Shall Not Write Of This Evening
He shall not write of this evening’s events; none of his readers shall ever know what has transpired between us this night. I am – almost – regretful at this, for I do not wish this moment to die. He lies asleep in my arms, looking so innocent and serene that I can scarce believe this is the selfsame man who proved himself such a wanton in my bed not four hours ago. I pause to re-light my pipe and he mumbles something in his sleep, his moustache tickling my bare neck, reminding me of the way he used his upper lip to tease me in a much more intimate location.
I cannot believe that either man – the gently snoring angel in my arms or the lustful beast of a few hours ago – is the selfsame John Watson with whom I have shared rooms these five years. I saw, but I did not observe. Doubtless he will gently tease me once more in the morning, but I shall, with equal gentleness, chide him for his own blindness in not seeing my devotion to him.
Tonight has been a revelation for both of us, and we are each reacting after our own fashion: he has collapsed into sated dream, and I hold him in my arms, smoking my pipe and slowly turning over in my mind the wonders of this night. Staring into the distance, I keep vigil through the night, waiting until dawn brings the light and promise of the new day ahead, when I shall wake my lover with the faintest of kisses, knowing that at last he is mine.
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