Work Text:
Kiss me?
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
Half-term went and gone. Chest tight from hopeful need.
Kiss me.
Kiss Me.
Drunken phone call and a thumping head. Still no reply.
Kiss me.
Every letter. Every hurried hushed call. Every post-card from visited places.
Every thought stored away in his mind palace.
Kiss me.
Please Brother?
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
Home at last. Comforting arms.
Kiss me.
Each bat of eyelashes. Morse code.
Every wave of his butter knife. Semaphore.
Dangerous mistletoe.
Kiss me.
Then…
Acquiescence. Hopeful submission.
Longing triumphed.
Enticement. The wrong bedroom. Door closed.
Kiss Me.
Maybe it’s the pleading whisper. Or the toes curled up tight against the outsides of his knees.
Kiss me.
Or the fact that this term was inexorably long.
Kiss me.
Or that those lips look perfectly dangerous.
Kiss me.
Or maybe because he never has before.
Kiss me.
Because he’s never let himself.
Kiss me.
…hope.
Kiss me.
Because he knew it would be forever.
Perhaps because he finally can’t hold back any longer.
Kiss me.
Or because the hurt is too strong.
Kiss me.
Or the repeated loss too stinging.
Kiss me.
Or the passion too thigh-pressingly deep.
Kiss me.
So finally he gives in. Gives in to the terror of love. So very much.
“Kiss me.”
The request that’s been said at every meeting for the past year and a half. In place of every hello, every goodbye. The rightness of it finally outweighing the wrong.
And so, as he’s been asked to countless times, Sherlock drops his head, pushes his lips down onto his brothers below him. Moisture meeting. Love never needing to be said.
The lips below his part hopefully. And hope is given.
He pulls up after a small eternity. The church bells echo through the still frost of midnight. Matching smiles appear. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”