221b: Tangled | Sherlock/John
my very first 221b! This was inspired by a gorgeous piece of Sherlock/John art by livia_carica.
Sherlock/John | pg13 | 221 words
Tangled
John sleeps over Sherlock's heart every night.
There's an odd sort of power when he wakes. Safety that comes only at half four when John hears Sherlock breathing, feels their stomachs shift together. They are the only two people in the world. John blinks at the shadows and is forgiven by the innocence of night.
They still argue about Sherlock tackling John during that horrifying night with Moriarty at the pool. Shielding John with his own skin... frightening moments when John couldn't feel a pulse, the sharp sting of his own internal pain, the press as John forced air past soft, lifeless lips... crushing relief when Sherlock coughed at last, doubled over and gasping.
The argument is futile, though, because the obvious reality is that they're both here. They're both still here: able to breathe, to argue, to kiss, to gasp, to fuck.
And nothing has changed.
Nothing except they walk closer together now, touch each other more than necessary. Nothing except the angry breath that gave way to desperate kisses one night, to inelegant, fervent touches that left them speechless.
Nothing except they cling to each other in John's bed now. Curled and tangled together, eloquent hands promising what words cannot.
Every night, John inhales the warm spice of Sherlock's neck, counts the even beats of his heart, and breathes.
::
-thank you so much for reading! ♥
also posted on tumblr | on DW | on AO3
Sherlock/John | pg13 | 221 words
Tangled
John sleeps over Sherlock's heart every night.
There's an odd sort of power when he wakes. Safety that comes only at half four when John hears Sherlock breathing, feels their stomachs shift together. They are the only two people in the world. John blinks at the shadows and is forgiven by the innocence of night.
They still argue about Sherlock tackling John during that horrifying night with Moriarty at the pool. Shielding John with his own skin... frightening moments when John couldn't feel a pulse, the sharp sting of his own internal pain, the press as John forced air past soft, lifeless lips... crushing relief when Sherlock coughed at last, doubled over and gasping.
The argument is futile, though, because the obvious reality is that they're both here. They're both still here: able to breathe, to argue, to kiss, to gasp, to fuck.
And nothing has changed.
Nothing except they walk closer together now, touch each other more than necessary. Nothing except the angry breath that gave way to desperate kisses one night, to inelegant, fervent touches that left them speechless.
Nothing except they cling to each other in John's bed now. Curled and tangled together, eloquent hands promising what words cannot.
Every night, John inhales the warm spice of Sherlock's neck, counts the even beats of his heart, and breathes.
::
-thank you so much for reading! ♥
also posted on tumblr | on DW | on AO3