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[Ella Thompson: Writing Exercise for Dr. John H. Watson]

Describe Sherlock Holmes.  Not how he looks, not the angles and lines of the man.  Describe the man himself.  

Sherlock is a thunderstorm, dark and rolling.  Intense and quickly changing, blowing in on the wind, and just as quickly changing directions without warning.  Lightning flashes in his eyes, striking a person down. His voice a reverberation of thunder, rolling over you, deep and crackling, electric against your skin.  His scent lingers long after he’s gone, heady and fragrant.

Sherlock is predatory in his feline grace.  Tall and lithe, leaping, swaying, dangerous and elegant, he stalks his prey.  Sharp eyes detecting weakness, he goes in for the kill, uncaring of the havoc he causes.  Every action is calculated, but poetry in motion.

He is music, a symphony.  Lyrically rising and falling, a crescendo in movements.  His footsteps as he runs beat a staccato rhythm on the pavement.  Pizzicato deductions sharp and crisp.  To say nothing of the clarion instrument that is his rich baritone voice.  You don’t just hear it, you feel it moving through you, an echo of deep melodies flowing through your veins.

Even as much as Sherlock detests astronomy, he is the moon and the stars.  Cool and untouchable, breathtakingly beautiful.  Pale as moonlight, eyes like stars  Life changing, unattainable, ever present, even when you can’t see him, he’s there.  Sight unseen, but lingering there in your mind.  

He is a paradox, an enigma, a mystery.  He is Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter somehow manifested as a human.  He is the beginning and the end of so many things in my life.  Sherlock is everything.

I stepped out of the shower and towelled off, a rare chance to be alone with my thoughts.  Sherlock had come crashing back into my life less than a month ago.  A punch to his face, a heated argument, an impulsive hug on my part, apologies were made, and we were an inseparable team again.  You would think after everything we had each been through, after all that time, that we would be two completely different people.  But we weren’t.  He was still Sherlock, in every sense of the word.  And I was still me.  We fell back into our old routines and habits within days.  

But things are different.  I have gotten much better at hiding my emotions.  When the world wants to pity you, treat you as a broken fragile creature, it’s a matter of survival to learn how to hide the emotions that make you vulnerable.  I suppose I picked that up from Sherlock somewhere along the way.  Sherlock, on the other hand, drops his guard around me. His face is not always the mask that he constantly used to wear.  It still goes up when we walk out the door, but in the flat...not so much.  I wonder if he’s even aware of it, aware of how he follows me with his eyes, the way his fingers linger a bit longer than necessary on my skin, even the way he says my name.  Every glance I catch, I feel my heart flutter.  Every caress makes me want more.  I want to hear my name as a moan on his lips.  Oh God those lips...   

I shake those thoughts from my head, wrapping the towel around my waist.  I’m reading too much into things.  Sherlock did what he had to in order to save his friends, and he’s married to his work.  There’s no way he feels the same.

As has become a habit of mine, I look for him on the way to my room.  Still making sure he’s real and not some fancy of my imagination.  There he is, fingers steepled, obviously in his Mind Palace somewhere.  I smile and start to head towards the stairs.  Wait!  What’s that on his lap?  Oh no! No, no, no!  He wasn’t supposed to find that.  Maybe he didn’t find the most recent entry.  Quietly, I pad over to him and gently remove the moleskin journal I had secreted away in a hidden compartment of my nightstand.  It’s open to the one journal entry I didn’t want him to find.  Dammit!

My heart is pounding in my chest.  I feel dizzy.  All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.  I knew this had been a bad idea, keeping any sort of handwritten account of my feelings revolving around Sherlock and his return, but Ella had insisted.  Why had I listened?  I should be angry at him for snooping, but it’s who he is.  I can’t ask him to change that anymore than I could ask the earth to stop turning.

Without warning, there’s a vice grip on my wrist, and I’m wrenched out of my head and back to the flat.  Sherlock turns his head, his voice a low growl, a storm brewing in his eyes, and utters one word, my name.


His voice is a reverberation against my skin, low and rumbling it thunders through me.  I drop the  journal, my voice a whisper.


I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I am in nothing but a towel, as if I wasn’t already embarrassed enough.  I cling tight to my towel and gulp, trying to catch my breath.  He watches my Adam’s apple.  He knows.  Dear Lord, he knows, and I can’t do anything about it.

“You weren’t supposed to find tha--” I manage to stutter out before he interrupts, rising out of his chair.

He stands slowly, hand still on my wrist, advancing on me.  That feline grace and predatory instinct now focused only on me.  I won’t say I never wanted to be the sole object of that gaze, but I didn’t think it’d be like this.  I back up, instinctively.
“You’ve gotten very good at hiding things, John.  This.” He waves the journal before throwing it to the floor. “It took me more than a week to figure out you were keeping one, and this long to find your hiding place.”  He grins at me.  I’m not sure I like that grin.  I’ve seen it before, and it doesn’t usually end well for the person on the receiving end.

