Sherlock Fanfiction: White Satin, Silver Sequins (a continuation)
Title: Files From a Flashdrive: White Satin, Silver Sequins (a continuation)
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Sherlockmas
Summary: John doesn't only write about their cases.
A/N: A continuation of the fic written for the Sherlockmas 2013 SPF: First Friday Drabble Day Post to fill Prompt No. 81: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (optional Sally); too many memories of a bad case.
Posted, also, on AO3.
Must be read with the first part of White Satin, Silver Sequins. However, the two stories together may be read as a stand-alone set.
They may also be read as part of the Other Experiments series where they would fit in after Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: Time re-wound. My fingers itched to touch as though I’d never known the warmth and glide of you.
Files From a Flashdrive:
White Satin, Silver Sequins
(a continuation)
The cool breath of the river meets the warm exhalations of the city along the Embankment. It stirs the air. I watched it pull a curl lose. You had pinned up your hair. So the earrings would still show. My legs moved faster than a casual stroll required.
A couple passed between us, the men tall and broad. I craned my neck and shifted closer to the road. There. I took a deep breath. You were preparing to cross before the crosswalk again. You are impatient. The station spewed travellers onto the opposite pavement, their forward momentum checked by the passing vehicles. But you waited for me and I didn’t think you did. You always seemed to be leaving me behind. I sped up.
The lights changed. The crowd spilled into the road. I sprinted the last few steps. Once more, I was behind you as you stepped up on the other side. I stared at your legs. Time re-wound. My fingers itched to touch as though I’d never known the warmth and glide of you. People surged against me from behind. The pedestrians flowing down the stairs held you in place. My hand slid between your thighs. My entire body registered the feeling.
“What do you want, little man?” you asked. Your taunt was quiet, just for me.
My hand moved a bit higher as I glanced up. So much heat here. You were looking down over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. You do haughty so well. “Go up the stairs,” I instructed, my thumb arcing over the back of your thigh. I do command rather well.
“Why would I do that?” you challenged.
Someone shoved me closer to you as they passed. The hand in my pocket thrust forward. Just above my thumb, the barrel of my gun pressed into your skin.
One eyebrow twitched slightly higher. “Persuasive,” you said and turned towards the stairs.
“Left,” I directed when we reached the top. You turned onto the footbridge. “And you may call me John.”
“How original,” you huffed. “John.”
The syllable never holds as much meaning as it does on your lips. Even now, as you scoff and turn it into an alias.
The pedestrians flowed insistently in both directions, keeping us close. I eased back with the gun, slipped my hand from your leg to your waist. The sequins were cool against my palm. “Down,” I said as we reached the other bank. I felt the swivel of your hip. The crowd thinned, most fanning out towards the pubs and restaurants further from the water. I stayed near as we moved along the rail above the river.
“Down again,” I prompted at the next steps.
“A boat,” you said when you saw it bobbing, small and trim, by the pier. You were aiming for blasé, but I heard the surprise. You descended quickly, curiosity aroused.
I refrained from saying “obvious” and smiled at your back.
I held your hand high to help you in. The corner of your mouth twitched. I thought the gallantry a nice touch. You waited until I’d untied the rope, switched on the running lights and seated myself, before you crossed your legs. One nice touch deserves another. I gave them the lingering look they deserved before I un-shipped the oars by feel alone. I hadn’t recalled the tights being opalescent. They had caught the lights as you slipped one long leg over the other and hid the glimpse of darkness between them.
A river boat emerged from under the bridge, loud with dance music and laughter. You held onto the side with one hand as we rocked in its wash. I followed that motion, too. You know how to move to draw attention. I don’t know what you change when you wish to remain unseen, because you succeed.
“Have you commandeered the boat as well?” you asked.
“No,” I replied, pushing away from the landing and steering us out into the current. The night-tide was coming in, the muddy beach disappearing beneath it, the docked boats rising with it.
“You have a licence for it?” you asked. Your curiosity was peeping through again. I was surprised you asked. I thought you’d prefer to deduce.
