The darkness faded into sudden light, illuminating the brook beyond his shoulder - his broad silhouette managing to block the rays of sunlight that escaped between the cracks of the buildings of the city. He shrugged and a string of bright color shot out from the top of his back. Up ahead, the yellow appeared to be candlelit- infected with swirls of watermelon. The mix of colors undulated off of unperturbed water, blending with the cerulean and becoming inimitable.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a familiar voice said. Sherlock turned around and found John smiling at the sky, his eyes tracing the patterns of the sunrise. He glanced down, meeting Sherlock's eyes. His mouth twisted slightly. "I remember you said you appreciate it."
Sherlock looked at John, his eyes catching on the glint of his engagement ring. "Yes," he responded, and walked away.
Sherlock relaxed, breath leaving his mouth with a tumultuous groan. Another case solved. It was an uncharacteristically warm day in London; the blue sky lacked clouds of any kind, the sun liberating its heat through the city. Sherlock put the violin to his chin, turning the pegs between his thumb and pointer finger, skating the bow across the strings, tuning to the pitch inside of his head. He looked out the window, ignoring the glare from the sun. John was with Mary on the front step. He had rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to acclimatize to the heat. He leaned in and kissed her good-bye.
Sherlock turned away, closed his eyes, and melted into the melody of his vibrato.
Sherlock pressed lightly on the end of his pipette, releasing a droplet of acid into the test tube. He watched as the solution fizzed, the bubbles collapsing on each other in violent movements. They hissed and fought for dominance.
"Sherlock?" John called, peering around the doorway.
Sherlock side-eyed him in acknowledgement and then returned his attention to the experiment in front of him.
"I'm going to the chemist's. Do you need anything?"
"No, thank you," Sherlock mumbled softly, repeating the procedure once again.
John hesitated in the doorway before nodding his head. "All right."
When Sherlock looked at the door again, John was gone and it was dark outside.
"Dance with me," John said suddenly, drawing Sherlock's attention from the sofa.
"What?" Sherlock snapped, turning his head to face his flat-mate. John stared back at him, a questioning expression on his countenance.
"You heard me: dance with me," John repeated.
Sherlock's hand tightened on the spine of the book he was holding. He furrowed his brows. "Why on earth would we dance, John?"
John shrugged nonchalantly. "I need the practice for my wedding day."
Sherlock's expression shifted to something unreadable, his breath catching in his throat. "Fine."
He jumped up from the sofa, dropping his book and made his way towards John unusually slowly, his dressing gown brushing the floor behind his feet. "You lead, of course," he said, resting his hand on John's firm shoulder. John slid his left arm around Sherlock's waist with ease and their right hands met. It was hard for him to cup Sherlock's hand that encompassed his own, but he managed.
"There isn't music, it's not very realistic," Sherlock said after a few moments, staring down at John with a peculiar look on his face.
"There doesn't have to be," John reasoned.
John looked up at Sherlock, finally aware of how close they actually were. He felt a sudden heat cover his neck and hoped that the hand that held Sherlock's wasn't as sweaty as he felt it was. He felt Sherlock's breath mix with his own in the space between them. In the small space of 221B, they swayed with each other in perfect symmetry, flowing through the moves of a waltz like it was second nature.
John didn't notice when they stopped moving. He didn't notice when Sherlock leaned in, his lips dangerously close to his own. He didn't notice how Sherlock's gaze penetrated his own, and he didn't feel himself leaning in, almost closing the gap in between them. Everything was still, silent, yet everything was dangerous and violent - just like them. His heartbeat pelted at his rib cage, demanding to be free.
So John set it free.
His lips crushed against Sherlock's.
Everything was quick - an overload of senses that had John gasping for air. Sherlock's hands traced the side of his cheeks as they tangled themselves in his hair. His grip was tight and John swore he could feel Sherlock's erratic heart beat through his fingers, reverberating through his skull and sending signals straight to his groin.
John's hands grasped at Sherlock's belt, pulling him in impossibly close, his cock pressed up against John's crotch. John groaned in response and his eyes fluttered open to see that Sherlock's had darkened. Before he could react, John was pushed up against the closed door to their flat, and Sherlock's lips were on his neck, sucking at a spot that made his knees go weak. John grabbed at the arm that caged him, trying to maintain his balance. The other held at the backof Sherlock's neck, guiding Sherlock's lips back up to meet his own. John traced his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip, begging for entrance. Sherlock obliged and John's tongue slipped in, absorbing the contagious heat that surrounded him. John was debauched - his eyes closed in ecstasy, holding back every unnoticed glance between them that was now at the forefront. His mouth, sucking out words that weren't said, made him groan. John was fucking Sherlock with his tongue and it couldn't have felt more right.
"John," Sherlock groaned as John slid his tongue out of Sherlock's mouth. Before he could get too far, Sherlock captured John's bottom lip in his mouth and sucked lightly. John trembled. The way Sherlock said his name was a vivid reminder of the strain against his trousers, and a vivid reminder that Sherlock was very not Mary. Mary, his fiancée, who he would be marrying in the next week.
Oh.
Shit.
John tore his lips away from Sherlock's and ducked under Sherlock's arm, almost tripping over the coffee table behind him as he backed out. "I can't- I- I'm-" he tried to reason quickly, his mouth moving too slowly for his thoughts. His lips still tingled from the kiss, his cock pulsating in misery at denial. He looked at Sherlock, whose lips were red and desperately raw. He wore a dangerously closed off expression, blank and emotionless. John tried desperately to get a read on him, but the silence didn't help at all. He screwed up, really screwed up. Clenching his hands at his sides, he watched as Sherlock met his gaze.
"I know," Sherlock breathed, his voice ominously low.
John glanced at the floor, uncomfortable with the eye contact. "I'm sorry-"
"Save it, John," he said, almost whispering. Before John could say anything else, Sherlock was out of the flat, the door's slam echoing violently across the room.
John closed his eyes and breathed. What the hell did he just do?
Although the journey from 221B to Mary's flat that he half shared was usually relatively short, it felt like days had passed before John reached the door and pulled out his keys, opening the door swiftly.
The right thing would be to tell Mary and beg forgiveness until his throat went dry, and John was tempted. He loved Mary and his loyalties were gnawing at him, but he couldn't risk losing her. She was his rock, his solidity in a world of rapid movement.
But he also thought of Sherlock. Sherlock was the exact opposite of Mary - a storm in the desert, rapid movement in a world of solidity. More than anything he didn't want to lose Sherlock, and it seemed like that was most likely to happen. The defeated look on Sherlock's face when he fled from the kiss pinched at his heart. He loved Sherlock, he had already known that. He hadn't known the extent to which he loved him, though. And now he knew that Sherlock felt something for him as well - which, if you'd asked him a month ago, he would've thought that was impossible.
But what kind of life would he have with Sherlock? That kiss had been so telling, but what about a relationship? Sherlock didn't do relationships, why would John think he'd be any different? With Sherlock, kids were out of the question. Didn't he want kids? What would he and Sherlock be?
Ultimately, he realized, he couldn't keep them both. It wouldn't be fair to either one of them. He had to make a decision.
He knew what he needed to do.