Like I’m Drowning, and You’re My Air

How is it that Sherlock Holmes, who knows an awful lot, has never known something as simple as a kiss?

How is it that nobody has ever taken him by the collar of his poncy coat, pressed him against a wall, and kissed him, firmly and soundly? How is it that nobody in the universe has learned the flavour of his tongue, or felt the soft hum of his enthusiasm against their lips?

It’s quite the injustice, and it’s driving John mad.