“I have a lot of things I don’t have a licence for,” I answered. You had a hard time keeping the corners of your lips down at that. We floated under the footbridge. The Eye turned you blue. You re-crossed your legs and I had to take my jacket off. I slipped the gun into the back of my waistband beneath my shirt and rolled up my sleeves before I unlocked the oars again and resumed rowing. I pretended it was the physical exertion that required it.
“It also has a motor,” you observed, your eyes fixed on my arms as the oars dipped and I drew them through the water. “Are you showing off for me, John?”
The next stroke was broader. “It’s quieter,” I said and you looked thoughtful, still watching as I leaned forward and my muscles flexed with the sweep of the oars. A motor boat buzzed past, a hint of spray reaching us. I tilted my head towards it as I leaned back. “And some things are better done slowly.”
“Why be seductive, John? You’ve employed force already.”
“Have I?” I asked. The oars swept up at the end of my question, hit the water seconds later with nary a splash. I'd found my rhythm. My father had taught me to row in Brighton and the muscles don’t forget. “I think I was the john you were looking for this evening.”
You bowed your head slightly, eyes lowered. I remembered the gesture. Why did I listen to your words, instead of your body? The time we lost. Big Ben chimed. Everything is synchronised tonight, like that first night when doors and windows aligned and I saw you across the courtyard. As the shadow of the bridge fell across us, you glanced over your shoulder. I leaned into the next stroke. Parliament’s lights painted you gold when we emerged on the other side. You stayed, posed, chin tilted up and I admired your profile. The Burghers may have seen you from between the trees. Ten strokes and Lambeth Bridge loomed.
“Are we going far?” you asked.
The air was cool on my face. Sweat trickled down my back. “Can’t you tell?”
It got you to look at me again. I knew it would. “You’re rowing too fast. We must be close.”
I smiled.
“You rowed at uni,” you continued.
I shook my head. “In the summers, on the sea,” I explained and succeeded in not sounding out of breath.
“You still practice,” you added and the admiration in your voice wasn’t for the exercise, but for how I had kept it from you.
I nodded.
“You do it when you’re angry,” you added, slightly irritated and I knew the irritation was at yourself for not having known.
The river was running faster. Between Science and Art, we slipped beneath the painted arches of Vauxhall.
“Does it anger you that I arouse you so much?” you asked, leaning back, bracing your weight on one hand and stretching out your legs.
It had. I hadn’t recognised the frustration for what it was. It would ambush me without quite revealing itself. You unleashed more than you expected when you punched me and that was before Baskerville. By the time we went to Dartmoor, you couldn’t turn up your coat collar without my temperature rising. How would it have been, if we hadn’t gone back to the Yard the first night you wore this dress? If you had been sure enough to goad me the way you are now?
Your feet had disappeared under the thwart next to me, delicately crossed at the ankles. I can hardly keep up with you when you run and climb. How does a film of cloth disguise that strength? My hands resented the oars. I wanted them free to touch the slender bones of your ankles, the firm muscles of your calves. My glance moved past your knees to the hem of the dress that barely covered your lap and back down along the line where your thighs were pressed together. I wanted to discover the trick of the illusion.
A train raced over our heads.
I wrenched my gaze away from your legs. The river banks were quieter now, less colourfully lit. Ahead of us, the outlines of Chelsea Bridge grew larger, their neon reflections bright on the black water. I shortened my strokes and lifted an oar to begin turning the boat. “It’s not anger I feel,” I said. I understand myself a little better now.
You glanced at the dark arch in the brick wall of the river bank. Your earrings swung, sparking faintly with lamplight before we slid under the roadway and into a series of private docks lit discreetly in the shadows of several tall buildings. I watched you cataloguing details. It almost looked as though you hadn’t been here, although a part of London that you don’t know is a rare one indeed, more likely you had not been since the construction around the old docks was completed.
The flat on the corner of the tenth floor of the closest building was meant to have been Harry and Clara’s dream home. They can’t agree to sell. I looked up at the unlit windows. I suppose it’s hard to put a price on lost dreams. When Clara accepted the transfer to Singapore, Harry asked me to drop by the property from time to time. It upset her too much to go. She’d said they were both glad someone was using the boat. Mike had taken on the task while I was gone.
