The Perfect Snog
by Jem's Bird
for Gemma

Illustration by Spacefall

He digs his fingers into my back, his tongue tickling my upper lip as I gently bite his lower one. Noses caress cheekbones as the kiss deepens, and the rough stubble of late evening beard brushes chin to chin, driving all thoughts of our task from my mind. As I grind my hips into his, I can feel our rapidly stiffening members fencing through brushed wool and smooth cotton, and I lose control just as I always do, crushing myself into him, the very breath squeezed out of my own lungs as he responds by pressing himself even closer; I can feel his ribcage sticking into my chest and I know that tomorrow morning one or both of us shall wear bruises from tonight’s passions. Then his tongue plunges deep into my throat and I know nothing, save the sweet taste of my lover and the sound of our moans and sighs playing a counterpoint to the rustling of cloth as we writhe together upon our sitting-room floor.

Much later, I pull away, smiling down into those beautiful steely eyes. Holmes reaches up and brushes an errant strand of my moustache back into place. “It seems to me,” he murmurs, “that once again, you have allowed yourself to become disgracefully dishevelled.”

“It seems to me,” I chuckle, shaking my head ruefully, “that once again, you have managed to distract me away from my helping you to organize your files.”

My companion manages an expression of injured innocence. “I? As I remember, I was retrieving a file that had fallen behind the bookcase when you unaccountably attacked me and rolled me onto the floor.”

This is really too much; I throw back my head in laughter. “And exactly how does the master of deduction explain his failure to recognize the connection between my seemingly unpredictable actions and the completely wanton manner in which you were displaying that gorgeous arse of yours for me?” I reach underneath his hips and squeeze the body part in question, and Holmes wriggles delightfully below me, every part of his delicious body telling me in a thousand ways that this was precisely his intention. Every part, that is, save his mouth, which coyly smiles as he gives voice to his mock denial.

“‘Displaying that gorgeous arse!’ Watson, that is unworthy of you; I was merely repositioning myself so I could better retrieve the file. And exactly how does the most popular author of Strand explain the use of such coarse language?”

I explain myself by using an extremely coarse phrase indeed, compounding the insult by using his hated Christian name and ruffling his hair – two actions I know he cannot abide. He responds by pulling me back down onto him and biting my neck, and we roll onto the hearthrug, our squabbling forgotten. As we strip off our garments before the roaring fire, I realize that Sherlock Holmes has, once again, successfully put off the odious task of sorting his files. I shall be furious with him in the morning, but for now I give in and enjoy my lover for all his charms.