I don't think I had ever seen a man quite as beautiful as my flat mate, which if you really think about it is an odd sentence. Most men aren't what most people call 'beautiful.' Unless you are talking about some of those convincing drag queens, but that's a different story really. Still, there was just something that bordered on ethereal about him. It's more frustrating than anything really. I mean, it's not like I can type this kind of stuff up on my blog. Oh god, no. That would just be bad. No doubt Mycroft would text me before I hit enter and I'd never be able to look him in the eye again. Let alone Sherlock, Sarah, Molly or the entire police force. They all read it so, that won't be happening.

I think he does it on purpose, trying to frustrate me as if daring me to bring up any questions about his sexual orientation simply so he could tell me he was married to his work again. That's not even a real answer! I mean he has to have someone that he at least finds somewhat attractive in the slightest. Everyone does. Okay, maybe I'm sounding close minded, but, it's highly improbable.

It's just, the way he looks at me, the back of his thumb running idly along his lip. He says he's thinking. I suppose I'm supposed to assume that it's about work but, I can't help but second guess it. It's all too often he's staring 'blankly' at me. I'm almost positive he's mentally undressing me. I think the part that bothers me the most is that I like it. Even worse than that is I don't think I'd mind so much if it wasn't just his eyes undressing me.

What am I even saying?

Sometimes I just need some outlet. I can't talk to anyone, God forbid I even try talking to Sherlock about it. He'd manage to make me feel like an idiot, which he has already reassured me I am (but that's beside the point). I've already gone over the blog position. What else is there left but this? I mean by all rights I should be ashamed of myself. I really should have more decency than this.

I can't help it though. The way that damned purple shirt clings to his form and at the same time is loose enough to accent that neck of his. The things I would do to his neck if I didn't think he'd lose all respect for me. So I slip upstairs to my bedroom early some evenings and sometimes if I let myself relax enough I can imagine that it's his hand instead of mine that's pushing my trousers and pants out of the way.

That it's his fingers curled around me and coaxing the smallest little sounds out of throat. If I keep my eyes closed I can almost feel my skin tingle under his imaginary gaze. Just the thought of him even watching me do this is enough sometimes. Just imagining him standing in the doorway watching and studying the details of how my hand strokes over my own skin. How I know the little things that still can make me shiver and how my thumb passes over my head to spread the little bit of pre-cum that had gathered there.

I wonder what he'd be thinking as my free hand clutched the pillow beside my head. Would he find me as beautiful as I find him? Would he be fascinated with the way my lips part and my brow furrowed as I was driving myself closer to the brink of climax? Would he even be flattered how I breathlessly mutter his name as I do finally come?

I suppose I'll never know. Sherlock Holmes is not a person who was easy to read. I suppose I wouldn't be so fascinated by him if that was the case. Still, one night, I wouldn't really mind opening my eyes to see him in my doorway, that small wry smile quirking his lips to one side of his face.

Yeah, that would be nice.