My mind, thinks Sherlock Holmes, is blown.
He is lying on his side. Strong arms encircle him from behind. Three o'clock au matin, a midsummer night, pale grey light already coming in at the casement. There are only so many things that can be known, he thinks.
Everything he is, everything he was, has been washed away. He can no longer remember the ten colours of earth that will coat the boots of anyone who takes a stroll through Sussex. He has forgotten the name of the salt that leaves a stain on the flesh.
Now he knows the feel of John Watson from the inside. The touch of those lazy surgeon's fingers on his skin. He knows the body: the solid chest, the phallus smooth and hard as a river stone.
Watson stirs behind him. Strong arms turn him so that he is lying on his back, Watson looking down at him. Watson has propped himself up with one arm, but the free hand traces Holmes' face. The skin there is soft, Watson knows; Holmes does not have to shave more than twice a week.
"Sherlock Holmes," Watson says. He pronounces the name in a way Holmes has never heard before. "What is it? Your heart is pounding."
Holmes gazes steadily up through the fingers that stroke his eyebrows, his fine cheekbones. "You know my methods," he says. "What does that tell you, Watson?"
Watson smiles. "It tells me that you want me."
Under his hand Holmes smiles back, a slight, sardonic smile. Watson, he thinks, I never get your limits. Any fool would know my heart is pounding out of fear. Holmes feels himself at the precipice. The water is roaring in his ears. In a moment he will lose hold of himself. But then Watson stoops to kiss him.
Watson's mouth is wet, as Holmes has previously discovered, with the indefinable taste of a man's saliva. He likes Sherlock's tongue, likes to answer it with his own, extending the conversation that has run throughout their friendship. Holmes raises his hands to the sensitive skin at the back of Watson's neck. His own hands are covered in little bandages from his experiments in chemistry, and he knows now that Watson likes the feeling of them scraping against his skin. He cannot remember the types of tattoo commonly applied in the Orient. He is bereft of the scent of the tobacco favored by printmakers.
One of Watson's hands steals down, between his legs, and Holmes waits in absolute stillness while Watson prepares him. He goes numb. A short time later he comes back to himself; he is lying on his stomach. He can feel Watson move slowly into him, moving with the slow burn of realization.
I have lost, he thinks, a thousand perfumes.
Then Watson is in him, and this is all he knows.