The Quiet Man

Crime Scene

There’s yellow tape all around us; it’s a very small crime scene. It’s barely big enough for both of us to stand inside the tape. We have to stand very close together. I need to put my arms around you to keep from falling out. My lips are inches from your throat. I could just lean forward, and–

“Well?” That’s Greg.

Oh. Crime scene. Right. There’s a body. Isn’t there a body?

Greg doesn’t seem surprised to see you. None of them do; they’re just standing there, waiting for your deductions.They must have guessed that you’re still alive. They saw it on the telly, just like everyone else, they knew. Well, of course Greg knew; he invited us to this crime scene, didn’t he? He needed help, he called. We came. Here we are.

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest. We’ve been standing here too long, it seems. Anderson is getting restless. Sally is staring at her phone. They all look bored. The evidence in front of us is starting to vanish. It will turn to dust and blow away if we don’t do something.

You stroke my hair. It helps you think. It makes the evidence more obvious. It feels fantastic. My knees are getting weak. I put my arms around your waist, under your coat, and discover that you’re not wearing anything underneath it. How often do you do that, leave the house with no clothes on? I like it. You should keep doing it. Shhh, I won’t tell.

Crime scene. We have work to do. Keep it together, Watson, come on. I’m barefoot against the pavement, that seems like a colossally bad idea. How did I manage to forget my shoes?

The body is two dimensional. I’ve never seen a murder victim look like that; it’s as though someone drew him with a pencil on a sheet of paper and taped him to the pavement. He does seem to be made of paper, in fact; it’s so thin I can see right through him. There’s a couple of bits of chewing gum beneath him that show through under his chest, and it looks a bit like a pair of nipples. Bit of dark pink on his chest, just in the right spots. Does anyone else notice that? The idea of nipples makes my mouth water; it reminds me of running my tongue over yours in the night, the feel of you under the tip of my tongue, the way you arched into me. Yes.

That was fantastic.

We need to do that again.

Can I do that here? No. God: no! That’s completely inappropriate, we’re in public. My erection is jutting out so far it’s forming a barrier between you and the body. It must be so obvious. You must feel it. You’re too absorbed in the case to mention it. If I could just–

I need to concentrate: this man died here, this two-dimensional paper man. He couldn’t have always been made of paper while he was alive, no. That doesn’t make any sense. He must have been flattened somehow, mutilated, yes, that must be it. You’ll know. You’ll explain it. It will be obvious to you. You hold onto my cock; it’s keeping you inside the tape. Purely functional. Deep breaths now, don’t cause trouble. No one’s noticed. There’s nothing strange about it. Perfectly normal.

“Kiss me, John.” What? Here? It’s a crime scene, Sherlock. Is this appropriate?

I don’t really have a choice. It’s for the case. And I don’t mind, of course. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I desperately want to kiss you. The body doesn’t put me off, it’s only paper. So I grab your shoulders and kiss you. Nothing obscene; we just press our lips together, like children do. God, I want you so badly. You stroke my cock. I think I might pass out. This might be the most arousing thing I’ve ever experienced; they’re watching us, but they can’t tell what it means. They have no idea. We’re just solving crimes, like we always do.

We kiss very gently; you touch your lips to my throat. Christ. That should be enough. It’s the fuel you need, it’s what makes it possible for you to think. It’s what makes the evidence appear. Of course it is: that’s what I’m here for.