“Now, I find you’ve also been hiding how you feel.”  He’s backed me up against the wall.  I should...I don’t know what I should do.  He’s in my space, so close I can taste his essence.  I find my backbone enough to reply.

“You weren’t supposed to know.  What does it matter?  It doesn’t affect your work.  Have you noticed a change in how we work cases?”  I am defiant.  It shouldn’t matter, but God help me, if it does, if he decides he can’t work with me, can’t live with me because of how I feel, I...I don’t know what I’ll do.

He chuckles, a melodic sound, not the one he uses for the common idiots and it brings back the butterflies in my chest. His eyes dart over my face.  The bastard is enjoying this!  Wait. That’s a good thing, right?  I don’t know what to think anymore.  I lick my lips.  He’s quiet. Too quiet.  

“Dammit, Sherlock.  I’m not a client, not a suspect.  Can we please forget this happened?”  I try to shake his grip on my wrist, but he’s gotten stronger in his absence.  He moves in closer, pressing me between his body and the wall.

“Oh, I don’t think we can do that.”  I have to repress a shiver.  I must be imagining the seductive tone in his voice.  He tilts his head, looking down at me.  “Why did you think you needed to hide them from me?  Those feelings.”  I notice his free hand twitch, as if he’s trying not to do something with it.

I start to respond, but he interrupts me.  “Rhetorical question, John.  You made assumptions even though you’ve been given the facts, or have you not noticed?”  In an instant, the grip on my wrist is gone as he frames my face with his hands.  Those long fingers tracing my lips before he leans in.  His lips touch mine and the world explodes behind my eyes.  I have always thought the “fireworks” description of a first kiss was cliche.  But there is nothing else to describe the sensation.   A myriad of colorful explosions take place behind my eyelids.

My brain stutters a bit.  Wait?!  Does this mean...?  He’s kissing me!  Surely this is just his way of getting even with me.  No!  Shut up brain!  Fuck it feels good!  Wait, I’m not kissing him!  My brain goes into overdrive, and I remember that perhaps I should...

I reach up with my free hand and fist his curls, pulling him in deeper to the kiss, encouraging him.  I’ve waited too long for this.  Our lips part, tongues tentative yet desperate.  It seems I’m not the only one who’s waited, as Sherlock is vibrating in sensory overload.  He sucks on my lower lip, nibbling, testing the waters, going slowly, but I can tell he’s holding back. His hands slide down my back, unconsciously pulling me in closer, closer.  A thin layer of clothes and a towel is all that separates us.  He wants more, more, more.  For Sherlock it has always been all or nothing.  

His skin, I need to feel his skin against mine.  I drop my hand.  He hesitates.  I nip at his lip with my teeth.  I’m not going to let him back away now.  He returns the kiss in earnest as I snake my hand under his shirt, sliding it up his smooth torso.  I discover Sherlock has sensitive nipples as they go taunt, and he shivers as I run my fingers over them.  I smile into his mouth, giving them a pinch.  He moans, and we break apart long enough for him to forcefully remove his t-shirt.  

Time freezes, or seems too, as we look at each other, chests bare in the morning light.  Now would be the time to turn back, a small part of my brain tells me.  I shove that thought away, there is no turning back.  Not now, not ever.  I see the same thoughts play across his face, before he pounces onto me again, lips and tongues crashing together.  

I was wrong, oh, so wrong.  Sherlock isn’t like the moon and the stars.  He is the sun; radiant, blinding, intense.  His touches are hot on my skin, gliding, caressing. I can feel the heat of his fingers even when they’ve moved on.

His mouth is on my neck - when did it get there?  I don’t want to miss any of this.  Yes, there, suck harder, there!  I offer wordless encouragement, moaning, pulling his hips to mine, thrusting against him.  Oh God!  He’s hard!  I can feel him through his pyjama bottoms.  Oh fuck!  Can he feel mine?  Of course he can!

I slip my hand under the waistband of his bottoms, enjoying the curve of his arse.  It feels every bit as divine as it’s looked in those tight trousers and jeans he always wears.  I pull him closer, closer, feeling every line against me.  Slowly, I slide the bottoms down, exposing him, teasing him.  He hums his approval against my skin.  The towel drops.  We both gasp as the last barrier between us is gone, our cocks sliding together, hot and exquisite.

