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Sherlock manages to pick the lock and they’re finally in. It’s a typical, average-sized basement two floors underground. John closes the door gently behind them, but some dust still rustles down and Sherlock can hear John barely suppress a sneeze.
Before he hears the soft click of the lock, Sherlock’s already flicked the light-switch. With the door closed, a forlorn 20W bulb is left to illuminate the space. They look around. John heads for the further end of the room to inspect a covered piece of furniture. Sherlock moves to the middle of the room, slowly pivoting to get a 360-degree view.
He’s just started his second turn when the light goes off.
It's pitch black. They both hold their breath for a few long seconds, ears straining to hear any noise, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness, but it’s like petrol: thick, no shades or shapes, impenetrable. Then Sherlock snaps in a very low tone:
“John! Torch!”
Immediately he hears a whisper from the vaguest distance:
“I thought you had it!”
“No,” Sherlock replies, before John’s even finished. There is a moment of quiet and he hears John’s whisper turning harsh:
“I asked you about it. You hummed! I heard you hummi—I’m not listening to you anymore, next—“
“Shh.” Sherlock shushes him and John goes abruptly quiet. Sherlock hasn’t heard any noise but he needs silence to focus.
They’ll have to risk opening the door to let some light in. They don’t have much time, but the wooden box has to be somewhere in here! Sherlock closes his eyes- a stupid gesture, since it’s not like it would make any difference in this situation. But he’s terribly disorientated and his eyes just shut naturally to elevate his concentration. Sherlock tries to visualize his last position. Right, the door should be roughly thirty degrees to the left. Slowly he starts moving, hands outstretched to prevent collision with obstacles.
He takes three steps and his hands meet an obstacle, all right! It’s soft, and it’s got some very small roughness on its surface, like the finest sandpaper—and it’s alive, because it licks his fingers.
“What are you doing?” John hisses and tries to lick his fingers again. Correction, Sherlock’s dazed brain notes. John isn’t trying to lick Sherlock's fingers. He's trying to lick his own lips, which the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand are touching, while those of his left hand are being softly scratched by the stubble on John’s cheek.
Sherlock doesn’t ask in return what John is doing there, although it’s a perfectly justified question. He doesn’t answer John’s question either. He doesn’t do anything- not even removing his hands from John’s face. In the perfect blackness, in the perfect quiet, Sherlock suddenly feels like he is in a different reality: one where there are no points in the world beyond the small points of contact between his skin and John’s. Time is suspended here. Everything is suspended, including Sherlock’s thought process and for a second, it is blissful. It’s a reality in which this touch is…allowed. Natural. Pre-determined. Everlasting. John must have been transported to this world too, because he doesn’t repeat his question, nor does he ask another—he stills. Then Sherlock can’t tell if it’s his own hand moving or John’s mouth leaning imperceptibly into the touch, but the barest increase in sensation is magnified here to something wonderful, something terribly intimate. Sherlock’s head swims from the sensory overload and he can feel a difference. He can’t put his finger on it (only of course he already has), but it’s different, what is it…
His body. It’s his body. It’s his body. He is—
A sudden scrape of metal from outside jolts them both back to this reality, just in time. They jump in opposite directions, throwing themselves towards the walls in search of cover from the bullets raining through the kicked-in door.