Harry and Clara’s flat isn’t the only unoccupied one. The landscaped walkways between the buildings are quieter than suits my taste because of that. There isn’t the hum of life that never stops on Baker Street. Here and there a light has gone out by the small piers and the shadows gather. I crouched on the dock and held my hand down to you. You humoured me and took it as you stood. The boat rocked and you smiled as though you really needed my hand. I’d blame in on the shoes, if I didn’t know you have the balance of a cat. You can act.
I stood as you climbed the ladder. In the dimness, your lipstick looked black. I was tempted to kiss you when your face was level with mine, but I resisted. I had other plans. You’re right, of course, about my being a leg man, although there isn’t a part of you I don’t like to touch. Still, tonight I had assumed a role. We’ve been doing that a lot lately and sometimes we find a truth in the midst of the acting. Is that why you like to do it?
***
I didn’t stand close in the lift, just gestured to the left as the door opened on the top floor. The next time I touched you, I wasn’t going to stop.
I’d left the door to the terrace ajar, the drapes pulled completely back for the view. You moved ahead of me inside, the sequins catching the light from the hallway until I closed the door. And then you were a ghost in the gloom, swerving around the large sofa in the otherwise empty room. I threw the bolt and followed, as I always do.
***
There were spaces between the long planters around the edge of the terrace, the rosemary in them gone a bit wild. You stood between them looking out over the river, your head turning briefly towards the bright arcs of Chelsea Bridge and across to the twinned chimneys of the power station. I’ve stood where you are now and thought about you. When you said to wait for you on the Embankment, I decided to bring you here, to stand with you on the edge of a roof. Have you deduced all of that?
You’ve stilled, your feet close together, your elbows bent at your sides. I’m sure you’re listening as I move. I dropped my jacket and the gun on the bench in front of the shrubbery. I reached out. The tips of your earring dragged along the back of my hand; my fingers skimmed the fine hair on the nape of your neck. You startled a little. You hadn’t predicted that. When I found the tab of your zip, I eased it down a few centimetres, pushing it aside enough to press my lips against the thin skin over your spine. I shut my eyes. A mistake perhaps; it magnified the sensation flowing from that one, warm point of contact. I closed my hand over yours to steady myself and the impulses from those two points collided. I needed to rest my cheek against the uneven surface of the cloth. The contrast sent a dissonant ripple along my nerves. I took a deep breath and found my balance. I brushed your thigh, along the hem of the dress. You exhaled. I think you were thinking, Finally, but I couldn’t have approached my goal more directly. Three points of contact.
In a snarl of bright light, the sensations intersected somewhere in my chest and it was still nothing compared to the urge that had swept through me the first time I’d stood close enough behind you to explore what was beneath the hem of that glittering dress. My hand tightened over your knuckles, my head swam.
I sought air, one side of my mouth still pressed against your back. The teeth of the zip scraped past my nose as my breath fluttered the open cloth. Such a fragile barrier. Armour compared to what lay beneath my hand. My fingertips explored higher, the fabric over your hip mere gossamer, nothing beneath the tights but the taut skin of your hip. I have had you and you me, times more than I can count now, but the memories feel like daydreams. What is real is the feel of your muscle and bone beneath the knotted threads of silk. I smiled. You must have felt it against your back. No rough nylon against your skin. Naturally. I may have trembled or maybe only my breath faltered. My hand, though, was sure. It crested your hip and found what it sought. It had all been there waiting for me, the silk and satin and sinew of you, if I had only had the courage to slip my hand beneath that dress.
“John?”
“Not words.” My hand slid to your elbow before it slipped away. I had tried words already and gotten it all wrong; you were always more than I could imagine. I lowered myself to my knees, both hands on your hips for a moment before I lifted the dress.
***
Beyond the closed terrace doors, the thin layer of clouds obscuring the sun was brightening. It shed a soft light on the sleeping form on the sofa, head pillowed on a folded arm, face obscured by tousled hair. From my perch across the room, I followed the long sweep of the spine to the swell of the buttocks and down the legs. A few sequins winked at me from the floor. I leaned down from the ottoman and took two pieces from the velvet-lined case and fitted them together. I resisted the urge to walk across the room and place a kiss in the dip of your spine. I wasn’t likely to stop at one kiss. I licked the reed instead and played a low note and then another. Gradually, a minor scale took shape. Even as a schoolboy, I liked the minor keys.
