More Sherlock fanfiction!
Sherlock was made to be under the influence. The wine glass bobs gently in his hand as he dances, eyes closed and head swaying to some concerto playing in his head. The prim dress of the evening has been abandoned; his jacket falling open, the sleeves pushed up, making ruches around his elbows. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and though his tie is still looped around his neck it’s been pulled loose, the knot hanging low.
His long feet pads out the tempo as he swirls around the room and John watches from the armchair, oddly entranced, until he suddenly stops. His eyes alight on John and he smiles.
“Come join me.”
“I don’t know the music.” John answers quietly.
“Don’t be foolish, everyone knows the music.” He holds out his hand and, for some reason, John allows himself to be pulled in. An arm circles his waist, drawing him close so Sherlock can rest their foreheads together. “Like this.” He whispers as though divulging some great secret as they begin to move.
“Sherlock...”But the protest dies on his tongue when those piercing grey eyes fall shut and Sherlock hushes him, his breath a warm, soft breeze across his skin.
They dance until the score in Sherlock’s mind rises to its final crescendo.
-
Sherlock quivers beneath his touch.
The empty wine bottle rises proudly from the tumultuous sea of paper sprawled over the coffee table beside them. Somewhere a dutiful clock marches on; a metronome to the symphony John was teasing from the skin of Sherlock’s bare torso. His ribs are the strings, plucked in a jaunty tune for the detective’s madness; his stomach is the drum, a strong, steady beat of a forgotten heart. The burning kisses along his collarbones are the trumpets, his brilliance and strength swelling through his oeuvre until its almost deafening; but then the sweet voice of the flute, the gentle whisper of fingertips down the sinew of Sherlock’s arms, cuts through the surge - his long, graceful limbs, his true smile, his voice, low and dark; everything that is beautiful.
John closes his eyes and just listens.
-
The bed yields beneath them, its soft creak lost beneath their shallow, broken breathing. Dark, crushed curls mar the white of its pillow as two mouth press together. There’s no skill in it but it doesn’t matter; it’s the touch; it’s the connection. Sherlock sighs and gasps as fingers work him open, twisting, sliding and tracing intimate patterns deeper than anyone before. They tease that spot that breaks all that’s left of those tight tendrils of control he had so long ago wrapped around his mind.
Gentle hands and pleading voice urge him onto his knees. His arms curl uselessly beneath the pillow that hid the raw, broken self playing across his face as he gave everything to his John.
-
The morning always comes; even to those who lie in bed and pray it never will because then they will never have to face the man lying beside them. Sherlock’s thumb follows the groove beneath his eye, the contour of his cheeks and the bristled edge of jaw.
He wonders how long it will take for this one to leave.