It's strange, the way Sherlock excuses himself to the bright, stark, bitter cold of Baker Street-in-January when he needs to light up. It's not a secret, John had bought him the pack ("Enabler," Sherlock had accused with a flash in his eyes) and John had handed him the book of matches with which to light the damned thing.
He's been somewhat obsessed with this recently, picking apart Sherlock's idiosyncrasies, privately, in the comfort of his own mind. It's a lovely pastime, really.
Sherlock has been gone for a bit now, surely having made his way through one cigarette; John is agitated. What could be keeping him? His leg twitches and his palm itches and he's across the room in a flash.
He stands in the window of the sitting room, looking down towards the street, makes out the top of Sherlock's dark head and the smoke from the cigarette, the red hot embers at the tip. John waits a beat and then two and then descends the staircase, mind and body separate entities.
"John," he says almost by way of greeting but not, taking a drag, watching as taxis and cars struggle to dodge poorly parked vehicles on the street. Sherlock exhales, licks his lips and glares at the end of the cigarette. This a practice, solitary, for the detective and John feels intrusive but pleasantly so.
Sherlock taps off the ash and licks at his lips again.
John too licks his lips, can't tear his eyes away from the stark cut of Sherlock's jaw. There's something happening here, something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Have a drag?"
When he glances at him, Sherlock tilts his head; his eyes twitch and he consider, considers John, considers the question. "Sure you want to do that?"
"Hmmm," and John reaches out and takes the cigarette, places it between his lips. The end is slightly damp and he can taste the tobacco, the nicotine, Sherlock.
John sucks in deep, enjoys the rush.
-
Cardiff, in blind pursuit of a murderer, ducking down this street and that, over hill and dale, really. John follows, can't help it. Sherlock's legs are longer and he is faster and John hasn't really run (not like this) since the Academy and his lungs ache and his knees scream at him and he is very well exhausted.
And he adores it, the hard rush of humid air against his face, the way his boots sound slapping the pavement, how poetically Sherlock's scarf whips in the breeze he creates with his speed. He watches the way Sherlock's body moves, the angle of his arms, the stride of his legs, the way he nearly bounds off of the ball of his foot.
If they weren't attempting to capture someone so absolutely heinous, John might take the time to consider the moment beautiful.
He rounds a corner roughly five seconds after Sherlock, but the detective is already splayed on the ground, on top of the suspect; John hears sirens in the distance, knows that Lestrade can't be too far off.
"Care to be of assistance?" Sherlock bites out between labored breaths, shifts over the suspect and presses the man's head into the pavement. His cheeks are red from the wind and rain and exertion and his back heaves with the force of the breaths he is taking. Hair disheveled, positively perfect.
John smiles, can't help it.
He sucks in deep, enjoys the rush.
-
It's in darkened alleys and brightly lit labs, dusty libraries and wind-whipped piers that he falls irrevocably, tragically, brilliantly in love. It's not something he anticipates, doesn't even suspect that this is the cloying, ripping feeling that he gets in his chest whenever Sherlock puts himself in harm's way (intentionally or un.)
The blooming warmth in his chest when Sherlock quirks an unbidden smile, comes to a loud conclusion, buttons up his shirt, snaps his fingers. The everyday things, the minutia that causes a swell of something slightly foreign to course through John's veins.
The feeling is distracting and thrilling and completely terrifying because there's the timing and there's the situation and there's the man. Because it's the first man he's ever loved, perhaps the first person and when he thinks of what that means, John can imagine... nothing. He hears white noise in his head, a buzzing sensation in his stomach, a wave of utter ambivalence.
He wouldn't possibly know how to love Sherlock properly if he tried. And he doeswanttotry, just isn't sure how. Howindeed.
Sherlock glances up at him, his long frame bent forward over a body. "John?"
"Yes," John gasps and sucks in deep, loves the rush.
-
A normal evening as any. Late at Bart's examining a homicide-costumed-as-suicide and the two collapse together in the living room, John in the chair, Sherlock on the sofa.
Sherlock is pale, hasn't slept in days. Even if John didn't know this from firsthand knowledge, he would be able to read it all over his face, in his frame, in the slight slur to the ends of his sentences.
"Tired?" John asks, John hopes.
Sherlock blinks at him. There's a long, slow moment as Sherlock studies him, reads his face, comes to silent conclusions about John in his head. "No."
John knew the answer was coming and yet it somehow manages to cut into him, wrap around his soul just so and squeeze. "You've got to take better care of yourself Sherlock." It's a shout and it echoes through the space for a moment before John follows, "You've just... you've just got to, alright?"
He's unmoored.
"Better care?"
And there it is, in two words, John understands that Sherlock understands. Something John has been feeling, dealing with for months now and with one outburst, Sherlock understands.
John is embarrassed, flustered, feels like he's somehow been lying to Sherlock, having kept this from him.
John's throat seizes up and he doesn't know what to say, never truly does in situations like these. So he opts to brush it off, "Come off it."
Sherlock blinks, sits forward, balancing his chin on the steeple of his fingers. "No."
He feels it in his bones, real and singing and wants desperately to simply put voice to his emotions; if only it were that easy. "I don't know how," John says, almost too quietly and it's a fragment of a sentence, it means nothing out of context.
But Sherlock, the brilliant, the knowing, the understanding Sherlock knows just how to fit the pieces into place. So simple.
"Like this," Sherlock mumbles and stands, advances on John with steady, swift steps.
"What's that?" John croaks and barely has a moment to finish the sentence before Sherlock slants his mouth over his, hard. John doesn't know what to do with his hands, hears the white noise cropping up again as Sherlock sifts his fingers through the short hair at John's nape.
"Like. This." Sherlock says against his mouth.
John sucks in deep, isaddictedtotherush.