Harry had handed me the case when she gave me the keys to the flat and the boat. Said she thought I might need it after all these years. Every once in a while, Harry is right about something. I played the scale again. She’d been around for my teen-aged heartaches. I used to try to practice when she wasn’t home because she would tease me about the wrong notes. I was never very good, but if I practiced enough, I could manage. I hadn’t thought she’d noticed how the clarinet could say things for which I hadn’t found the words.
I leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. I don’t need to see the keys. Anything I play is very simple. I went half-way up the scale and back down again, so softly I could barely hear the notes. I held the low notes longer. I have pretty good wind. Good for lots of things, that.
The breeze had picked up a little last night while we were out on the terrace, but it hadn’t been what had made you shiver. I’m sure of that. For a long while I had kissed and stroked through the tights, before I finally peeled them away, left them like a shed skin around your ankles. I kissed the bare flesh for even longer, my fingers trailing up your abdomen as far as they could reach and down your thighs between strokes of a more grasping nature. It was hard on my knees. I’d felt that when I stood up, but I had wanted to go slowly. My eyes were shut most of the time then, too, every other sense sharper for it. Our elbows rubbed against the shrubs and we breathed rosemary. I pushed the dress off one shoulder, so I could rest my cheek against your back and listen to the tempo of your heartbeat changing. I barely moved, drawing out the time, stretching it as far as it would go. And I held you tightly, so you wouldn't fall.
My fingers fluttered over silver keys and the sounds were like your breathing. I want you again.
“John.”
You’d said my name into the night, one more beautiful sound.
“John.”
I opened my eyes. You’d brushed the hair away from your face.
“This is where you’d go when you stormed out of the flat,” you said. “I always thought you went to the pub or to Sarah’s or Jeanine’s. You’d smell like you had.”
I lowered the clarinet. “I did sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes I did both.”
You propped your head up on your elbow. “You eluded me,” you mused. I raised an eyebrow. “And Mycroft.”
“As far as I know,” I said.
“You must have. He wouldn’t have been able to refrain from gloating if he knew something about you I didn’t.” Sherlock sat up. “I hope we didn’t lead him here last night. The more places Mycroft doesn’t know about, the better.”
"I’m a bit surprised since our first little tête-à-tête wasn't far from the power station across the river.”
“In Battersea? You never mentioned,” you said and stretched.
I looked down at the clarinet. Sometimes you’re too beautiful to look at.
“Harry and Clara’s place,” you continued, looking around. “They never moved in, but can’t bring themselves to sell. The sofa and the draperies came with the flat.” I nodded. “But you’ve laid in a few necessities.”
I smiled. “The tea might be a bit stale, but I grabbed some milk before I left Bart’s.”
“Very sure of yourself, Dr Watson.” I should have been surer. I glanced up as you stood. You arched your back and I didn’t look away fast enough. You smiled. “I might have said no.” When you’re away, I do still think that sometimes. You turned. “The bathroom must be this way.” A sunbeam had cracked the cloud cover. You stepped into it and your skin glowed. That seemed completely appropriate.
“I would have serenaded you with my heartfelt compositions until you succumbed to my desires,” I said and was surprised to manage that many words in a row.
You turned partway back towards me. “You were thinking of last night when you were playing. There was an air of melancholy to it.”
“There’s regret tied up with the associations,” I admitted. The clouds were drifting, the light and shadow playing across you.
You nodded and swung back towards the bathroom. Down the hall, at the doorway, you paused. “Over the back of the couch, with the shoes on,” you said. “What sort of melody might that produce?”
I sputtered initially, but managed to say that we could find out.
“After tea, though,” you said and shut the door.
I raised the clarinet to my lips and produced a rather lovely set of trills as I walked towards the kitchen.
I heard you laugh.
