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

[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. ]