this will be lyrics

[logicals]

this will be pretty gifs



Continued from here.

<sub>[ Thirty-six minutes later, and the distinct sound of someone jimmying the key into the lock, followed by the tell-tell footfalls of Sherlock Holmes shuffling through the hallway make themselves known, echoing throughout the quiet flat. He shrugs his coat off and slides it onto the bannister, then he pulls his gloves off and deftly stashes them inside an inside pocket of said coat before he warily begins his ascent on the stairs, automatically kicking his shoes off once he reaches the landing.

He's not sure what to expect, but he braces for the worst, for the inevitable disappointment. There's a quiet searching to Sherlock's gaze as he sweeps over the lounge, carefully calculated even when he's higher than he's been in years.

The ability to function under duress has always stayed with him. When he's high, it's honestly difficult to tell - except John quite obviously knows something's up, so his ability to feign ignorance is hardly going to help him now. Hovering in the doorway is hardly his normal behaviour so he forces himself over the threshold and heads straight for the kitchen, largely ignoring his friend in favour of busying himself needlessly with various different Petri dishes lining the kitchen table. ]</sub>

Comments

[logicals]

<sub>[ Inherently wrong and yet he moves with more confidence than he ought to, moves with a precision that could be considered stunning in its full execution but he stumbles at the innings; not quite his usual poise, but every movement has the same amount of purpose it always did. He's so close he feels as though he can feel John's breath ghosting against his skin but he's sure it's an illusion, his mind intent in dragging in unnecessary details and surreptitiously adding in flights of fiction when all he wants is silence; sometimes he needs mania to take his thoughts and shape them into something useful, but other times he needs to unwind and he needs to fall into quiet.

John's expressions are so laughably easy to read, even when he's trying to dumb himself down; worry and concern betray the lines that once neutral expression and Sherlock holds his ground despite the sudden sensation of stumbling through his own head; emotion takes him too easily when he's high - it's one thing to amass control but it's another entirely to clamp everything down altogether. Laughing is perhaps the worst move John could have made - his shoulders might have found a weight lifted from them, but it was squarely placed onto Sherlock instead; years of being mocked hang heavily over him as he sizes John up, defiance colouring every movement.

The question is met with stark silence as his jaw sets - truthfully, Sherlock has no idea what his intentions are, but the longer he stands here and the longer he stares down into the eyes of one John Watson, the more conflicted he feels. On the one hand, punching John has never been especially high on his list of 'things to do', but he also knows that he's been without a significant fix of adrenaline for long enough that his leg must be aching him.

And it's that quiet, seemingly unassuming thought that has Sherlock step closer again, although any remnants of a true fight have largely fallen away by this point.

But he goes through the motions, he bares his teeth and aggressively gets into John's face.

Because if that's what he needs to pick up some adrenaline, then he'll take the hit. It's not as though he'd actually feel it either way. ]</sub>

You tell me.

[never_bored]

[ It's with a sudden sense of clarity that John realizes that he's being a complete idiot. Of course he's angry and disappointed, how could he not be when Sherlock has been taking drugs that could destroy that beautiful, brilliant mind and young, handsome body of his? John is a bit fond of him, after all. Oh sure, it's all calculated and the risks are taken into perfectly logical consideration, he's certain that Sherlock could quote him some annoyingly specific details on exactly what he's taken and any possible long term effects. He could also tell John why, but that's just as unnecessary. They both have their vices, the outlets that are so easy, yet so destructive. John has been squaring himself up for a fight ever since he pushed himself out of his chair, every hard, steady line of his posture, down to the set of his jaw, practically radiated aggression. What does he expect to come of that, right now, aside from an outlet for his own frustrations? What is he doing?

Sherlock is already so close, but that last step forward brings with it a certain unavoidable awareness of his scent and breath, warm and intimate, to the point of being awkward if John were to think too much of it. He's all but backed into a corner now - it's only belatedly that he realizes that it seems the tables have been turned, somehow. Sherlock's doing a fair job of acting the part, giving John the show he was asking for, but now that he's calm, he can tell that it's just that. A show, for his benefit, no less.

In the wake of that aggression abruptly draining from his posture, John's expression is left with a fleeting procession of realization, guilt, and then a surprisingly quiet consideration of Sherlock's face, now so very near to his. His heartbeat is still loud in his own ears, his blood still running hot even though his mind has settled, and it's that, he would say if pressed to rationalize, that motivates him to reach out, but not out of anger. Not out of pity or regret, either.

