from the public as if it were something shameful. I hate it, too, and though we both understand its necessity, it never becomes any easier.
I reach out to cup his chin and nudge his gaze back to me. “Someday, my dear. Someday when we’ve had enough of London and mystery and danger, we’ll find a home far out in the country and retire there where no one can bother us. I’ll write of our final adventures, and you can keep bees, as you’ve always dreamed, and we can spend every other moment wrapped in each other’s arms, with no need to part until we so desire.”
A smile warms his face as he considers the prospect. “Someday,” he agrees.
We set to straightening our clothes, making ourselves presentable again as the cab pulls into the wide lane that leads to the inn. When done, we look each other over, ensuring that there is no out-of-place collar or crooked tie to give us away. I nod my approval at Holmes’ state of dress, but as he looks me over, he starts to chuckle. “I’ve made a mess of you, Watson.” He reaches out and twirls the end of my moustache through his long fingers, both of us revelling briefly in this gentle touch, before he curls it back into its proper shape and moves to the other side to do the same. When he’s done, I capture his hand and press small kisses against his fingertips in silent thanks.
The carriage comes to a halt in front of the inn, and I release his hand. We climb out, leaving behind the hushed intimacy of the short cab ride and falling back into the required distance of our public selves. As he pays our fare, I can still feel his fingers above my lip, his hands on my back, his mouth against mine, his thigh pressed alongside my own. Would that I could feel this all the time, but for now I must carry on without, surviving on these ghosts of our affection, the lingering memories of kisses a pale shadow of the real thing.
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