Chapter Text
Oh, the thrill of the chase. Adrenaline pumping through their veins, feet pounding on the asphalt, cool wind and the night sky. They were chasing a man who had just made his second kill, but when they turned the corner they were greeted with a gang of men armed with knives that had been bought off by the killer to take John and Sherlock out. Upon seeing them, Sherlock had roughly grabbed John's arm and spun him around, back around the corner, and through an alley. Near the back, shrouded in shadow, Sherlock shoved John against the wall and pressed his mouth to John's.
John was too stunned to move. Sherlock's mouth on his-- a completely out-of-the-blue act-- was overwhelming. The idea had crossed his mind but he had never lingered, never thought deeply about what it would feel like to have Sherlock's full, likely soft (now confirmed-- very soft), perfect lips on his. Right, he had never thought about it deeply. But now he was experiencing it and it was intoxicating, Sherlock's lips on his, his long fingers wrapping around his waist, drawing him inward.
Sherlock had briefly considered six ways to escape the gang, but decided this would be the least life-threatening. The men hadn't been around this corner before they had seen John and Sherlock and they were all overly masculine, not daring to go near two men making out in the back of an alley. Also, this fulfilled a hypothesis and a personal. . . well. . . there wasn't exactly a proper word for it. Desire, want, no; need, no: too strong-- a velleity, he supposed. And Sherlock found that intrigue had been well deserved. John's lips were slightly chapped but still felt wonderful, even slack with shock. He twined his fingers around John's waist, still muscular from all the running about. He pulled back, gasped for breath, risked a glance at the mouth of the alley, and dove back down. The men were looking around, confused, just outside.
John gasped for breath when Sherlock pulled away. But just as he got a breath or two in, those lips were back on his, and he was slightly less shocked. He tilted his head up more-- he wasn't used to it, but it wasn't bad, exactly-- and kissed back. He assumed this had some connection to the case, but John didn't really care what it was. He lifted his hands from where they had been hanging at his sides and wrapped them around Sherlock's torso. He wanted to flip Sherlock around so that he was against the wall, and-- oh.
Sherlock hadn't expected for John to kiss back. This was good, this was better than good, this was great. But John had put his arms on his torso and Sherlock felt really quite uncomfortable and shouldn't the men be gone by now? He lifted away from John, feeling his arms drop away reluctantly. The men were gone. They should be safe now.
"Sherlock," John said. He was panting, still leaning against the wall. "What--"
"Sorry," Sherlock cut John off before he could say any more. He calmed his own breathing quickly. "The men were all adamantly straight, they wouldn't have come down the alley if their lives had depended on it."
"Sherlock," John started again. "I'm not worried about that. I--" Sherlock turned to John. His face was flushed, his lips swollen. His eyes were nearly black and his hair was tousled and falling every which way. He looked absolutely--
"Gorgeous."
"Sorry?" Sherlock knit his brows.
"Gorgeous," John gestured to Sherlock, sucking in another deep breath. "You, ah. . . Sherlock? Where are you going?"
He hadn't expected this response. John was supposed to have been flustered, then denied the occurrence. He had had the slightest hope that John hadn't been totally opposed, but he hadn't prepared for the possibility coming true nor for what John had said. "Gorgeous." Yeah, right. Gorgeous his arse. John did know who he had just kissed, right? He made a mental note to check John for hallucinogenics when they got home as he peered around the corner. No-one in sight.
"Come on, John!" He yelled. He could hear John jogging to catch up, and started a quick strut back to the crime scene.
"Sherlock!" John came to walk, still panting, next to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what on Earth was that about?"
"We lost him." Sherlock brushed off the question.
"What?"
"The killer. We lost him. It's possible that the squad cars picked him up, but extremely unlikely."
John wanted to say more, but he bit it back. What if he said something worse? What had he said in the first place? They walked back to the crime scene in silence, Sherlock rushing ahead, anxious to get back to the flat.