There it is. The moment. Their moment. The /we’re-actually-going-to-do-this-moment/. The /after-all-these-years-it’s-finally-happening–moment/.
This is not their first time, of course it isn’t. They’ve been sleeping together for half a year now, but that moment still…happens. It’s the point where their dynamic changes. That’s what their lovemaking is like. It starts with frantic need and chuckling and teasing and breathless snogging and a desperate desire to touch whatever millimeter of skin is exposed. - And then, all of a sudden, it morphs into something else, something slow and gentle and /different/. This moment is so powerful that it never fails to render Sherlock speechless. And except for one delicate syllable there are no words left inside him. /John/ is all that matters. /John/ surrounds him, invades his every sense, makes his bottom lip tremble and his eyelids flutter and the heat in his lower abdomen expand. And it’s almost, almost too much, except that it’s not, because it’s /John/. John. What else could there possibly be left?
Maybe it’s the sudden realization that the only person he has ever cared for is going to prove his affection in the most human way possible. Maybe it’s the intimacy and closeness he still finds equal parts pleasant and frightening. Well, as a matter of fact, sex with John overwhelms Sherlock so much that words fail him. John has to confess that he finds it a tiny bit funny. Mostly, though, he finds it incredibly endearing. He’s also fluent in Sherlock by now and knows exactly that there’s more than to every “John” that leaves his detective’s lips.
John vividly remembers their first time, and the sensory overload Sherlock was unable to cope with. The line between /not enough/ and /too much to process/ is a thin one, and for Sherlock it's even fragile than average. That has not changed much. John has become very good at taking care of Sherlock, though.
“Alright?” John asks gently, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s left collar bone, smoothing a hand down his chest and belly until it rests in the soft trail of hair below his belly button. John’s smile is all soft and warm. His hand feels tender and solid and real. A soldier’s hand. A surgeon’s hand. A lover’s hand. Oh. “John”, Sherlock gasps. And that’s where it begins.
FILL: In Nomine (part 3)
This is not their first time, of course it isn’t. They’ve been sleeping together for half a year now, but that moment still…happens. It’s the point where their dynamic changes. That’s what their lovemaking is like. It starts with frantic need and chuckling and teasing and breathless snogging and a desperate desire to touch whatever millimeter of skin is exposed. - And then, all of a sudden, it morphs into something else, something slow and gentle and /different/. This moment is so powerful that it never fails to render Sherlock speechless. And except for one delicate syllable there are no words left inside him. /John/ is all that matters. /John/ surrounds him, invades his every sense, makes his bottom lip tremble and his eyelids flutter and the heat in his lower abdomen expand. And it’s almost, almost too much, except that it’s not, because it’s /John/. John. What else could there possibly be left?
Maybe it’s the sudden realization that the only person he has ever cared for is going to prove his affection in the most human way possible. Maybe it’s the intimacy and closeness he still finds equal parts pleasant and frightening. Well, as a matter of fact, sex with John overwhelms Sherlock so much that words fail him.
John has to confess that he finds it a tiny bit funny. Mostly, though, he finds it incredibly endearing. He’s also fluent in Sherlock by now and knows exactly that there’s more than to every “John” that leaves his detective’s lips.
John vividly remembers their first time, and the sensory overload Sherlock was unable to cope with. The line between /not enough/ and /too much to process/ is a thin one, and for Sherlock it's even fragile than average. That has not changed much. John has become very good at taking care of Sherlock, though.
“Alright?” John asks gently, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s left collar bone, smoothing a hand down his chest and belly until it rests in the soft trail of hair below his belly button. John’s smile is all soft and warm. His hand feels tender and solid and real. A soldier’s hand. A surgeon’s hand. A lover’s hand. Oh.
“John”, Sherlock gasps. And that’s where it begins.