bakerstreet | 7 Minutes in Heaven

I know how to handle that.

[His voice is low, and there's a halting sense to it, as if the words keep getting caught in his throat.

The rubbing both calms and tenses him, but he says nothing, dipping his head lower under the attention. His lips carefully brush against John's jaw now, just under the ear. His mouth is just barely away from skin as he speaks.]

This... isn't my area.

[A bit of a joke? Yes.]

[ He's a little distracted by the quality of the tone and the way Sherlock is leaning closer, as if he's never been granted a modicum of affection in his life. Being close enough to feel the tension and the awkwardness rolling off of the other, it's hard to remember that he's a perfect bastard, and by choice for the majority. John finds himself wrapping his hand around the back of the man's neck and issuing another tender gesture, just a light squeeze at the muscle.

But when Sherlock draws down so close to his ear, he's not going to be able to stop the delicate tremor that comes of it. That's a sensitive area, at least for him. The man's words could just as readily be an apology as well as a joke because oh, god.

His head turns away from that attention, off of reflex and knowing this is not where Sherlock wants to go. This is out of bounds for them. He tries to gentle it by speaking against the hollow of the man's cheek, lips still curled in a hint of a grin. ]

And yet, if I've managed it...

[ He offers a joke in return, though it might be in desperation to say anything at all. ]

[The tremor and John's slight turn away sends a clear enough sign to Sherlock. His hand tightens and then loosens on John's arm. He doesn't fully let go-- that would be too quick a retreat. Too obvious.

This is to get out of this closet, nothing more. Practical, simple. There was nothing else to it.

Sherlock cleared his throat slightly, keeping his position and his head remaining ducked. Easier to not look at John. Not meet his eyes.]

How long's it been, then?

[ There's a low, almost startled chuckle at that. ]

That's definitely none of your business.

And besides that, you don't want to know.

[ Translation: John doesn't want to tell. ]

[Sherlock pulls back a bit more, looking puzzled. Now he could look at John, look him right in the eye. The statements were enough to bring him out of the uncertainty from the affection and touch and lips and feel of skin under his.]

What?

Isn't that the point? The time?

[It probably says a lot about Sherlock that he cannot imagine where they got on separate ideas of "how long."]

[ John stares right back at him, bemused. But then - oh. Oh. ]

Right.

[ Clearing his throat, most awkward man in the closet at the moment. Not like that. Christ.

He just tries the door. It's still stuck. ]

Well, either time's not up yet or...

[ He licks his lips, anxious. ]

You weren't keeping track of the time.

[He is not impressed.

Then... He frowns sharply and looks at John.]

You know the rules.

We've stopped. Does that pause the clock? Or reset it completely?

[...Yes, he's asking this.]

You weren't either.

[ John feels the need to accuse. God, he feels like he's being punished for something that is completely not his fault, and completely not his obligation to do. ]

I don't know, alright? This isn't usual. Usually it's just seven minutes flat.

[ He can already sense the argument coming, the accusation that he had had a completely stupid idea, and that they were genuinely stuck in a normal closet. It was a stupid idea. Or maybe they're not doing something right.

Two birds, one stone. John's hands vacate the door, wrap around Sherlock's lapels, and pull him down into a real kiss, lips claiming lips. It's desperation and shut up, Sherlock. He hopes it works to set them both free, because this is a line he never expected to cross. ]

[Sherlock sighed at the first accusation, and his hand was in his pocket. The plan was to retrieve his phone, set a timer, and then... go back to the careful whatever-it-was they'd been at before.

But as soon as he has hold of the phone, he's pulled in. At first, he expects a further scolding or... something. Not what happens. That stuns the consulting detective into silence and stillness.

A second later, he begins to pull back, but those hands are still on the lapels of his jacket, and his body won't obey the rational thought. It leans in, rather than what he thought was the best course of action, and his hand tightens around John's arm. The lean is about all he does in response, perhaps a slight movement of his lips, but in general...

It would seem that Sherlock has not only shut up but also has no idea what he's supposed to do in reply.]

[ That's alright, Sherlock, John's gathering the slack, or rather, filling the gaps in information. Sherlock's lips seem dry, taut, and yet there's a suspicious warmness to them, either due to the earlier exchange or from pressing them against John. It really shouldn't matter.

One hand loosens itself from the lapel and takes Sherlock's chin instead, tilting the angle between them just slightly before John leans in again. This kiss is gentler, maybe apologetic, because the younger man feels stiff as a plank and John is quite sorry he has to endure the contact. But there's some pleasure that can be derived in the drag of mouths, even if there's no emotional investment in it. John will try to make it good for him. And of course, he's not actually keeping Sherlock held in place now. That's too cruel. ]

[There's a whisper of a breath from Sherlock just before the second kiss. It might have just been the half-sigh or it might have been John's name. Hard to say.

But he doesn't pull away. Instead, he tilts his head a little more and lets the grip on John's arm loosen. His hand never lets go, but it is not holding on quite so desperately now. An inch back for a breath and to stare at his friend for a moment and to wet his lips. An uncertain act, feeling their dryness and aware of the lingering sensation and taste the kiss has left on them.