~~~~~~~~~~
You find them anyway, Sherlock, I may as well address you directly, then, don’t you think?
****
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Sherlockmas
Summary: John doesn't only write about their cases.
A/N: A continuation of the fic written for the Sherlockmas 2013 SPF: First Friday Drabble Day Post to fill Prompt No. 81: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (optional Sally); too many memories of a bad case.
Posted, also, on AO3.
Must be read with the first part of White Satin, Silver Sequins. However, the two stories together may be read as a stand-alone set.
They may also be read as part of the Other Experiments series where they would fit in after Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: Time re-wound. My fingers itched to touch as though I’d never known the warmth and glide of you.
Files From a Flashdrive:
White Satin, Silver Sequins
(a continuation)
The cool breath of the river meets the warm exhalations of the city along the Embankment. It stirs the air. I watched it pull a curl lose. You had pinned up your hair. So the earrings would still show. My legs moved faster than a casual stroll required.
A couple passed between us, the men tall and broad. I craned my neck and shifted closer to the road. There. I took a deep breath. You were preparing to cross before the crosswalk again. You are impatient. The station spewed travellers onto the opposite pavement, their forward momentum checked by the passing vehicles. But you waited for me and I didn’t think you did. You always seemed to be leaving me behind. I sped up.
The lights changed. The crowd spilled into the road. I sprinted the last few steps. Once more, I was behind you as you stepped up on the other side. I stared at your legs. Time re-wound. My fingers itched to touch as though I’d never known the warmth and glide of you. People surged against me from behind. The pedestrians flowing down the stairs held you in place. My hand slid between your thighs. My entire body registered the feeling.
“What do you want, little man?” you asked. Your taunt was quiet, just for me.
My hand moved a bit higher as I glanced up. So much heat here. You were looking down over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. You do haughty so well. “Go up the stairs,” I instructed, my thumb arcing over the back of your thigh. I do command rather well.
“Why would I do that?” you challenged.
Someone shoved me closer to you as they passed. The hand in my pocket thrust forward. Just above my thumb, the barrel of my gun pressed into your skin.
One eyebrow twitched slightly higher. “Persuasive,” you said and turned towards the stairs.
“Left,” I directed when we reached the top. You turned onto the footbridge. “And you may call me John.”
“How original,” you huffed. “John.”
The syllable never holds as much meaning as it does on your lips. Even now, as you scoff and turn it into an alias.
The pedestrians flowed insistently in both directions, keeping us close. I eased back with the gun, slipped my hand from your leg to your waist. The sequins were cool against my palm. “Down,” I said as we reached the other bank. I felt the swivel of your hip. The crowd thinned, most fanning out towards the pubs and restaurants further from the water. I stayed near as we moved along the rail above the river.
“Down again,” I prompted at the next steps.
“A boat,” you said when you saw it bobbing, small and trim, by the pier. You were aiming for blasé, but I heard the surprise. You descended quickly, curiosity aroused.
I refrained from saying “obvious” and smiled at your back.
I held your hand high to help you in. The corner of your mouth twitched. I thought the gallantry a nice touch. You waited until I’d untied the rope, switched on the running lights and seated myself, before you crossed your legs. One nice touch deserves another. I gave them the lingering look they deserved before I un-shipped the oars by feel alone. I hadn’t recalled the tights being opalescent. They had caught the lights as you slipped one long leg over the other and hid the glimpse of darkness between them.
A river boat emerged from under the bridge, loud with dance music and laughter. You held onto the side with one hand as we rocked in its wash. I followed that motion, too. You know how to move to draw attention. I don’t know what you change when you wish to remain unseen, because you succeed.
“Have you commandeered the boat as well?” you asked.
“No,” I replied, pushing away from the landing and steering us out into the current. The night-tide was coming in, the muddy beach disappearing beneath it, the docked boats rising with it.
“You have a licence for it?” you asked. Your curiosity was peeping through again. I was surprised you asked. I thought you’d prefer to deduce.
