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    Summary

    "Jealous are you, Sherlock?" James said, without breaking eye-contact. Though they were nearly the same height, it felt like James towered miles above him.

    "What are you on about," Sherlock muttered, his palms growing damp from the intensity that hung between them.

    For once, Sherlock couldn't look past the surface of what James wore to peer into his mind. For the life of him, he couldn't work out what the other man was thinking. All that registered was the dark scent of his cologne, the breath of pores that sprinkled his face. The angularity of his jaw that somehow escaped him in the past. And his eyes, God, his eyes.

    Everything about him was fashioned sharply, like a knife against his chest, dangerous.

    The thought struck something in Sherlock, and he went up like dry linen catching fire.

    Language:
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