“Christ,” I moan, as I finally get the inside door of Baker Street against my back. “Christ, I really thought we were done for.”
Sherlock is already tottering around the flat, ratting things in the kitchen, not getting much done. He fills the electric kettle, but wanders back toward me without turning it on, then paces back into the sitting room, hand rubbing the back of his neck. I suddenly see again the way he scratched his own head with the business end of my loaded gun, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to banish the image.
“Sherlock, you all right?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine. Fine. John,” he looks up at me suddenly, as though only just remembering I’m there, then tears his eyes away again, looking everywhere, at the walls at the ceiling. Finally managing to catch my breath, I push myself away from the door and make it as far as the kitchen, where I switch the kettle on. When I turn around, Sherlock is in front of me, close enough that I have to take a step back, bracing against the worktop.
“You really were amazing,” he says, and his eyes are darting over my face, as though looking for some sort of answer. The nearness of him is startling. His lips look very red in the wan kitchen light, and his eyes are ethereal. I clear my throat.
“Yeah, well, don’t expect a performance like that every time you steal my gun to try and make friends with a supervillain.” I lick my lips. “I mean, you did just risk both our lives for some kind of game.”
“You’re angry.”
“A bit, yeah.” And I am angry, but that emotion is increasingly overwhelmed by something else, something raw and impossible. Sherlock is brimming with pent up energy, almost vibrating where he stands, his hands moving restlessly from his hips to his neck and back again.
“John, I think I want to—“ He swallows, tries again. “That is, I wonder if you’d…” I stare at him, uncomprehending, until he stills himself with visible effort, and I realize what he’s going to do only a split second before he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and leans in to kiss me square on the mouth.
Time stops. I am acutely aware of Sherlock’s fingers tangled in my hair, the breath coming hard and fast through his nose, the firm press of his lips against my own. His eyes are closed. After a brief, heart-pounding eternity, I close mine, too, and allow my lips to open under his. He makes a small, passionate sound and lets his body sag against mine, and I respond without thinking, sliding my hands up to clasp that impossibly slender waist. His lips are soft, edged in faint stubble, and his tongue slides against mine almost tentatively, which makes a beautiful contrast to the smell of sweat and fear and gun solvent that clings to his skin. I wonder if he’s always like this, this gentle—
Until I realize with a chill that he isn’t always anything, because I’ve been privy to his whole life, and he’s never kissed anyone on screen, ever.
Something is going to try to happen. You are not going to let it.
Shit. I break the kiss with a gasp, and push Sherlock away from me. He looks confused, blankly vulnerable. God, what can I possibly tell him? That the walls have eyes? That the blogosphere has got to be fucking lighting up right now, if we haven’t been darked out? That his big brother has made a none too subtle threat to blow me up if I get too cozy with him?
“Sherlock,” I start. “I just don’t think it’s. It’s not a good idea.”
He looks confused for a moment more, and then a shutter comes down over his expression, and I wish immediately that I could take it back, and bollocks to Mycroft and the whole bloody world. But he is already pulling away.
“No,” he says. “You’re probably right.”
“Sherlock,” I start, but he holds up a hand, tugs the hem of his jacket down, and stalks off into his bedroom without a word. The door clicks shut behind him. For a moment I wish I were outside, where even now the public is watching to see how Sherlock reacts to romantic rejection. But here, in our flat, he has his privacy from me, at least.
The kettle behind me has long since boiled. I switch it off, then seek my bed.
Fill Part 16
Sherlock is already tottering around the flat, ratting things in the kitchen, not getting much done. He fills the electric kettle, but wanders back toward me without turning it on, then paces back into the sitting room, hand rubbing the back of his neck. I suddenly see again the way he scratched his own head with the business end of my loaded gun, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to banish the image.
“Sherlock, you all right?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine. Fine. John,” he looks up at me suddenly, as though only just remembering I’m there, then tears his eyes away again, looking everywhere, at the walls at the ceiling. Finally managing to catch my breath, I push myself away from the door and make it as far as the kitchen, where I switch the kettle on. When I turn around, Sherlock is in front of me, close enough that I have to take a step back, bracing against the worktop.
“You really were amazing,” he says, and his eyes are darting over my face, as though looking for some sort of answer. The nearness of him is startling. His lips look very red in the wan kitchen light, and his eyes are ethereal. I clear my throat.
“Yeah, well, don’t expect a performance like that every time you steal my gun to try and make friends with a supervillain.” I lick my lips. “I mean, you did just risk both our lives for some kind of game.”
“You’re angry.”
“A bit, yeah.” And I am angry, but that emotion is increasingly overwhelmed by something else, something raw and impossible. Sherlock is brimming with pent up energy, almost vibrating where he stands, his hands moving restlessly from his hips to his neck and back again.
“John, I think I want to—“ He swallows, tries again. “That is, I wonder if you’d…” I stare at him, uncomprehending, until he stills himself with visible effort, and I realize what he’s going to do only a split second before he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and leans in to kiss me square on the mouth.
Time stops. I am acutely aware of Sherlock’s fingers tangled in my hair, the breath coming hard and fast through his nose, the firm press of his lips against my own. His eyes are closed. After a brief, heart-pounding eternity, I close mine, too, and allow my lips to open under his. He makes a small, passionate sound and lets his body sag against mine, and I respond without thinking, sliding my hands up to clasp that impossibly slender waist. His lips are soft, edged in faint stubble, and his tongue slides against mine almost tentatively, which makes a beautiful contrast to the smell of sweat and fear and gun solvent that clings to his skin. I wonder if he’s always like this, this gentle—
Until I realize with a chill that he isn’t always anything, because I’ve been privy to his whole life, and he’s never kissed anyone on screen, ever.
Something is going to try to happen. You are not going to let it.
Shit. I break the kiss with a gasp, and push Sherlock away from me. He looks confused, blankly vulnerable. God, what can I possibly tell him? That the walls have eyes? That the blogosphere has got to be fucking lighting up right now, if we haven’t been darked out? That his big brother has made a none too subtle threat to blow me up if I get too cozy with him?
“Sherlock,” I start. “I just don’t think it’s. It’s not a good idea.”
He looks confused for a moment more, and then a shutter comes down over his expression, and I wish immediately that I could take it back, and bollocks to Mycroft and the whole bloody world. But he is already pulling away.
“No,” he says. “You’re probably right.”
“Sherlock,” I start, but he holds up a hand, tugs the hem of his jacket down, and stalks off into his bedroom without a word. The door clicks shut behind him. For a moment I wish I were outside, where even now the public is watching to see how Sherlock reacts to romantic rejection. But here, in our flat, he has his privacy from me, at least.
The kettle behind me has long since boiled. I switch it off, then seek my bed.