“I have a lot of things I don’t have a licence for,” I answered. You had a hard time keeping the corners of your lips down at that. We floated under the footbridge. The Eye turned you blue. You re-crossed your legs and I had to take my jacket off. I slipped the gun into the back of my waistband beneath my shirt and rolled up my sleeves before I unlocked the oars again and resumed rowing. I pretended it was the physical exertion that required it.
“It also has a motor,” you observed, your eyes fixed on my arms as the oars dipped and I drew them through the water. “Are you showing off for me, John?”
The next stroke was broader. “It’s quieter,” I said and you looked thoughtful, still watching as I leaned forward and my muscles flexed with the sweep of the oars. A motor boat buzzed past, a hint of spray reaching us. I tilted my head towards it as I leaned back. “And some things are better done slowly.”
“Why be seductive, John? You’ve employed force already.”
“Have I?” I asked. The oars swept up at the end of my question, hit the water seconds later with nary a splash. I'd found my rhythm. My father had taught me to row in Brighton and the muscles don’t forget. “I think I was the john you were looking for this evening.”
You bowed your head slightly, eyes lowered. I remembered the gesture. Why did I listen to your words, instead of your body? The time we lost. Big Ben chimed. Everything is synchronised tonight, like that first night when doors and windows aligned and I saw you across the courtyard. As the shadow of the bridge fell across us, you glanced over your shoulder. I leaned into the next stroke. Parliament’s lights painted you gold when we emerged on the other side. You stayed, posed, chin tilted up and I admired your profile. The Burghers may have seen you from between the trees. Ten strokes and Lambeth Bridge loomed.
“Are we going far?” you asked.
The air was cool on my face. Sweat trickled down my back. “Can’t you tell?”
It got you to look at me again. I knew it would. “You’re rowing too fast. We must be close.”
I smiled.
“You rowed at uni,” you continued.
I shook my head. “In the summers, on the sea,” I explained and succeeded in not sounding out of breath.
“You still practice,” you added and the admiration in your voice wasn’t for the exercise, but for how I had kept it from you.
I nodded.
“You do it when you’re angry,” you added, slightly irritated and I knew the irritation was at yourself for not having known.
The river was running faster. Between Science and Art, we slipped beneath the painted arches of Vauxhall.
“Does it anger you that I arouse you so much?” you asked, leaning back, bracing your weight on one hand and stretching out your legs.
It had. I hadn’t recognised the frustration for what it was. It would ambush me without quite revealing itself. You unleashed more than you expected when you punched me and that was before Baskerville. By the time we went to Dartmoor, you couldn’t turn up your coat collar without my temperature rising. How would it have been, if we hadn’t gone back to the Yard the first night you wore this dress? If you had been sure enough to goad me the way you are now?
Your feet had disappeared under the thwart next to me, delicately crossed at the ankles. I can hardly keep up with you when you run and climb. How does a film of cloth disguise that strength? My hands resented the oars. I wanted them free to touch the slender bones of your ankles, the firm muscles of your calves. My glance moved past your knees to the hem of the dress that barely covered your lap and back down along the line where your thighs were pressed together. I wanted to discover the trick of the illusion.
A train raced over our heads.
I wrenched my gaze away from your legs. The river banks were quieter now, less colourfully lit. Ahead of us, the outlines of Chelsea Bridge grew larger, their neon reflections bright on the black water. I shortened my strokes and lifted an oar to begin turning the boat. “It’s not anger I feel,” I said. I understand myself a little better now.
You glanced at the dark arch in the brick wall of the river bank. Your earrings swung, sparking faintly with lamplight before we slid under the roadway and into a series of private docks lit discreetly in the shadows of several tall buildings. I watched you cataloguing details. It almost looked as though you hadn’t been here, although a part of London that you don’t know is a rare one indeed, more likely you had not been since the construction around the old docks was completed.
The flat on the corner of the tenth floor of the closest building was meant to have been Harry and Clara’s dream home. They can’t agree to sell. I looked up at the unlit windows. I suppose it’s hard to put a price on lost dreams. When Clara accepted the transfer to Singapore, Harry asked me to drop by the property from time to time. It upset her too much to go. She’d said they were both glad someone was using the boat. Mike had taken on the task while I was gone.
