Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein do not belong to me, but to Hartswood Films, BBC Wales and WBGH, not to mention Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am merely visiting Baker Street for fun and make no money from this venture.
This is the only time this will happen. I know it. I can feel it.
Everything about this is wrong. Everything. But we crave it.
He’s always known me – probably better than I know myself – and he’s constantly hinting at the fact that I don’t take care of my own… desires.
Desires he seems to know particularly well.
I arch my back. His lips find my neck. The suction is gentle at first, ghosting over my Adam’s apple. But he finds my collarbone and increases the pressure. His hands are at my waist, my chest – everywhere. Caressing. Unfastening my shirt. Unbuttoning my trousers.
Brother, I want to say. But I can’t. I can’t speak.
His mouth is on mine. My tongue quivers against his. My breath is ragged.
I grip his shoulders, not quite knowing whether I want to push him away or pull him closer. I end up doing both, somehow managing to rip the shirt right off his chest.
Did I do that?
“Greedy,” he says to me, breathing on me softly. He smells like peppermint. The taste of it is in my mouth too. He looks into my eyes for a bit, searching for uncertainties there, I gather. He won’t find any, not tonight.
In a flash, my eyes have taken in his flushed cheeks, which hint at an arousal, his over-bright eyes and red lips. His hair is clean – washed this morning with Axe shampoo, judging by the smell – and I run my fingers through it once.
He says my name in a whisper: Sherlock. I shiver as I kiss him again, winding my arms around his neck. He is my brother, one of the few people who has been there for me my entire life, whether I wanted him to be or not.
And he’s here for me now. He kisses his way down my body, pulling clothes off me as he goes. My senses are on fire as I form his name on my lips, raising a hand over my head to grab the couch’s armrest. Part of me hopes that John will come in and catch us so that we can stop.
But a bigger part of me wants the world to stop turning, at least until this is over, and maybe for a few minutes afterwards. I want no distractions. No cases. Nothing but this.
The three chase each other tonight as he and I do the most forbidden things. I stop breathing once when his mouth finds the part of me that needs him the most, and again when he pushes himself inside me.
And then, I can’t… it’s too much. Too hot. Too full.
There is pain, but he attenuates it with a kiss, a gesture. Soothing sounds coupled with his strangled gasps.
Sweat flows between us, making the slide easier between our bodies. I crush him to me, and cry out his name once, twice.
His eyes are shut. He’s shaking in my arms.
There are tears running down my face.
What did we do?
“We will speak of this to no one,” he says later. “They don’t need to know.”
I agree. Nobody needs to know about it. I nod once, pressing my lips to my brother’s. “I love you,” I say quietly.
“I love you too.”
These few words, spoken into the darkening shadows of my living room tell me that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the only time. Maybe this is just the start.