John lightly brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. He planned to keep himself distant from this encounter. He was not to enjoy it. He was attracted to women. But Sherlock’s mouth was so soft and warm and smelled so enticing, he had to taste it again, this time deeper. He pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s, catching the full bottom lip between his own. He tightened his grip on the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in soft curls. Sherlock let out a groan. John deepened the kiss, tracing his tongue lightly along Sherlock’s bottom lip, asking permission. Sherlock opened his mouth and John pressed his tongue inside, tasting, licking, exploring. Sherlock’s scent was in his nose, his taste in his mouth, his hair and skin were soft against his palm. The sensations consumed him, aroused him, drove out every thought but one, ‘This. I want this.’ He took a deep breath, so he could taste some more, then jerked away as his ribs screamed.
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and looked up at John. His eyes were half lidded with desire. His lips were wet, and he had a bit of beard burn on his chin. The sight of Sherlock on his knees, looking so vulnerable stirred a tender impulse that had been beating around the back of John’s brain for a long time. Suddenly, he felt as bereft and lost as when he first returned from Afghanistan.
“Sorry, my ribs.” He said in apology. His words fell into a devastating silence. There was something so bleak, so expectant in Sherlock’s expression. He realized there were things happening below the surface. Things he didn’t understand. He couldn’t bear the way Sherlock looked at him. He couldn’t bear the aching wound that was his empty arms.
He felt as though he were falling into a chasm. He felt terrified and euphoric and raw and invincible. John lived most of his life in the same muddle of confusion and drab ordinariness as most of humanity., but every once in awhile, emotion and circumstance combined to give him a moment of shattering insight. A moment of utter certainty, when all options narrowed to one. Something fragile, something necessary to the continued existence of both Sherlock and himself hinged on what happened next.
John allowed his instincts to guide him. He leaned forward and took both Sherlock’s hands in his. He rose to feet and pulled Sherlock up to meet him. Then, he wrapped his arms around his flatmate and buried his face in his chest.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 5c
John lightly brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. He planned to keep himself distant from this encounter. He was not to enjoy it. He was attracted to women. But Sherlock’s mouth was so soft and warm and smelled so enticing, he had to taste it again, this time deeper. He pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s, catching the full bottom lip between his own. He tightened his grip on the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in soft curls. Sherlock let out a groan. John deepened the kiss, tracing his tongue lightly along Sherlock’s bottom lip, asking permission. Sherlock opened his mouth and John pressed his tongue inside, tasting, licking, exploring. Sherlock’s scent was in his nose, his taste in his mouth, his hair and skin were soft against his palm. The sensations consumed him, aroused him, drove out every thought but one, ‘This. I want this.’ He took a deep breath, so he could taste some more, then jerked away as his ribs screamed.
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and looked up at John. His eyes were half lidded with desire. His lips were wet, and he had a bit of beard burn on his chin. The sight of Sherlock on his knees, looking so vulnerable stirred a tender impulse that had been beating around the back of John’s brain for a long time. Suddenly, he felt as bereft and lost as when he first returned from Afghanistan.
“Sorry, my ribs.” He said in apology. His words fell into a devastating silence. There was something so bleak, so expectant in Sherlock’s expression. He realized there were things happening below the surface. Things he didn’t understand. He couldn’t bear the way Sherlock looked at him. He couldn’t bear the aching wound that was his empty arms.
He felt as though he were falling into a chasm. He felt terrified and euphoric and raw and invincible. John lived most of his life in the same muddle of confusion and drab ordinariness as most of humanity., but every once in awhile, emotion and circumstance combined to give him a moment of shattering insight. A moment of utter certainty, when all options narrowed to one. Something fragile, something necessary to the continued existence of both Sherlock and himself hinged on what happened next.
John allowed his instincts to guide him. He leaned forward and took both Sherlock’s hands in his. He rose to feet and pulled Sherlock up to meet him. Then, he wrapped his arms around his flatmate and buried his face in his chest.