He doesn't do it easily or smoothly, but this time... it is Sherlock who closes the small distance to kiss him again. His mobile is forgotten, and his hand reaches out, touching but not not grasping the fabric over John's side.]

[ John is breathing through his nose, or trying to; the air feels thicker and harder to swallow. His eyes meet Sherlock's as the younger man draws back. Done? But the other is licking his lips and that, that uncertainty should not be as attractive as it is. Mister Holmes, your humanity is showing a bit. And right now, that moment belongs to John, who is still when the other shifts back in, the motion doing little to dissuade the notion that he might have just kissed a marble figurine into temporary animation.

His mouth yields under the opposite set of lips, as much as it can, before shifting to respond in kind, setting a shallow tandem of motion between them. He finds himself making more reassurances, the hand once on Sherlock's chin shaping one side of his face instead, the rough callous of a thumb tracing the arch of one of those prominent angles of the man's cheek. Yes, this is kissing, this is fine, good. It's just me. You're alright.

John feels a little like a teenager again, practicing with schoolgirls beneath the stairwell. There's something almost sweet about it. At this point, he should probably know better than romanticize anything about Sherlock Holmes, but here he is, carefully trying to teach the man what all the fuss about snogging was, gently drawing his teeth over the younger man's lower lip. ]

[Logic and reason have no place in this, and that sets Sherlock at a disadvantage he often tries to avoid. He is a man who can have a woman knelt in front of him, staring at him with wide eyes... and still think to take her pulse, feel that there was something genuine to her beneath all her acts and ploys. But now...

Now he is simply keeping with that kiss, eyes half closed. He pressed forward a little more, gripping John's shirt as the hand on his arm moved up. It lingered on the shoulder then crept experimentally to rest the very tips behind John's head.

His mouth parted under the application of teeth, and he gave a quiet gasp. Usually, the new and unfamiliar was a beacon, something he was drawn to like a moth to the flame. Yet here... Here he was uncertain, edging around eagerness. Not quite a reluctant student but a cautious one.]

[ The sensitivity shouldn't have surprised John, who wasn't new at this and knew pretty well that Sherlock must be, but with the gasp, he hesitates. He knows what the general next step here is, but would it be good? Would it be right? The last person he'd ever seen kiss Sherlock was Irene Adler, but never like this. And she'd hurt him, hadn't she? She'd tried to toy with him and use him - John could safely say he'd never do that. This was just... he didn't know what this was. A one-time thing, a curiosity, an area he never planned to encroach upon, but was sincerely indulging in while it lasted. It was odd, and yet, it seemed to work, like everything else did. They could go back, though, right?

John sucked slowly on that lower lip, drew the tip of his tongue across it once, and stepped closer. He kissed Sherlock full on the mouth again, open this time. He could feel the fingertips tickling across the back of his neck and his breath hitched for them. Yes, alright. ]

John.

[The sound of the name is definite, though very hushed, uttered just before the military man's mouth is against his again. He moves forward a half step to return the gesture, uncertain but trusting the physical instincts now more than his mental ones. A dangerous path to deviate onto, and he knows it, but it's worth it this once.

Because it is this once. This chance, this moment. Once in a lifetime. He's seen them before, never quite like this, but he knows the feeling it brings, having such a chance in front of him. Yet before, he has always chosen logic, trusted the familiar, and allowed them to slip from his grasp before he could ever touch them. Now... now he has a firm hold, and he knows that the moment he lets go it will vanish in a puff of smoke. Be forgotten, buried, and never again spoken about.

John has his girlfriends. Not one right now, but he will have another one soon. They're frequent, as are his mannerisms of rolling his eyes, waving off a comment, or making a definite statement to the contrary whenever anyone seems to think he would consider men in such a fashion. This is a departure from normality, Sherlock knows, for both of them.

And for that reason, they will not speak of it again.

He presses his lips more against John's, settling his palm against the back of his neck now, though his fingers move in and out, lightly kneading at the surrounding skin.]

[ John has girlfriends and John has friends, a circle of normalcy to run to when things got slow or too jagged. He's not gay. He's not homophobic, he's just... never been interested. But he's kissing Sherlock and he's not repulsed, not as awkward as he originally though, just curious. It's almost transcendental. So does that make John's sexuality more fluid than he thought, or Sherlock more than a man?

One thing is certain - Sherlock is a quick study. There's a slow hum of pleasure from John, whose jaw drops a bit with that pull at his neck. It's good, really good. Sherlock will have a hand pushing beyond his jacket and an arm wrapped around his waist. A puff of smoke when the light shines in, but for now, there's only the thickness of the air between them and the wet slide of a tongue across Sherlock's teeth. ]

[Sherlock has always known where his fascination lies-- with the unusual. With the exceptional. The insane mastermind. The fearless dominatrix. All of the people who he'd actually noticed were exceptional.