He reaches up, the movement careful though unhesitating, his hands settling lightly on both sides of Sherlock's face, gentle but insistent. Calm. If he were to think on it, he might be reminded of the time when Sherlock grabbed his face so suddenly by the railroad tracks that one time, but this is different. And he's really not thinking about this too much. It's based on pure instinct, and an inclination that he hasn't examined too closely before. ]

Sherlock.

[ He could say at least a dozen different things right now, but he leaves it at that. ]

[logicals]

[ His reason to fight has long since vanished; Sherlock had fallen into the role of slighted best friend because it was the picture John had painted him into. The moment his shoulders slump and anger recedes into something closer to regret and guilt, Sherlock's expression changes from one of aggression to something remarkably neutral. With the prospect of a fight no longer looming overhead, Sherlock finds himself on uncertain ground; his drug use has always been a point of contention and there's rarely been a time, when his use has been discovered, that a fight doesn't break out.

Disappointment has always been harder to swallow. He'd rather fight than read the subtle hints of disquieted distress that are too obvious to truly hide away, but there was never really any fight in him to begin with. Heroin makes for complacency, heavy limbs and even heavier heads; his mind is pleasantly wrapped up in cotton wool and the world is a mix of dull colours and haze; it's a pleasant sort of hush that allows his mind the briefest of moments to power down.

He's always known that there's a quiet before the storm, and the moment the drugs wear off his mind will undoubtedly punish him for all of the things he did or didn't do under the influence. The drugs shift his perception from being obsessively observant to casually, although John has always been somewhat of a special case (and more often than not, he brings the obsession out of him regardless of whether he's high). John's body language has done a complete 180 in the last few moments, going from reserved distress to open receptiveness with obvious footholds in between. He sees the way his expression moves through each emotion and Sherlock finds it difficult to place it all appropriately so he files it away for examination when he's not entirely lost within the confines of his eyes.

John's eyes are really very blue. The simplicity of that thought is almost laughable, and it almost drags out a smile, the corner of his mouth playing at the prospect of a grin before he can really control it back down. They're closer than they've ever been, eyes locked in what feels like an intensely intimate stare now that all pretence of violence has been systematically shut down.

The calm that overtakes Sherlock as John's hands find his face is palpable; the touch is gentle, and it's more than he deserves. ]

John.

<sub>[ His name sounded like a question that needed to be answered, and so he supplied the most logical answer.

'There's always two of us', John's mind palace replica repeats knowingly within his head, and he shakes it gently to push the thought away before leaning into his hands even more (almost as if to dispel the idea that his shaking his head could be in anyway related to the hands on his face it's simply not the case, and he won't let John think it for a moment). ]</sub>

[never_bored]

[ Two wrongs don't make a right, as the old adage goes, and it's honestly overly trite and idealistic, if not technically or morally inaccurate, but that is the gist of what's gone through John's mind that so thoroughly derailed all of that anger. It doesn't mean that he's forgotten it, certainly not, but trying to stir up a fight over it now is worse than pointless. It's selfish, and as vehemently opposed as he is to Sherlock doing this sort of thing, he doesn't have the heart to torment him over it to the point of starting a physical fight. He's not sure what to feel about the fact that Sherlock would have just let it happen - because that's what John apparently wanted? Or because that would just be easier to stomach than the disappointment? Either way, given some perspective, the whole idea makes John feel rather disgusted with himself.

Right now, however, he's not thinking of what led them to this very specific spot, nor how he'll deal with all of it later. Now John finds himself in unfamiliar territory that feels... well, not so unfamiliar at all, really. This is too close to be decent, even for them. He's reached out to touch Sherlock's face, of all things. John hasn't made much of a habit of touching anyone as a rule, unless it's truly necessary, outside of the most obvious exceptions. And as much of an exception as Sherlock is in his life generally, this has usually held for him, as well. It almost feels to John as if he's broken some kind of unspoken barrier between them, and he's aware that it should feel odd. Improper, even. But it doesn't.

It feels strangely comfortable and familiar, and the look on Sherlock's face only serves to further steady that perception. He shakes his head very briefly, but just as quickly he's pressing back into the touch, as if... As if he doesn't want John to move his hands away, maybe even step back and regain some respectable space between them. Instead his fingers are brushing lightly over those handsome cheekbones, palms once again steady on the cheeks below them, and John is subconsciously sliding his tongue over his lower lip, feeling caught skirting along on the edge of something with unknown depth.

