Work Text:
Rain over London, at night. The cab's windows, traced with running drops, had fogged to a blur; it was rather like riding along underwater.
Sherlock and John sat in mutinous silence, faces turned to opposite windows.
It had started at the crime scene — a quarrel over something trivial, which had escalated to grabbed collars, at which point Lestrade had waded in with all the ceremony of a man separating fighting dogs and thrown the pair of them into a cab together.
Ordinarily, after a case solved that brilliantly, there would be the quiet, pleasant hum of it, and John to talk it all over with.
John was glaring out of the far window, one hand planted on the seat to brace himself. Sherlock dropped his gaze to those fingertips — and then planted his own hand on the seat, the same way.
Fingertips almost touching. Not touching.
Sherlock felt his own go warm, a low charge gathering under the skin.
The last little distance was as far away as the stratosphere.
The taxi slowed and stopped. The engine died, and there was only the rain, softly drumming on the roof.
Without warning his scarf was seized, he was hauled over hard — and before surprise could finish arriving, his mouth was taken. John's dry lips; one instant of hot breath. Sherlock's heart slammed against his ribs.
John paid as though nothing whatever had happened, and got out of the cab.
Sherlock stayed exactly where he was, unable to move for some time, checking with his fingertips what John's lips had left behind.
fin.