John gave an inward sigh of relief at Sherlock’s interested response. He closed his eyes and indulged himself. “I’ve watched you when you are thinking, Sherlock; you close your eyes and bring your fingertips up to stroke your mouth…almost like a kiss…and when you’re agitated, those same fingers slide a cigarette between your lips so you can draw in the smoke and taste…and you close your eyes and sigh…and sometimes when you’re very upset you tangle those same long fingers in your hair and pull until the pain distracts you from your frustration…and when you’re not comforting yourself with your hands and your fingers, you protect them in leather gloves, so smooth they feel like a second skin or shelter them in the warmth of the pockets of your overcoat.”
Sherlock was barely breathing he was listening so intently, so John continued, “Your fingertips are so sensitive that you can measure another’s pulse without pressing their skin, you can pick-pocket anything from anyone in the blink of an eye and you can feel a musical note through the strings of a violin before even you hear it…”
John fell silent.
“What else, John?” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible.
“The man I’ve watched, Sherlock, likes the caress of a cashmere scarf on his neck, a kiss from a curl of his own hair, a bit too long on his neck and the protection of a thick, wool coat collar, raised high. He likes the smooth stroke of finished cotton on his chest; a slim cut shirt with no vest between fabric and skin. He likes the softness of worsted wool trousers brushing his thighs and the whisper of silk socks over his feet. He wears French designer shoes of the finest leather, not as a status symbol but because in them he can feel the vibration of the city beneath his feet; he can sense its mood, its intent, its deepest secrets as he walks its pavements.” John stopped and looked down, “Am I right Sherlock?” he whispered.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice held a tiny tremor.
John continued softly, “The man I love and live with is sometimes overwhelmed by all that he senses; he needs the cool, silent, dimness of his bedroom and to be free from the restriction of clothing at all. On those days he wears nothing or just a bed sheet, not because he’s too lazy to dress but because cotton percale is the only thing he can bear to have touching his skin.”
Fill: The Devil's Workshop Part 6b
Sherlock was barely breathing he was listening so intently, so John continued, “Your fingertips are so sensitive that you can measure another’s pulse without pressing their skin, you can pick-pocket anything from anyone in the blink of an eye and you can feel a musical note through the strings of a violin before even you hear it…”
John fell silent.
“What else, John?” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible.
“The man I’ve watched, Sherlock, likes the caress of a cashmere scarf on his neck, a kiss from a curl of his own hair, a bit too long on his neck and the protection of a thick, wool coat collar, raised high. He likes the smooth stroke of finished cotton on his chest; a slim cut shirt with no vest between fabric and skin. He likes the softness of worsted wool trousers brushing his thighs and the whisper of silk socks over his feet. He wears French designer shoes of the finest leather, not as a status symbol but because in them he can feel the vibration of the city beneath his feet; he can sense its mood, its intent, its deepest secrets as he walks its pavements.” John stopped and looked down, “Am I right Sherlock?” he whispered.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice held a tiny tremor.
John continued softly, “The man I love and live with is sometimes overwhelmed by all that he senses; he needs the cool, silent, dimness of his bedroom and to be free from the restriction of clothing at all. On those days he wears nothing or just a bed sheet, not because he’s too lazy to dress but because cotton percale is the only thing he can bear to have touching his skin.”