He has to say something, do something other than stand here staring foolishly. He thinks, maybe, that if one of them had the sense to move, the moment would be lost, and he could think rationally again, but right now his heart is still beating fast, and he doesn't want to break this. But he is still keenly aware of the fact that Sherlock is, in fact, still rather high. That makes him pause, even though there's a sudden, subtle tilt to his head and a gleam in his eyes that suggest a certain intent. Even as high as he is, there's no way Sherlock could mistake it.

To hell with it. He doesn't know how long this has been even remotely a... thing, but if he's learned anything over the past few years, it's that time is far too short to waste on regrets over things he wanted to say, or do, and didn't.

That gentle hold on Sherlock's face turns into an equally gentle pull, and it doesn't take much to close the already very slight gap between them in such a way that brushes John's lips against his. It's just that, for now - the barest ghost of a touch, easily dodged if Sherlock were so inclined. ]

[logicals]

<sub>[ He feels as though he's suspended between actions, held aloft by John's hands as he holds himself still and watches for some kind of inclination based on the small pieces of data he has available to him. John's eyes are locked on his and there's no denying the affection he sees there, coupled by the distress at Sherlock's inevitable drug use and the uncertainty his pitfalls continue to cause them. There's the shortest spark of regret hanging behind his movements as Sherlock holds himself steady, eyes carefully skirting from one place to the next in his search for wherever this sequence of events is going to lead them.

There are multiple pathways it could have gone - somewhere, somehow, they would be fighting tooth and nail in regards to Sherlock's slip up and yet somehow that moment has passed them by and left them with this odd, lingering silence punctuated by the sound of John licking his lips as they continue to exist within this dauntingly long moment of pointed stares and careful considerations.

It's not as if they're both beyond being touched. Sherlock has steered John with the aid of a gentle hand bracing at the small of his back and John has taken his pulse and patched up his ailments more times than either of them would be able to accurately count - it's just that whatever this is, with John holding Sherlock squarely in place, it's... different. The atmosphere has changed; it's almost crackling with electricity, the feel of John's fingers lingering against his skin a comfortable weight as his eyes are drawn down towards the slow drag of tongue wetting John's lips; he wonders if that was deliberate because it certainly seemed like a deliberate enough action, the connotations exceedingly obvious despite the niggling doubt Sherlock feels at once again reading the situation incorrectly.

Even though he knows what attraction looks like. Even though he's seen this look aimed at him before in the shape of Irene Adler, pupils dilated and interest so blatantly obvious that he finds it difficult to tear his gaze away. Sherlock knows the obviousness of his own interest had been betrayed by the simple act of his eyes briefly focusing on lips; it's a tell-tell sign, universal in its meaning and he's lost the ability to hide it given the amount of promise currently weighing in the air.

All questions regarding intention pale in significance the second he sees John lean in, the action small yet purposeful as lips graze against lips. Sherlock doesn't move immediately, his mind taking the time to process the action properly before actively doing anything about it - with his mind stuttering in its attempts to catch up, Sherlock allows the drugs to coax him into movement, the sensation intoxicating in a way he's never truly experienced before thanks to the emotionally charged moment seconds before.

He's all hesitation until quite suddenly he isn't. John broached the first barrier, and Sherlock sails confidently through it as he tilts his head and purposefully presses John back up against the wall, his body following the movement as he moves to deepen the kiss.

John may be somewhat disturbed to note that Sherlock hasn't quite managed to close his eyes, half-lidded and full of intrigue as John's face sits plainly out of focus, eyelashes too close up and his cheek taking the majority of his vision long before he has any true way of memorising any of it. ]</sub>

[never_bored]

[ It's a long enough pause for second thoughts to start trying to edge their way into John's consciousness, but then, abruptly, Sherlock responds, and any sort of conscious thought completely checks out for the span of a few seconds.

The kiss goes from barely there to definitely there, and his instinctual response is thoroughly and unabashedly passionate, laden with a sudden rush of emotion that he never would have anticipated, if he'd bothered to think about this possibly happening at all. Then there's the solid presence of the wall to his back, and that familiar, warm body pressing him there, and the sudden contrast sends a very obvious shudder through him. His hands slide down to Sherlock's chest in the scant space between them, seemingly of their own accord, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, as if to roughly pull him even closer and hold him there.

