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As the minutes passed and the flush of exertion faded into the soft longing with which he was so familiar, he could not resist the desire to curl more tightly around the body of the man with whom he lay, the body of the man he loved. Their legs entwined, chests pressed against one another, fingers danced up and down his spine and he heard and felt the quiet sigh of satisfaction that escaped from his lover's lips. He knew the time would come when the moment would be broken, and, even after so long, he dared not to call Watson his except inside his own mind.
This had become their pattern over time. They would arrive at their Baker Street lodgings, fresh from a marvellous, taxing problem and, exalted at the excitement and thrill of the game, would fall incautiously into one another's arms. Watson as ever would be of sounder mind and would direct Holmes to his own bedchamber so that they might have more privacy in which to indulge their relentless need for one another. Physical lust sated, they would lie for several minutes in a warm embrace. It was these moments of closeness that Holmes most dearly treasured. He would allow himself to believe, if only for a very short time, that they truly belonged to each other and could have this always, whenever they wished. Foolish, he thought, perhaps. But when has a man so deeply in love ever not been foolish?
At length, Watson began reluctantly to stir. Holmes tightened his grip upon Watson's waist and, with a sigh of fond exasperation, Watson relented and lay back upon the quilt once more. His fingertips traced lazy circles on Holmes' bare shoulder and he bent his head down to bestow the lightest flutter of a kiss.
"Don't," Holmes murmured, pressing his face into Watson's chest. The fine, golden hair tickled his cheek pleasantly. Above him came a heavy exhalation and Watson's arm about his waist flexed to pull their bodies ever closer.
"Don't," Holmes repeated, "please." Knowing that what he asked was impossible, he still could not bring himself to let go, to release his most intimate friend and return to their work and the distance which was so necessary between them.
"Do not ask this of me," Watson whispered. "Please, do not ask it of me for I am a fool and I will concede."
Holmes laughed lowly, unable to keep the bitterness from the sound. He knew, with all of his heart, the depths of Watson's regard for him. The sentiment was returned, multiplied many times over so that it consumed his very being. With one final caress of the skin beneath his hands he released his hold and let go the body in his arms.
Watson rose unsteadily, as though pulled back by a great, unbreakable thread.
"I must," he said, quiet sadness in every movement as he dressed, becoming ever further away and ever the respectable doctor once more.
"I know," Holmes replied, pretending not to watch from below the quilt. The door closed almost silently as Watson departed.
"I know, John."