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It's a beautiful, fluid thing, Sherlock's dexterity. Like watching Phoebes dart after damselflies, snatching at the dusk, always hungry when there’s a nest to feed. That’s Sherlock’s brain, the whirring intellect of wing speed, hatching thoughts faster than fireflies, blazing across the meadow, borne upon the breeze.
John catches himself staring at those hands at crime scenes, in alleys, at the Yard, at St. Bart’s, in lab and mortuary, watching them conduct the air, cueing thoughts into symphonies; Sherlock composing a requiem for the dead, in patterns and possibilities.
And yet those digits render pleasure just as sharply. No stranger to clemency, they know John’s song, how to coax it from his body until he is keening with ecstasy. They will stroke and knead and bury themselves root deep in forbidden territory until they breach his defenses, laying bare the well upon which tongue must feed.
They are conqueror’s hands, commanding the vanguard of lips and tongue and cock, claiming all within their reach. John surrenders willingly; there is no shame in this defeat. He takes those fingers gently into his mouth, between his teeth and repeats there the strategies of earlier won victories.
Later he will let those hands cradle his heart in sleep, and dream of Phoebes darting through the dusk and fireflies in summer, borne upon the breeze.