Some measure of awareness and self-control finally manages to kick back in, that same habit that's kept him alive in overwhelming situations of a very different sort, despite the adrenaline - among other things - flooding through his system at the moment. It's only then that he opens his eyes and leans back far enough to break from the kiss and even have a chance to look up at Sherlock's face properly. He's still fighting for breath, his heart fluttering rather noticeably in his chest, but he hasn't even attempted to move yet. Or even go so far as to let go of the grip he has on Sherlock's shirt.

There's an unfortunate divide between what he wants, what he feels, and what he thinks is proper, for various reasons, and he's clearly struggling to find some way to come to terms with all of it. Kiss me like that when you're sober, is so very nearly on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock might be able to read it, word for word, in his eyes. But then, 'damn it, just kiss me again now' isn't too far behind, and neither is 'we shouldn't be doing this at all.'

Of course, that order of priority alone is fairly telling. ]

Sherlock, I... [ Oh, this is dangerous. There's nothing he could say that has been given sufficient thought, an impossibility in this state, and yet he somehow feels moved to continue anyway. Even though it feels so vulnerable. There's raw emotion to his tone that he couldn't even attempt to hide. ] Is this... what you want?

[ 'Still?' hangs there silently, almost painfully, onto the end of that question. As much as John could plead ignorance to all of this, it would sound disingenuous here. That's not to say that he isn't in a bit of shock, but this brings a kind of unavoidable certainty to things that have been left unspoken up until this point. He shouldn't allow anything hopeful to creep into his voice, but it's there. It's always been there. ]

[logicals]

[ John's fingers grip at his shirt as Sherlock presses forward with the insistence, the shiver that stutters through the body beneath him obvious and encouraging as he leans into it, his hand bracing at the back of John's neck. His fingers slip into the other man's hair as Sherlock tilts his head into the kiss, body held in place by determined hands as his own slips down to brace carefully against John's hip, his intentions clear and yet considerate in the movement.

He's fevered in his movements, rough with teeth, lips and tongue trying to claim John's mouth as his own as he fights for control, the warmth of John's body radiating outwards against his own; Sherlock is utterly lost to the sensation, the drugs mixing pleasure and dialling it up that much further as he deftly untucks the side of John's shift from his belt so that fingers can skitter across skin, thumb tracing circles against his side as he endeavours to place a thigh in between John's legs. Just as he's about to press his luck even more, John abruptly pulls his head away and Sherlock tries to follow until it's obvious he's not meant to follow, his breathing admittedly ragged as he drags a cold hit of air into his burning lungs.

Adrenaline spikes his heartbeat further, lust nags against his skin and a heady euphoria plays through the entirety of his body as he stares down at John, expression unreadable as he stares down at John with parted lips and pupils blown wide.

The benefit of being high means that the consequences of this particular action have yet to trickle down into his conscious mind, thoughts too busy leaping onto the next conclusion of hips grinding against hips. It's where Sherlock would ideally like to be headed, but as it stands he keeps himself still with a control that's practically inhuman given the amount of exhilaration flowing through him, edging him on and goading him into making terrible decisions that he can't quite ever imagine regretting, regardless of insatiably high as he made them.

It's not like he's never considered it before - he just assumed that it was a lost cause, that John had made his choice and ultimately, that choice was not him. So if he gets John like this, even once, even if it's sneaky and underhanded and entirely unfair to Mary, he'll take it - because he's selfish, and John will always be his regardless of the ring he chooses to wear on his finger.

Perhaps the cocaine is making him even more insatiable, but the act of forcing a pause in between their ministrations only serves to wind Sherlock up all the more, eyes closing as he exercises self restraint against the urge to smash their hips together wantonly and instead holds himself at a respectable distance. With his hand still ghosting against the side of John's hip, Sherlock stares through a world of dizzying colours and a blissful haze that maneuvers him just enough to press his forehead up against John's as he looks down towards his lips. ]

Mm, I once told you that I consider myself married to my work.

_{[ He pauses there, willing his breath to steady and his voice into something resembling his usual tenor (although it's lower with a distinct gravelly tone as he mumbles against his doctor's lips). ]}

Since then, you have become an integral part of my life, my methods and yes, even my practise. So ask me again, and I will tell you the same answer... except with the expectation that you understand your presence alone has changed the very way I function, and in doing so, you have changed my job and its prospects as a whole. When I say that I am committed to my job, it no longer covers the simple act of solving cases; it encompasses you, John, for you are a fundamental part of the process.