Harry and Clara’s flat isn’t the only unoccupied one. The landscaped walkways between the buildings are quieter than suits my taste because of that. There isn’t the hum of life that never stops on Baker Street. Here and there a light has gone out by the small piers and the shadows gather. I crouched on the dock and held my hand down to you. You humoured me and took it as you stood. The boat rocked and you smiled as though you really needed my hand. I’d blame in on the shoes, if I didn’t know you have the balance of a cat. You can act.
I stood as you climbed the ladder. In the dimness, your lipstick looked black. I was tempted to kiss you when your face was level with mine, but I resisted. I had other plans. You’re right, of course, about my being a leg man, although there isn’t a part of you I don’t like to touch. Still, tonight I had assumed a role. We’ve been doing that a lot lately and sometimes we find a truth in the midst of the acting. Is that why you like to do it?
***
I didn’t stand close in the lift, just gestured to the left as the door opened on the top floor. The next time I touched you, I wasn’t going to stop.
I’d left the door to the terrace ajar, the drapes pulled completely back for the view. You moved ahead of me inside, the sequins catching the light from the hallway until I closed the door. And then you were a ghost in the gloom, swerving around the large sofa in the otherwise empty room. I threw the bolt and followed, as I always do.
***
There were spaces between the long planters around the edge of the terrace, the rosemary in them gone a bit wild. You stood between them looking out over the river, your head turning briefly towards the bright arcs of Chelsea Bridge and across to the twinned chimneys of the power station. I’ve stood where you are now and thought about you. When you said to wait for you on the Embankment, I decided to bring you here, to stand with you on the edge of a roof. Have you deduced all of that?
You’ve stilled, your feet close together, your elbows bent at your sides. I’m sure you’re listening as I move. I dropped my jacket and the gun on the bench in front of the shrubbery. I reached out. The tips of your earring dragged along the back of my hand; my fingers skimmed the fine hair on the nape of your neck. You startled a little. You hadn’t predicted that. When I found the tab of your zip, I eased it down a few centimetres, pushing it aside enough to press my lips against the thin skin over your spine. I shut my eyes. A mistake perhaps; it magnified the sensation flowing from that one, warm point of contact. I closed my hand over yours to steady myself and the impulses from those two points collided. I needed to rest my cheek against the uneven surface of the cloth. The contrast sent a dissonant ripple along my nerves. I took a deep breath and found my balance. I brushed your thigh, along the hem of the dress. You exhaled. I think you were thinking, Finally, but I couldn’t have approached my goal more directly. Three points of contact.
In a snarl of bright light, the sensations intersected somewhere in my chest and it was still nothing compared to the urge that had swept through me the first time I’d stood close enough behind you to explore what was beneath the hem of that glittering dress. My hand tightened over your knuckles, my head swam.
I sought air, one side of my mouth still pressed against your back. The teeth of the zip scraped past my nose as my breath fluttered the open cloth. Such a fragile barrier. Armour compared to what lay beneath my hand. My fingertips explored higher, the fabric over your hip mere gossamer, nothing beneath the tights but the taut skin of your hip. I have had you and you me, times more than I can count now, but the memories feel like daydreams. What is real is the feel of your muscle and bone beneath the knotted threads of silk. I smiled. You must have felt it against your back. No rough nylon against your skin. Naturally. I may have trembled or maybe only my breath faltered. My hand, though, was sure. It crested your hip and found what it sought. It had all been there waiting for me, the silk and satin and sinew of you, if I had only had the courage to slip my hand beneath that dress.
“John?”
“Not words.” My hand slid to your elbow before it slipped away. I had tried words already and gotten it all wrong; you were always more than I could imagine. I lowered myself to my knees, both hands on your hips for a moment before I lifted the dress.
***
Beyond the closed terrace doors, the thin layer of clouds obscuring the sun was brightening. It shed a soft light on the sleeping form on the sofa, head pillowed on a folded arm, face obscured by tousled hair. From my perch across the room, I followed the long sweep of the spine to the swell of the buttocks and down the legs. A few sequins winked at me from the floor. I leaned down from the ottoman and took two pieces from the velvet-lined case and fitted them together. I resisted the urge to walk across the room and place a kiss in the dip of your spine. I wasn’t likely to stop at one kiss. I licked the reed instead and played a low note and then another. Gradually, a minor scale took shape. Even as a schoolboy, I liked the minor keys.
