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Kisses were just kisses until Sherlock met John.
They were just a waste of time and calories, an impossibility when seen from the second dimension, a mere unsanitary exchange of amylase and electrolytes. But, they delivered the slightest sliver of pleasure occasionally. Such occasions were barely once or twice in Sherlock's life of thirty plus years.
Perhaps, it all changed when John waltzed into his life and straightened up all things he didn't even know were crooked. Sherlock knew deep down that he had a bare minimum of flaws in him, being proved that he was unavoidably human and that his degree of perfection didn't even touch hundred per cent, much less the world's actual perfection of a hundred and four.
When John kissed him for the first time, he was caught so off guard, he had doubted himself. Most people didn't surprise him with their usual lack of intellect and subtlety. For once, Sherlock felt like he was standing on their end because he was taken aback by John's actions, although he harboured tediously amorous feelings towards John. Intimacy was a passing thought, but nothing he could focus on.
John had made that very thought slide into place in Sherlock. Any idiot knew it was reciprocation at it's finest and so Sherlock was suddenly lost in the giddiness of it, rather than the task of scouring through his mind palace for better tips at snogging. That was something he could reflect upon when the moment didn't demand his full attention. He thought less about how two dimensional or cumbersome it was and zeroed in on the chapped skin of John's lips.
It was only much later, did he cringe at himself. But, when John laughed at him every time he shouted at the telly, it seemed alright.
***
There's the kind that is coated with adrenaline.
They always crop up during a cinematic moment that's their life. There are bullets and sirens and chasing and gravel stuck to their shoes. Sherlock's favourite part would probably be the way his coat flies while he's sprinting. Not to mention the epinephrine coursing through his nerves.
Scotland Yard comes with their wagging tail, simultaneously tucked between their legs and arrests the criminal, heads poised as though they have done all the work. Sherlock couldn't care less; he knows the coppers aren't good enough. Not ever, and that they come to Sherlock for incompetent things- which is everything.
During their cumbersome process of arresting, ambulances and paperwork, John generally took up the task of doting over him. Fussing with his erect collar and the unruly hair. It should be annoying, it should be idiotic. But, everything is different with John as it's always been. Annoying has somehow become endearing since the beginning.
"You could have died!" A very familiar voice bellows. There is no not listening to it. "What were you thinking?!"
So, when John pins him against the nearest brick wall and nearly stands on his feet, forearm braced around Sherlock's pectorals and snogs the extra fix of adrenaline into him.
He ignores the dirt ruining the dorsum of his coat, the exhausted groans from his so-called coworkers and the anxiety of the outdoors.
He tries not to dig his nails into John's waist or let his knees buckle and keeps up with the momentum.
"You utter piecan," mutters John as always, and kisses him bitingly.
***
All his life, Sherlock has been at fault. He's always been made to feel inferior.
It's easy to not listen to them, but as inhuman as he tells himself that he is, it isn't always easy to not listen. There is a snide comment here, a sneer there, name-calling somewhere in between. He does what he knows best; tuning it out.
Tuning it out so far has been helpful, but around John, it wasn't an option at all. The man had been at war, he had been at someone's care. He was a walking enigma with his cruel frown and his empathetic eyes. At most times, John looked like he wanted to stab him and then stitch him back up immediately. He had grown to love the look.
John wasn't familiar with the concept of tuning out. As stoic as the man made himself to be, he made sure to consider the opposite person's feelings. Once upon a time, it was boring to Sherlock. A complete waste of time.
These days, Sherlock has become accustomed to matching his gaze to John's for approval whilst his interactions with the public. He's watched John make excuses for his behaviour, long when he couldn't care. But, as time went by, Sherlock acknowledged the feeling of wanting to do deeds right, just to feel like he was good enough for John.
Was anybody ever good enough? Was it worth all the hassle they put themselves through?
But, the twinkling look that John passes over the head of a victim when Sherlock informs her that he's sorry for her loss, is something he'll store away so that the dark doesn't touch it.
When they're alone, John will look at him with his lips pursed in a poorly hidden smile, tuck his thumb behind his ramus and give him the shortest, meaningful kiss. Perhaps, it is worth it.
***
When they're sure they're alone, John presses him up against the dusty wallpaper even if he's shorter and cranes his neck up to snog the whizzing out of Sherlock. His hand might slip between the wall and Sherlock's back and pull them flush against each other. Their breaths mingle like they don't know who it belongs to anymore.