<sub>[ And without him, he returns to square one, although now he understands what it is to miss the steady presence of the sun warming his skin. Sherlock has seen the light in the shape of John Watson, he's felt its glow and its illumination brightening his way until suddenly it was gone, and all he's left with is an imprint, a vague impression of the brightness he once had.

Sometimes, on dark days where he considers finding a needle and hiding in the contents, he wishes he had never met John, because it's intrinsically impossible to miss what you've never had.

The drugs have made him far too talkative, and he shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth hitting teeth as he finally comprehends the words he'd just said. It's more than he ever wanted to admit to, and suddenly his head is spinning and his heart is pounding against his chest, anxiety swelling as he watches, dumbstruck, for John's reaction. ]</sub>

[never_bored]

[ The reorientation of certain senses in John's general sphere of awareness comes along with several unsettling observations clicking into place, one after the other. His heart is still hammering loudly in his chest, and it's not at all helped by the light touch of fingers along his side, just above his hip. When did Sherlock even manage to tug his shirt out of his trousers? Probably around the same time as when he slid a thigh up even closer, so close to certain things that John is feeling essentially trapped against the wall, even if there is a certain sort of space between them now.

Trapped. That feels like an especially appropriate word for it. He doesn't doubt for a moment that he could physically push his way out of his at any point, Sherlock wouldn't even try fight him. Sherlock wouldn't have him pinned up against this wall in the first place if he hadn't invited him to do so. What, exactly, possessed him to do such a thing, John isn't sure. He has the distinct impression that something just broke, and he doesn't know yet whether that's a good or a bad thing, in the long run. He's having a difficult enough time with the present situation without trying to peer into the possibilities of the future.

Said present situation has spelled out one thing all too clearly. He is far more attracted to Sherlock than he has ever been willing to admit, even privately to himself, and he doesn't have a single excuse for it. Well, he could probably come up with a few if he tried, but there's no point. that cat is out of the bag, and there's no putting it back in. That realization alone merits some thought, but there's no time to let it settle in the wake of Sherlock's reply to his question.

It's... far more than John was expecting. Far more than he was ready to hear. He almost laughs, just in sheer, weak, near disbelief at just how surreal his life has gotten over the past few minutes, but he resists it with steely resolve. There's an openness to the way Sherlock speaks, to what he's saying, that's almost painfully vulnerable, and that sobers even that brief thought of humour. Instead he stares steadily back up at Sherlock, his hands slowly flattening out on that chest. The fabric is released, but those warm hands stay, firm and steady.

Even when the entire world feels like it's crashing down around his ears, he can focus on this, because this, Sherlock has become a constant. Ever since he abruptly and irrevocably dropped into John's life, like a brilliant, frustrating, and endlessly fascinating storm. Standing here like this, with him, John feels as if he's very much in the eye of that storm, in an oasis of calm where the wind howls just outside. One step too far, one way or the other, seems like it could pitch him back into the worst of it, and they'd both suffer for it. Or continue to suffer, rather, because haven't they both been, lately?

Of course he's committed. They both are, aren't they? They can't just go back to living the way they did before they met. John never intended to, but Mary...

Mary.

That wound is still raw. So many lies, so many questions unanswered. John still can't speak to her, really. He can barely look at her without hurt and anger clawing away at his thoughts and clouding his judgement, and it's horrible. Every time he comes home to the flat, he almost expects her to be gone. Every time she's still there, and they continue their awkward, mostly silent coexistence. Miserable doesn't really begin to describe it. He just doesn't know what to do.

He had hoped, beyond all reason, that there would be room for Mary in this, somehow. For a while, it had seemed like there was, that maybe things would fall into a routine again. Then she shattered all of that with one well-placed bullet.

John takes a deep breath and pushes thoughts of Mary to the side for now. Right now this is about him and Sherlock, and he wants- no, needs to listen. Especially if Sherlock is willing to actually talk, which he does seem to be. This kind of thing just doesn't happen.

Like those hands on Sherlock's chest, John's voice is calm and steady, his expression a bit shocked, yes, but something about it speaks of an intense desire to hold onto this moment of honesty for as long as they can stand to. ]

I... didn't think that you were at all interested in- [ He clears his throat slightly, very keenly aware of the compromising position they're still in. ] you know, anything like this. I never thought that you might have been, but you were abstaining from such things because of me. Have you been, really?

[ If Sherlock really does feel so committed that he's this embarrassed to admit it, then it would follow. ]