And then... there was John. What was exceptional about him? Wounded in action. Hundreds of soldiers were. Soldier. How many of those were there. Moderate intelligent. Not stupid or genius. Average. Completely normal in every way. Why, then, were his fingers touching John's hair, pressing slightly to pull him closer? Why did he tentatively meet the tongue in his mouth with his own?

This was new, unfamiliar territory. And there was something extraordinary about John. ...That he was here. That through all of it. Through every case and every insult and every near-miss. John was still here. John still lived in 221 B Baker Street. The thought made Sherlock step closer, blind to the light now visible, his usually too-attentive eyes and brain stalled.

All he could think of was this moment.]

[ And John's eyes? John's eyes are shut, but he follows the shift in motion, natural. He's letting himself feel this and setting the example. John's not used to being the teacher and there's something attractive in that, the same way there's something fiercely invigorating about charging into the streets when lives are at stake; something he's due to tuck away. He knows he's nothing special, couldn't say what Sherlock saw in him either, but there is something there, something here, between the slow tangle of their tongues and the brush of their bodies.

John stays. Sometimes he knows why and sometimes he doesn't need to. They're two men who are different in almost every aspect and yet, in this strange tug of war, they've found an equilibrium. It's not perfect, but it's... good. For both of them. The balance of power might not be wholly equal, but there's still give in both sides, enough that it works and often works well.

Sherlock is giving now and it is, in fact, what John had wanted all along. It's selfish in a way, but he revels in the moment that he can almost feel the other man's attention wind down to this, just this. Soon, perhaps too soon, they'll be back where they were, entities of logic and emotion, knowledge and experience. But right now, for the first and final time, they're in John's realm. The soldier holds a mad genius in his arms and doesn't doubt, for the moment, that he actually has him. If the groan against Sherlock's mouth is any indication, he's got John too, completely. ]

[Sherlock's movements might not be considered quite natural. Especially to him feeling himself as he shifts. It seems, from his pattern of behaviour, wholly unnatural. He does not let anyone this close-- not physically and certainly not emotionally. His heart doesn't race like this, his breath doesn't catch in his throat. He doesn't feel human contact and crave more.

And yet his hand is at John's collar. Then slightly down, fingers on the bare neck rather than just behind his head and feeling the skin tentatively. Now, he's-- carefully, certainly carefully-- mirroring John's earlier actions, pressing his tongue into the other man's mouth. There's very little confidence in the action, but it's an attempt. Learning by example.

Sherlock steps closer, right against John. His friend, his one companion. After this moment, they'll put it aside. Be what they always were. Be what they're supposed to be. And Sherlock will be content with that. In this moment, though... There is nothing else in the world. Nothing else at all.

He pulls away, remembering at last to breathe and barely managing to get more than an inch from John's lips. Already, he craves the taste again. He almost laughs at the thought that crosses his mind. A new addiction not to be had again.

He finds the voice for one word, shaky but without regret, heated with their actions and uncharacteristically entirely unguarded.]

John.

[ The halting movements might generally be annoying to John, who has had everything from clumsy to articulate, but hardly every hesitant. This time, however, he feels on edge and touch-starved, enough that any brush of skin against skin has his own hands twitching. He lets Sherlock have his mouth, and it's far enough along by now that John doesn't mind reminding him that he's not so perfectly polite all the time. He sucks on that tongue.

He has no other choice but to breathe when Sherlock pulls back. Good, too, because he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. The sound of his name gets the next inhale to come quicker, to earn a response that's certainly pitched deeper than his normal timbre. ]

Yes.

[ He doesn't know what he's promising, but he means it. His eyes open briefly, half-mast and silently savoring the other's expression. Sherlock is... gorgeously debauched, open, fragile, almost human. John loves him.

Soon enough (perhaps later today), Sherlock will say something insensitive and John will be annoyed; he'll continue to be a perfect storm of imperviousness and John will follow behind him, tutting and sweeping aside the damage that he can. Because John will remember moments like this, the flashes of humor, of passion, of vulnerability - of good. They are rare, but he's thankful for every one of them, because sometimes, like now, he feels like he's earned them.

He's not lying to himself anymore - he could try to take this a step further and he'd be alright with it. His body is warm and shaky with an arousal that can be indulged, could be fanned to flame. It's been so long. He could probably push; Sherlock trusts him, and John would be willing to bet that pleasing a man would not be half as difficult as pleasing a woman. Not with how attentive he'd be. Any other time, any other person, and John would be sliding his hand up a shirt right now, testing his boundaries. However, there's something in him telling him not to be greedy, to savor what has been more than enough, more than he ever could expect. John respects it.

Tilting his head after he's somewhat caught his breath, he presses more kisses to Sherlock's lips, each one slow and almost aching, reverent. Three in total, each succeeding pressure more shallow than the last. It's thank you and goodbye. When John pulls back properly, he misses it immediately.

But he's sucking in a slow breath, trying to gather himself back in and beginning to unwind himself from the other man. ]

Ready?

[ He inquires softly, hands just barely brushing Sherlock's sides now. He doesn't have any doubt that the door will open now. ]

[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.

He nods once and pushes it open.]

7 Minutes in Heaven

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