Likely, Sherlock would ruin the moment with a blank stare or say the worst thing of all: 'I know.'
He wouldn't be trying to hurt John, he just doesn't feel it. Or think he can feel it. Or know what it feels like. But when he got that paper in the skull, the one that promised John death, everything ran cold. Life without John Watson is impossible now. Absolutely impossible. He can't survive it.
Luckily, there's nothing that needs to be admitted, just kissing to do, and Sherlock does it with quite a bit of passion he evidently doesn't really feel.
He moves himself around, so he's straddling Sherlock's waist while he leans over to kiss back. The wind has John slightly spooked, though, and ever so often when it rushes by the window in a way that sounds eerie, there's an instant and brief tension in his muscles.
John threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, using them to keep Sherlock's head tilted into the kiss.
Long, large hands that still had quite a fine grace to them moved from the backs of John's thighs, over his backside and then up the back of his shirt. He can feel every moment if tension and holds John the tighter for it. He knew the blond was unnerved but not afraid. He'd likely heard so much worse. There was a different between an enemy you know and one you don't.
This one they don't know. It requires a bit of comfort.
Sherlock has greedy lips and hungry fingers, and they work against each other. It's hard to remove john's shirt, for instance, and maintain the kiss.
John arches into Sherlock, pressing their hips together with a soft sound in his throat. He decides he likes this - being more or less ravished by the other man. He likes the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him and the way his lips feel bruised when they kiss.
When his shirt comes off, he pulls at Sherlock's bottom lip with his teeth.
Sherlock doesn't mind how it's done. He can already feel the flood of hormones sparking at his skin as John's weight grinds down against him. His touching becomes more possessive. He leans up immediately once John is free of his shirt to a seated position and pulls John closer still as the rain drowns out the sound of the crying woman.
It's interesting to kiss John when the other man seems taller. Sherlock likes to crane his neck back.
Sitting up like this, he squeezes Sherlock's thighs with his knees and grips at Sherlock's shoulder.
"Like this," John murmurs, running his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks as they kiss. He gets a very slight thrill of imagining what it'd be like, sex like this, sitting across Sherlock's hips with Sherlock holding him close. "I want you like this."
"Should have mentioned that earlier," Sherlock says as he puts a hand against John's rear to lift him up slightly. "You brought lubrication I'm sure. Hurry on and get it. And your overnight bag. You'll be in here with me and there's not particular reason to hide that fact."
while John likely rushes to get his things, Sherlock undresses and leans back against the head boards as he waits for John's return. His skin is ghostly pale against the red coverlet.
"I hadn't thought of it earlier," he quips, biting at Sherlock's lip in reprimand.
Another kiss, then he slips off the bed and makes his way down the dark hallway to his room. John only pauses once getting his bag, thinking he's seen a sort of light out beyond the property. He doesn't see it again, though, so he's sure he imagined it. Back down the hall to Sherlock's room, he closes the door behind him, finishes undressing and tosses the appropriate things on the bed before climbing back on.
The crush of mouths stills any question about the slight glint of disquiet Sherlock noted in John's eye and partially misdiagnosed it has something he heard -- the woman or the howling wind. He is quick with the lubrication and John seems to be quicker to help guide their hips togther again, this time interlocking them like puzzle pieces.
His gasp is swallowed against John's lipsas he pulls the man closer wihout letting him get use to it first. It's been too long.
While the discomfort is still there, John's not as bothered with it anymore. It's hard to focus on anything, really, when Sherlock kisses him the way he does.
John uses kisses to keep quiet. He's sure, somewhere in his mind, that there's nothing proper about this. Not while a woman is crying in the room below them and they're here to solve a murder and prevent another. So between kisses his bites his own lip, or exhales shakey breaths, and when he's done he leans into Sherlock, hair damp with sweat.
Sherlock keeps his hold on John tight. One hand digs into his hip, the other is a bit more gentle, fingers inches above John's knee on his thigh. It's an interesting new way to sex, one that Sherlock has never actually explored.
John is not in the 'dominant' role and yet he has all the power and all the leverage to move as he wants. Sherlock pants against his throat.
John presses kisses to Sherlock's forehead, and when they're done he slips off the bed to find something to clean them both up. He crawls over Sherlock, kissing him lazily and discarding the tissue paper on the bedside table.
"The rain's picked up," he murmurs, wrapping up in the blankets.
It's not that Sherlock needs to be held or coddled, but he does find it fascinating to listen to John's heart as it slows down to it's regular pace. Sherlock keeps one arm around John's, hand against his shoulder, and closes his eyes until even his breathing returns to what ought to be expected of it.
The rain has picked up. John isn't wrong on that.
"Our trek around the property will be annoying at best tomorrow."
Sherlock can't sleep. It has nothing to do with John or the shagging or the rain or the crying. His mind has finally kicked back up into high gear and it's running fast through the evidence he's been given. It's almost too much.
He slips out of bed and into a pair of sleep trousers before sitting at the chair by the window.
Something isn't quite right. He just can't remember what about it.
John sleeps through out the night, as usual. At some point he's rolled over to where Sherlock would normally be and has ending up taking up most of the bed - quite effectively for his compact frame.
He wouldn't be trying to hurt John, he just doesn't feel it. Or think he can feel it. Or know what it feels like. But when he got that paper in the skull, the one that promised John death, everything ran cold. Life without John Watson is impossible now. Absolutely impossible. He can't survive it.
Luckily, there's nothing that needs to be admitted, just kissing to do, and Sherlock does it with quite a bit of passion he evidently doesn't really feel.
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John threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, using them to keep Sherlock's head tilted into the kiss.
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This one they don't know. It requires a bit of comfort.
Sherlock has greedy lips and hungry fingers, and they work against each other. It's hard to remove john's shirt, for instance, and maintain the kiss.
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When his shirt comes off, he pulls at Sherlock's bottom lip with his teeth.
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It's interesting to kiss John when the other man seems taller. Sherlock likes to crane his neck back.
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"Like this," John murmurs, running his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks as they kiss. He gets a very slight thrill of imagining what it'd be like, sex like this, sitting across Sherlock's hips with Sherlock holding him close. "I want you like this."
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while John likely rushes to get his things, Sherlock undresses and leans back against the head boards as he waits for John's return. His skin is ghostly pale against the red coverlet.
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Another kiss, then he slips off the bed and makes his way down the dark hallway to his room. John only pauses once getting his bag, thinking he's seen a sort of light out beyond the property. He doesn't see it again, though, so he's sure he imagined it. Back down the hall to Sherlock's room, he closes the door behind him, finishes undressing and tosses the appropriate things on the bed before climbing back on.
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His gasp is swallowed against John's lipsas he pulls the man closer wihout letting him get use to it first. It's been too long.
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John uses kisses to keep quiet. He's sure, somewhere in his mind, that there's nothing proper about this. Not while a woman is crying in the room below them and they're here to solve a murder and prevent another. So between kisses his bites his own lip, or exhales shakey breaths, and when he's done he leans into Sherlock, hair damp with sweat.
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John is not in the 'dominant' role and yet he has all the power and all the leverage to move as he wants. Sherlock pants against his throat.
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"The rain's picked up," he murmurs, wrapping up in the blankets.
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The rain has picked up. John isn't wrong on that.
"Our trek around the property will be annoying at best tomorrow."
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The sound of the rain and the nearness of Sherlock put him to sleep quickly.
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He slips out of bed and into a pair of sleep trousers before sitting at the chair by the window.
Something isn't quite right. He just can't remember what about it.
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