It starts easy, simple and within minutes, Sherlock's lip is snarling with the need for air and yet he's pliant in John's arms, unable to do anything but follow, concentrating on not wobbling once a tongue licks into the seam of his mouth. A rush of chemicals frantically go from his brain and into his blood. It shuts down everything relevant in Sherlock's brain and smashes into his nerves. He might not want it to lead anywhere near a bed, but he knows he's weak for this. A fatal flaw he knows better not to rid of.
Their curtains are mostly never drawn; anyone could look in and see them snogging like teenagers in heat. Somehow, it makes Sherlock want to be careless.
John's hands bunch the crisp material of Sherlock's shirt, a finger slipping between the gaps between buttonholes, almost teasingly. And then- Sherlock pulls back because he needs to breath. But, it's always as if John will not take that as an answer.
He stares up at Sherlock with a glint in his eye, pupils dilated so far that his irises are swallowed by it, lips slick and pursed. The proximity between them vows to make it rather difficult. They stare at each other unmovingly like the moment breaks when John takes a step back slowly like fluid, a slight smirk easing itself onto his face and he flips around and makes a run towards Sherlock's bedroom with a laugh that will never get lost into the atmosphere.
And so, John runs and gives chase.
***
The ones that lead nowhere, they're chaste and assuring. They are mere pecks, sometimes lingering for a second too long. They're the ones that mean 'goodnight' or 'see you' and that's...
That's nothing to dwell on.
***
These, Sherlock initiates.
Most times, John is accustomed to it, but only sometimes does his mock temper drill through and dance on his eyebrows as he looks through the charade. And he knows, but probably doesn't know Sherlock knows that he knows. He's a nutter, either way.
It's when John won't let him store his specimens in the fridge or leave out his test tubes on the dining table. Or when he needs rabbit food to stimulate his neurons, but he's too lethargic to step out. Sometimes, if he's feeling generous, he'll be enough to lure John back into bed on a frosty morning. The mornings that feel like the world chipping in on, and everything else sods off on the sight of them.
Obviously, it doesn't take much. All Sherlock has to do is kiss John. Tilt his head to the side with his hands cupping John's cheeks and kiss him square on the mouth as if he was plunging into the truths hidden somewhere deep into John's mouth. It starts off an ulterior motive that shapes into an apt example of commensalism.
It makes John's neck flush all the way down to his chest, hidden by his ugly jumpers. It's enough to the words trip out, rather than flow like John's smooth confident speech. Sherlock finds that John will agree to anything that way, barely coherent when Sherlock takes the lead.
He gets what he's wanted. That and a little more.
***
They're not new to breakdowns; John and himself.
Sherlock likes to see how far he can stretch himself till he snaps back like elastic and hurts himself. Sometimes there are brain overloads that he suffers through every month where his mind palace glitches and becomes static for a while. There's a minute niggling doubt poking him like a pinprick in the back of his head; can he turn to drugs again? Because in the end, all roads lead there- back to his pathetic addiction. To something that his life naturally but unwillingly revolved around.
Often, Sherlock would run off into slurry speech with his eyes drooping off. At times, he would curl up in his armchair, muscles seized up and quivering without his consent. He wouldn't be able to tell when the tears began falling until somebody pointed it out. It was down to numbness with a slight buzz of something the English language didn't have a word for. Like his body had reboot from overload.
But, John is there during it all. He stands over him in what he thinks is protectiveness, but the wilting of his eyes shows concern. A cup of tea in a hand and a hand braced tightly on Sherlock's shoulder, the grip never faltering or easing.
Of course, the same went for John. He would wake up with a start, jerking the bed in the middle of the night. Beads of sweat trickled down his wrinkled forehead, the eyes beneath it nowhere in the now. For a minute, he wouldn't be himself. His shaking fingers would reach across the bed-sheet in search of something.
The way they kiss each other, it says I have you. I'm right there. And there they are.
***
For so long, Sherlock thought of energy and time and saliva and perfection and the uselessness of it all, that he had missed the bigger picture.
When John kissed him for the first time, he was so caught off guard, he had doubted himself. He was crammed in a loop of technique and vulnerabilities and intimacy and experimentation that he hadn't seen it at all.
He hadn't seen that in the veins that popped on John's forehead and his shaking hands and his eyebrows slanting in disbelief that, the same turmoil was occurring behind the windows of John Watson, only he was telling Sherlock. He was showing Sherlock everything he had wanted.
He was showing Sherlock that he was John's.
(And perhaps, the worth cannot be measured in terms like that, but Sherlock can take that as an answer.)