Harry had handed me the case when she gave me the keys to the flat and the boat. Said she thought I might need it after all these years. Every once in a while, Harry is right about something. I played the scale again. She’d been around for my teen-aged heartaches. I used to try to practice when she wasn’t home because she would tease me about the wrong notes. I was never very good, but if I practiced enough, I could manage. I hadn’t thought she’d noticed how the clarinet could say things for which I hadn’t found the words.
I leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. I don’t need to see the keys. Anything I play is very simple. I went half-way up the scale and back down again, so softly I could barely hear the notes. I held the low notes longer. I have pretty good wind. Good for lots of things, that.
The breeze had picked up a little last night while we were out on the terrace, but it hadn’t been what had made you shiver. I’m sure of that. For a long while I had kissed and stroked through the tights, before I finally peeled them away, left them like a shed skin around your ankles. I kissed the bare flesh for even longer, my fingers trailing up your abdomen as far as they could reach and down your thighs between strokes of a more grasping nature. It was hard on my knees. I’d felt that when I stood up, but I had wanted to go slowly. My eyes were shut most of the time then, too, every other sense sharper for it. Our elbows rubbed against the shrubs and we breathed rosemary. I pushed the dress off one shoulder, so I could rest my cheek against your back and listen to the tempo of your heartbeat changing. I barely moved, drawing out the time, stretching it as far as it would go. And I held you tightly, so you wouldn't fall.
My fingers fluttered over silver keys and the sounds were like your breathing. I want you again.
“John.”
You’d said my name into the night, one more beautiful sound.
“John.”
I opened my eyes. You’d brushed the hair away from your face.
“This is where you’d go when you stormed out of the flat,” you said. “I always thought you went to the pub or to Sarah’s or Jeanine’s. You’d smell like you had.”
I lowered the clarinet. “I did sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes I did both.”
You propped your head up on your elbow. “You eluded me,” you mused. I raised an eyebrow. “And Mycroft.”
“As far as I know,” I said.
“You must have. He wouldn’t have been able to refrain from gloating if he knew something about you I didn’t.” Sherlock sat up. “I hope we didn’t lead him here last night. The more places Mycroft doesn’t know about, the better.”
"I’m a bit surprised since our first little tête-à-tête wasn't far from the power station across the river.”
“In Battersea? You never mentioned,” you said and stretched.
I looked down at the clarinet. Sometimes you’re too beautiful to look at.
“Harry and Clara’s place,” you continued, looking around. “They never moved in, but can’t bring themselves to sell. The sofa and the draperies came with the flat.” I nodded. “But you’ve laid in a few necessities.”
I smiled. “The tea might be a bit stale, but I grabbed some milk before I left Bart’s.”
“Very sure of yourself, Dr Watson.” I should have been surer. I glanced up as you stood. You arched your back and I didn’t look away fast enough. You smiled. “I might have said no.” When you’re away, I do still think that sometimes. You turned. “The bathroom must be this way.” A sunbeam had cracked the cloud cover. You stepped into it and your skin glowed. That seemed completely appropriate.
“I would have serenaded you with my heartfelt compositions until you succumbed to my desires,” I said and was surprised to manage that many words in a row.
You turned partway back towards me. “You were thinking of last night when you were playing. There was an air of melancholy to it.”
“There’s regret tied up with the associations,” I admitted. The clouds were drifting, the light and shadow playing across you.
You nodded and swung back towards the bathroom. Down the hall, at the doorway, you paused. “Over the back of the couch, with the shoes on,” you said. “What sort of melody might that produce?”
I sputtered initially, but managed to say that we could find out.
“After tea, though,” you said and shut the door.
I raised the clarinet to my lips and produced a rather lovely set of trills as I walked towards the kitchen.
I heard you laugh.
~~~~~~~~~~
You find them anyway, Sherlock, I may as well address you directly, then, don’t you think?
****