The Quiet Man

Technicolour

I think I could spend the rest of my life just like this.

I can hear the tiniest bit of your voice when you exhale against my lips; it's something between a moan and an honest attempt at breathing in spite of what's happening between us. It’s a herculean effort, I know. Because this is incredible. It really is. Do you have any idea what it does to me? Feeling that slick skin on the inside of your lips, then hearing you on the brink of moaning? Jesus. You must know. It's so obvious. You can hear it in my breath too, can’t you. Of course you can.

Kiss me. Yes. Don’t stop.

God, Sherlock. My god. Your mouth.

If I weren’t already so far gone, kissing you would push me over the edge. I don't think it's possible to kiss you and not fall hopelessly in love with you. That's ridiculous, but it's true.

God. Your breath on my cheek; that's all I want.

Well: not all. There's more I want. I can feel it; I can feel the tension in your shoulders, your chest expanding and contracting against mine. I can feel you hard against my hip, too. That's good. That's good, Sherlock. I can feel it. I know you can feel me too, in the exact same state, pressed against you as I am. The tiniest bit of friction across your bare skin when I breathe out, Jesus. It’s incredible. I won’t rut against you like an animal, not yet. Slowly; we’ll get there. I hope. The anticipation is like honey, it’s like heat enveloping me. Christ.

We don’t need any words; it doesn’t take any to work this out. I want you; you want me. It’s so simple, and yet it’s been so complicated for so long. Your tongue is stroking my lower lip. Your hand is resting on my waist. My fingers are tangled in your hair. This is perfect. Christ. My heart is racing. I could stay this way forever.

Kissing you is not like kissing anyone else. It's just not. This is you. There's no one like you.

I'm not entirely sure whether you've kissed anyone before. It's hard to tell. I mean, everyone's different, and the first few minutes are always a bit awkward, but this might be your first. God. It might be. And I sort of want it to be, even though that's ridiculous. It doesn’t matter, really; you don’t bring anyone else with you in a moment like this. Irene, or Mary, or anyone else. It’s just you and me, like we’re new. But this might be your first kiss, and I think I like that. You're mine, Sherlock, you always have been. I want to keep it that way. If it’s not the first, it feels like it anyway, even for me; I feel as if I've finally woken up. I've been asleep all my life until now. I’ve never felt this much for someone before I’d even managed to kiss them. I’ve never felt this much for anyone, full stop.

We should have done this years ago. It would have been all right, you know. We would have laughed more, I’m sure. It would have been bizarre, and funny, and awkward. Maybe we wouldn’t have been as certain. We would have worked it out. We waited too long. We made it mean so much I can barely breathe. Three years without you, Sherlock. I don’t think I ever stopped thinking about leaning over and kissing you. But it was never like this in the fantasy, somehow. You weren’t there, and even the most intense fantasy had an emptiness to it, I can see that now. It was only a sketch, it was an outline. It’s all coloured in between the lines now, full of texture and sound. And smell: your triple-milled soap, toothpaste, coffee, and that underlying rich smell that could only be your skin. Your technicolour skin. I can feel it. Jesus.

Your fingers are shifting against my hip; you’re pressing your fingertips into me. Unconscious movement, maybe. Do you have those? Do you do anything unconsciously? I don’t know. You’re trying to pull me closer, as if that’s possible. It breaks me a little bit, that motion. It answers a million questions I’d never be able to ask. You press your teeth lightly into my lip and I know I’m making incoherent sounds into your mouth. Kiss me, Sherlock. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please.