His hands cling to my shoulders, mine to his hips.  Foreheads touching, we don’t move.  We barely breathe.  I was right.  Oh God, I was right.  He is everything, everything.  He is the beginning and the end of everything.  The little voice of doubt falls silent forever.  No, no turning back, never turning back.  More, more, more.  I need more, he needs more.  Breathe, John, breathe!

I inhale, he exhales, breath mingling. Our chests move together. It’s hard to tell where I end and he begins.  We look at each other.  He growls as he reads my mind and grabs my wrist, pulling us to his bedroom.  I follow.  I’m not sure which of us is more eager.

I follow him into his room, slamming the door behind us. It’s my turn, and I grab him, pulling him to the bed, urgent.  We tumble in together, our mouths and hands everywhere.  Eager is no longer the word that fits, we are desperate.  I want to taste him, learn him, every inch.  I want to know what sounds he makes when I place my mouth, here, and here, and here.  I want him to learn me from the inside out.  I want to claim him as mine, mark him.  I want him to claim me, make me his, mark me.  

His mouth is both rough and gentle, nipping his way down my neck and chest, planting delicate, almost reverent kisses as he goes.  I reach for him, pull him back up, needing to taste his mouth again.  His lips, his mouth, are everything I’ve fantasized about and more.  Our bare expanse of skin, crackling and electric where we touch.  His cock slides against mine.  He gasps, head thrown back, and the moan I’ve been waiting to hear escapes his lips, “John!”

Yes, Sherlock, yes!  Say it again, let me hear my name over and over again, please.  We rise and fall together, teasing, testing the waters.  More, more, more has become our silent mantra.  We come close to the crest and back away, neither of us ready for it to be over so soon, we lusty gluttons for punishment.  

He looks down at me, pupils blown, almost obscuring those verdant irises, curls falling in disarray.  He plants one final kiss on my lips and begins to trace his way down my body with his mouth.  Oh God, he’s going to, isn’t he?  Dear Lord, he does!

“Oh God, Sherlock!”

His mouth is on me, sucking slowly, tongue teasing the sensitive head.  I grab the sheets, back arching, barely able to breathe.  His head rises and falls.  I buck up into his mouth.  He strokes  my shaft with one hand, teasing me with his fingers with his other, not quite entering, but just enough to make me want more.  Christ, I’m close, so close.  No, I don’t want to cum like this.  I know what I want.

I tug his wrist.  “Come here.” I didn’t know my voice could growl like that.  For once he listens, and rises, only to cover me with his body.  He knows exactly what he’s doing, bastard.  God, I love him for it.  He grins as he thrusts against me, sending shock waves through my already sensitive cock, and reaches for the lube on the nightstand.  I grin back, because I know what’s coming next.

I hook his leg and flip him before he can open the bottle, straddling his hips.  The look on his face is priceless.  I chuckle a bit as I take the bottle from his hand, flipping the lid and pouring a good bit onto my hand.  I slowly begin to stroke him, taking my time.  I watch his eyelids flutter, long lashes quivering.  His face is flush, mouth, plump and pouty from sucking on my cock.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight.  Switching hands, I continue to stroke him as I lube and prepare myself.  

I rise, hovering on my knees.  His eyes fly open, realization dawning.  

“John, are you sure?” his voice is shakey, both from desire and concern.

I answer, wordlessly, smiling as I lower myself all the way onto him.  Oh. My. God!  I have to stop, slow, breathe.  He looks at me, concerned.  How do I explain to him what this is?  How this feels?  This feeling...that the world has stopped, that it has narrowed to this pinpoint of light that is Sherlock.  The reason astronomy doesn’t matter is because he is the universe, the stars, the nebulas, and the star dust.  How do I explain to him what it is like to be captured in this moment with him?  To be one with him like this is to be one with the universe.  

He sits up, pulls me close.  He knows, how does he always know?  I release a shuddering breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.  He smiles against my shoulder, before biting my neck, bringing me back to reality.  I gasp and shove him back down on the bed.  

“Fuck!” A filthy word from a decadent mouth.

“That can be arranged.” I smile deviously down at him.

Slowly, my hips begin to move, feeling him hard and pulsing in me.  Rising, falling, I take my time.  Somehow he has managed to find the lube, his hand slick with it, begins to stroke my cock.  His other hand grabs my hips, his back arches, we find a rhythm, creating our own symphony.  We build, not slowly, but powerfully, increasing in urgency.  We have both waited so long for this moment.  I feel him tighten, cry out, a warm release inside me.  I follow, and starbursts cloud my vision.  

I collapse on top of him, planting a kiss on his chest.  I feel him return one on my head.  Our breath comes in short gasps.  The air is cool on my back, his fingers lightly stroking my spine.  

I hear him chuckle under me.  “I take back everything I ever said about your poetry, John.  I don’t think anyone’s ever described me better.”