“You realize I’m only wearing a dressing gown.” Sherlock said, his voice hesitant.
“I don’t care if you’re wearing a suit made out of porcupine quills. Put your arms around me, you silly idiot.”
Sherlock wrapped shaking arms around him, holding him tightly so that they pressed together from thigh to chest. There was nothing platonic or friendly about their embrace. John could feel Sherlock’s half-aroused cock against his stomach. He pressed his lips gently to his collarbone. He felt Sherlock shiver and a light touch of lips against his hair.
As usual, his flatmate’s big brain had to spoil everything.
“Are you just doing this because you feel sorry for me?”
John pressed his cheek against his chest. “Sherlock, I am feeling a lot of very strange things right now, but pity is not one of them.”
“Could you elaborate?”
There was a long moment of silence. “Imagine that you lost something that was integral to your identity as a human being.”
“Okay.”
“Then imagine that, not only did you lose it, but you forgot it ever existed.”
“I’m imagining.”
“Then imagine you found it again.”
“That’s very nice, but what does holding me have to do with your rediscovery of your sexual identity?”
“I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that you smell wonderful, your body feels amazing against mine, and I love the sound of your voice, even when you are ruining my nice romantic moment.”
“Oh, this is a romantic moment, then?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Should I do something?”
“Just keep on with what you are doing right now.”
“But I’m not doing anything.”
“Precisely.”
Eventually, John’s arms got tired and his stitches began to itch. In spite of the discomfort, he didn’t want to move. He tried to analyze what he felt for Sherlock. Before the kiss, he couldn’t imagine life without him. It wasn’t just that, though. He’d always loved weird little things about Sherlock. He loved watching him play the violin, the way his bony wrists stuck out from his sleeves, the way those strong slim white fingers moved over the strings. He loved his prickliness and the way the corners of his lips turned down before he made a particularly scathing remark.
Before the kiss, he knew he felt platonic love for Sherlock. In the shower, he realized he felt physical attraction for him as well. Did that combination translate into romantic love? John didn’t know. The shift in their relationship was too recent for him to make heads or tails of it. He did know that he wanted to kiss Sherlock again, wanted to do more than kiss Sherlock, and that he wanted more than just physical intimacy.
Suddenly, feelings of insecurity flooded his brain. What if Sherlock did not want to kiss him again? What if he desired physical intimacy, but not emotional intimacy? Sherlock was the king of compartmentalization. John feared that if he stuffed their relationship into a box, only be taken out and played with when convenient, he would suffocate.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 5d/?
“I don’t care if you’re wearing a suit made out of porcupine quills. Put your arms around me, you silly idiot.”
Sherlock wrapped shaking arms around him, holding him tightly so that they pressed together from thigh to chest. There was nothing platonic or friendly about their embrace. John could feel Sherlock’s half-aroused cock against his stomach. He pressed his lips gently to his collarbone. He felt Sherlock shiver and a light touch of lips against his hair.
As usual, his flatmate’s big brain had to spoil everything.
“Are you just doing this because you feel sorry for me?”
John pressed his cheek against his chest. “Sherlock, I am feeling a lot of very strange things right now, but pity is not one of them.”
“Could you elaborate?”
There was a long moment of silence. “Imagine that you lost something that was integral to your identity as a human being.”
“Okay.”
“Then imagine that, not only did you lose it, but you forgot it ever existed.”
“I’m imagining.”
“Then imagine you found it again.”
“That’s very nice, but what does holding me have to do with your rediscovery of your sexual identity?”
“I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that you smell wonderful, your body feels amazing against mine, and I love the sound of your voice, even when you are ruining my nice romantic moment.”
“Oh, this is a romantic moment, then?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Should I do something?”
“Just keep on with what you are doing right now.”
“But I’m not doing anything.”
“Precisely.”
Eventually, John’s arms got tired and his stitches began to itch. In spite of the discomfort, he didn’t want to move. He tried to analyze what he felt for Sherlock. Before the kiss, he couldn’t imagine life without him. It wasn’t just that, though. He’d always loved weird little things about Sherlock. He loved watching him play the violin, the way his bony wrists stuck out from his sleeves, the way those strong slim white fingers moved over the strings. He loved his prickliness and the way the corners of his lips turned down before he made a particularly scathing remark.
Before the kiss, he knew he felt platonic love for Sherlock. In the shower, he realized he felt physical attraction for him as well. Did that combination translate into romantic love? John didn’t know. The shift in their relationship was too recent for him to make heads or tails of it. He did know that he wanted to kiss Sherlock again, wanted to do more than kiss Sherlock, and that he wanted more than just physical intimacy.
Suddenly, feelings of insecurity flooded his brain. What if Sherlock did not want to kiss him again? What if he desired physical intimacy, but not emotional intimacy? Sherlock was the king of compartmentalization. John feared that if he stuffed their relationship into a box, only be taken out and played with when convenient, he would suffocate.