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(“Kiss me,” he’d whispered, shaking, eyes closed, face wet with tears. His breaths were uneven, desperate, unsure. Here he was, making the hardest confession he’d ever had to make, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open for fear. “I want you to kiss me,” he said again, unsure if he was about to lose his best friend, his only friend, unsure if he was about to ruin everything.
“Please.” He looked up, then, eyes wide, lips trembling and scared. He looked lost. He looked like his world was crashing around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He looked terrified.
John blinked, exhaled, took a step back as he absorbed what Sherlock had said. Took a step forward, then, and brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face.
John had never been able to say no to Sherlock, after all. Not really. Especially when he'd wanted the same thing all along. )
19 september
It’s dark outside, but only just. It’s four in the morning, and nearly dawn. They’d been on other side of London for almost a week, now, solving a long string of robberies that had forced them awake for most of the time they’d been there.
They're in a cab, clutching each other. Sherlock's head is on John's shoulder. One arm is wrapped around his middle. John's arms are wrapped around Sherlock's chest, and his head is resting atop Sherlock's, breath softly rustling his curls. They're facing one another, eyelids fluttering delicately as they pass by lights and turn corners. They’re asleep.
It's warm inside the cab, a welcome change from the bitter autumn chill that, as of late, has been permeating everything. Outside, the lights of the city glow neon and yellow and bright, glinting off of the wet sidewalks and streets and storefronts. and fall in through the windows. It passes over them in flashes, illuminating them for a second, covering them in strange shadows and throwing them into complete darkness the next. Petrichor gently wafts in. (It rained only half an hour ago.)
They shift as the cab drives. John's head presses against a window, and his breath fogs slightly against it. Sherlock moves with him, still molded to John's side, arms still clutched around his waist, head still resting on his shoulder.
Below them, their feet touch gently, leather tapping leather as they're jostled slightly. Sherlock snuffles in his sleep, and nuzzles closer to John. John tightens his grip, and moves his other arm to wrap around Sherlock's middle as well.
It’s as quiet as London ever gets.
John wakes at one point, close to home. He blinks for a minute, trying to get remember where he is, and what he’s doing. Against his neck, Sherlock breathes softly, hot air and vague mumblings that doesn't quite smell like morning breath. He’s radiating warmth. Light flashes above them, briefly, and John leans forward and closes his eyes, burying his face in Sherlock's hair. He exhales softly, presses a kiss to his scalp. He opens his eyes a few moments later and strokes Sherlock's hair until the arrive, watching him with unabashed wonder and adoration. The lights pass over them. Sherlock is the most beautiful thing John's ever seen. John's chest aches.
(They kissed for the first time two weeks ago.)
They reach home twenty minutes later. The barest hint of sunlight touches them, and makes Sherlock’s skin glow, glints in his hair. He snores softly, eyelids shut. They’re fluttering, almost, John thinks, but before he can see for sure, they stop and still again. John sighs, and leans forward and kisses his forehead softly. “Sherlock,” he whispers. Sherlock groans tiredly, and John feels a stab of regret for waking him up, but then remembers their bed upstairs, and smiles. He shifts Sherlock so that his head is on John’s lap.
"Come on," he whispers, and kisses his forehead again, then his cheek, tenderly. Sherlock tightens his grip around John as he wakes. When he finally opens his eyes, they focus on John, leaning over him slightly. John smiles down at him. Sherlock blinks for a few more moments, still not quite awake.
Behind him, the sun begins to rise, staining the sky with the barest hints of blue and pink. Sherlock blinks once more, then smiles softly and warmly, grin spreading across his face as slowly and surely as the sun rising behind them.
"Come on, love," John whispers again, smiling back. "We're home."
***
31 december
It's New Year's Eve, and the heating is out.
It’s snowing outside, coming down as a soft flurry. It’s three in the morning. In a few hours, John is supposed to get up and bring Sherlock with him to Harry’s house to celebrate the New Year and one year sober. Or, he had been, before the snow hit, and before the heating went out. Now they’re just trying to stay warm.
Sherlock is on top of John. The blankets are cocooned around him, as well, covering him so only his curls stick out from the blankets. His head is on John’s chest. One arm is wrapped around John, while the other clings to the blanket directly atop him, so tightly so as it almost seems as if he’s trying to keep it from running away. He’s a warm, heavy weight atop John, top of his head and curls pressed against John's chin and nose. Sherlock shifts slightly and snores, soft and small and barely audibly. It would be absolutely endearing, if John were awake to see or hear it.
John is lying on his back, cocooned in blankets. There's a fire in the fireplace, next to him. It crackles slightly, offering meagre warmth.
Sherlock hadn't been atop John, to begin with. He'd been on his side, John behind him, facing the fire with his eyes shut tight. John's fingers held his own on his chest, securing them gently. His arms had held Sherlock in place, pressed against John's front -- John’s breath blowing soft and warm onto the back of Sherlock’s neck.
