[After the third light kiss, Sherlock leans forward. His forehead rests against John's for the slightest of moments, and his hands tighten for a second. As if he plans to not let go. But John moves to pull back, and the consulting detective releases him, taking one step back as well.
He has to think to pull himself away from the storm brewing in him. A small moment of allowing total vulnerability to show, and the floodgates threaten to burst. Everything he pushes down-- good and bad: What John means to him, this aside. More than anyone has ever meant. What he'd do for John. Anything. That he's been thinking about the possibility of kissing him-- never something he would do, but the thought could be entertained-- for a long, long time. The rebuke always on the edge of his tongue that he never unleashes. The sharp demand to know why John stays and when he'll get it over for the both of them and just go. They both know it will happen, so why drag it out? ...The plea to prove him wrong about that. He takes a deep breath and masters himself.
Armoured, able to face the world in which he has never quite belonged.
There is a crack in it. His hand flexes to reach for John's at the question, but he controls it, keeps it at just the extending of fingertips at his side. He does not let himself even begin to try and touch John again.]
Of course.
[They won't speak about this again, nothing more will come of it, but it won't be forgotten.
Sherlock licks his lips to either chase away or hold onto the taste of John's mouth against his. He reaches out, touches the handle of the door, and it turns for him.
no subject
He has to think to pull himself away from the storm brewing in him. A small moment of allowing total vulnerability to show, and the floodgates threaten to burst. Everything he pushes down-- good and bad: What John means to him, this aside. More than anyone has ever meant. What he'd do for John. Anything. That he's been thinking about the possibility of kissing him-- never something he would do, but the thought could be entertained-- for a long, long time. The rebuke always on the edge of his tongue that he never unleashes. The sharp demand to know why John stays and when he'll get it over for the both of them and just go. They both know it will happen, so why drag it out? ...The plea to prove him wrong about that. He takes a deep breath and masters himself.
Armoured, able to face the world in which he has never quite belonged.
There is a crack in it. His hand flexes to reach for John's at the question, but he controls it, keeps it at just the extending of fingertips at his side. He does not let himself even begin to try and touch John again.]
Of course.
[They won't speak about this again, nothing more will come of it, but it won't be forgotten.
Sherlock licks his lips to either chase away or hold onto the taste of John's mouth against his. He reaches out, touches the handle of the door, and it turns for him.
He nods once and pushes it open.]