In the past, Sherlock would have minded, felt trapped. With John, it was different. John made him feel warm, and safe, and like the same fire in front of him was in his chest as well. John made him feel loved, instead of trapped.
(They slept like this for the first time the same day they first kissed. Sherlock had lain awake for hours, facing the wall opposite him with his eyes closed. He didn’t want to fall asleep, for fear he’d never get to have this again.
When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of a future where he fell asleep in John’s arms every night.)
He falls asleep within ten minutes this time, feeling more secure and loved than he has his entire life.
Sometime after this, he's rolled out of John's arms. Five minutes after that, and he's rolled on top of John, one leg in-between John's thighs, the other twisted around John's right leg. He’s snoring quietly, still. At some point, John presses his lips to the top of Sherlock’s hair, and keeps them there.
The fire crackles softly. John breathes onto Sherlock, warm.
***
4 April
They're outside, in a field, in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere nearby, crickets are chirping.
They hadn't meant to be. Somewhere between the train station and their last client’s house, their rented car had broken down, leaving them in the middle of nowhere overnight.
They'd checked their phones, only to find them both dead.
They clutch each other, now, desperate for each other's warmth. Sherlock's face is buried in John's neck, his legs wrapped in-between and around him. His arms are clutched around John’s waist. John has his face buried in Sherlock's hair, arms underneath Sherlock's coat. His arms, too, are wrapped around Sherlock's waist.
John’s still awake, somehow. He holds Sherlock close, feels his breath against his neck. They’re slow, and steady, and calm, and keep John calm, as well. John watches his own breath and marvels that it isn’t cold enough to make it fog.
We could die here, John thinks suddenly. We could freeze to death, or someone -- something -- could find us. No one would know. He closes his eyes and shudders at the mere possibility.
Sherlock snuffles against him slightly right at that moment, and John realizes Sherlock is asleep, not just resting. Something in John's chest squeezes. His mouth, formerly pressed tight, unfurls slowly into an adoring smile He closes his eyes and leans in closer, pulling Sherlock closer to him. He presses his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head, burying his face in his curls. He uses the arm that's wrapped around Sherlock to adjust the coats covering them both, before wrapping his arm around them both again.
Sherlock mumbles something, wiggling slightly, the tender way only people who are half-asleep can. John smiles again, and pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Shh," he whispers. "Go back to sleep, love." He loves him. He does. It hits him again like a freight train. He’s been in love with him for nearly five years now. He's been dating him for six months, and he's never been more in love in his life.
He presses another kiss to the top of his head, smooths a stray curl back into place. "I love you," he whispers. His eyes are wide open.
Sherlock doesn't reply, but that's okay. His soft snore and nuzzle, his nose brushing John’s throat, is answer enough.
Grasshoppers continue to chirp. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots. A breeze blows through, warm for spring. It sets off a chain reaction, trees rustling, animals howling, birds chirping. The breeze smells like nostalgia for a place John's never been. The stars are shining, and the moon is glowing, covering everything with a soft white glow. Sherlock sighs softly in his sleep. The whole of it makes John’s chest ache. It makes him smile, too.
John closes his eyes and holds Sherlock closer.
***
15 june
It's hot.
Mind-numbingly, horrifically, hot. It's the reason why Sherlock hasn't taken a case in over two weeks; even criminals, it seems, take a break due to the heat. It's the reason John has had to treat more cases of heat exhaustion than he's ever seen before, had to call more ambulances for heat stroke than he's ever had to before.
It's the reason they're currently laying on the bed, only one sheet draped over their calves lazily. It's the reason John and Sherlock are in their pants, barely touching for the heat.
Their window is open. A soft breeze floats in, ephemeral. It smells of smog, and wet pavements, and something that one can't name, only know.
Their pinkies are touching. Below that, their hips, and below that, the tips of their toes. Their heads are turned towards each other, faces buried into the pillow, so as to not blow hot breath onto the other's face. The last words they said to each other before they fell asleep were, "I love you," and, "I love you, too."
There's a fan buzzing in the corner. It wafts over them, providing a small, blessed relief. The thermometer downstairs reads 29° Celsius.
Sherlock shifts slightly, breath leaving him in a soft gust. He rests his forearm against John's, moonlight washing him of most of what little colour he'd had to begin with. He kicks at the sheet slightly, then goes back to sleep. There's a new ring on his ring finger, gold glinting as it reflects the moonlight.
A similar one glows on John's finger.
A car passes by outside. Somewhere, nearby, there's a couple yelling. A cat yowls. A dog barks in response. All of London seems to be asleep, syrupy sweet and thick, slow to change.
It's one in the morning.
John wakes slightly, leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, breath ruffling his sweat-slick curls slightly. He falls back a second later, eyes still shut, but brings his arm up to rest around Sherlock's chest.
Outside, a siren wails. A dog barks, and then all is quiet.