A/N: Inspired yesterday during a conversation with my beta-thank you, KoraM! Gameson221b, this is a glimpse of a "tangent." Not 'the' tangent, but another... Do enjoy!
Caution: Slash. John/Sherlock. Contains sexual content.
Disclaimer: ...If only...
Just a Taste of You
John was awakened by an oddly familiar scent. What it was, he couldn't quite place...
He pressed his nose closer to it...meeting the soft inner tissue of an arm. His eyes snapped open. He was face down on a bed...a specific bed. One that was not his.
He pulled his face away from the arm, and carefully edged off the bed. He balanced on his toes and quietly moved around the room to the door...he couldn't risk staying longer...waking him...
John stopped in the middle of the kitchen. Had that really happened? He played the night over again in his mind, and still...it seemed like something from a dream.
They had been seated in their usual chairs, their night of carousing on the town having ended early. That silly game, to pass the time so as not to appear to be such light-weights...but they had been to several pubs, and John had the bartenders slip more than one shot into their drinks...
In retrospect, he contemplated, had he been trying to get that person more drunk? Subconsciously, had he planned for this?
John shook his head, trying to clear the stale buzz of his hangover. But, that just made the room wobble around him.
When the room stilled, he set about collecting his clothes.
He pulled his t-shirt over his head and tugged on his jeans, wondering...
Socks... Socks... Goddamned, bloody socks!
He sat at the kitchen table. The space was remarkably clear of any experiment. A wayward laptop perched on a pile of papers on the shelf, but the table was open... A wreckage of books and sample data lay strewn across the far side of the kitchen floor...
Oh, god. John put his hand to his head...images from the night before came to mind, slowly piecing together the situation he was finding himself in.
There...from that chair in the sitting room, leaning forward, his hand sliding up a leg... "I don't mind," he'd said.
Had he realized...his non-response was like an invitation?
John fixed his eyes to those translucent blue orbs and shifted forward. Slowly, testingly, he pressed at the lips opposite his. They pressed back, opening to draw teeth against the soft flesh.
John grunted and surged forward, both of them rising to their feet. His hand moved from the leg to the waistband of the trousers, catching at the belt buckle. His fingers pulled at the leather, simultaneously tugging the shirt...it stuck, and a second pair of hands joined his, lifting the shirt and pulling the buttons free. John's hands raked across the alabaster skin, shedding the shirt and jacket in one motion.
How many times had he wondered what that would feel like? His fingers, trailing against that skin?
He was steered backward, nearly tripping on the rug at the edge of the kitchen. Fingers clawed at his shirt, tugging against it for purchase at his skin. He hadn't felt that before, the desperate want. His chest tightened, and his belly warmed at the thought. He gasped and removed the layers separating them. His mouth was reclaimed, teeth and tongue and lips, consumed...
Those begging fingers dipped into his waistband, loosing the closure. John returned the action, the belt finally released and the trousers shifting down those narrow hips.
Lips parted and eyes spoke.
A gentle hand pressed to the side of his face and caressed down his front, tracing contours and tucking low... John arched back, hitting the edge of the table. The hand loosened its sudden grip and circled to his back, sliding his trousers down.
The mouth returned, whispered kisses trailed from his lips to the back of his jaw, down his neck and along his collar bone, across his chest, teasing at his navel, and...descending...
Hot breath...warmth...
John's back fell against the table, his arms clearing the chaos...he groaned out a name. The proper name, a name he had bitten back too many times before...
His hands laced through dark curls, his hips pulsing. Those hands clenched at his hips, and John cried out again...
A face peaked up, a body fitting between his thighs to watch him, a body resting...
John pulled the face toward him, not caring where the mouth had been. He captured those lips, the lean form pressing against him. His hands feathered down the torso, his fingers pushing at the waistband, freeing the lower skin...
He sat forward, easing off the table...pushing against those eager arms, holding him at bay.
John steered them around the table, losing focus as hands wandered over him...fingers... John's lips broke away as he choked on the sensation. He stopped moving, gasping for air that seemed to have been drawn out of the room.
Teeth drew across his escaped lips...a chastisement. The lips followed, kneading out the bruise. He pushed back into the kiss, moving them again.
They hit the bedroom door, stopping only to fumble with opening the portal...
John stood up. Every place on his body where he had been...burned with the memories. John's hands shook. He fought the urge to go back into the bedroom, and...relive it...
Sherlock lay staring at the ceiling. He was alone, aware the moment that body had moved in wakefulness to touch at his arm. It had tickled a little, that nose tucked to his skin...
He sighed, imagining that the place beside him on the bed was occupied...how he would curl around the body, his hands possessively wrapped about the chest, feeling every intake and exhale of breath...
He rolled over to rest his hand against the abandoned space. It was still warm... Not long abandoned, then...
He pulled at the displaced sheets, sitting up and wrapping them around him. He stood and trailed the sheet ends around the room, pausing at the door...
What if he was still here?
What if he wasn't?
Before he could decide what to do, the door opened. All movement stopped.
Sherlock observed the man before him, disappointed by the clothes covering...intrigued by the eyes that dragged over his form, and the draping sheet wrapped around him.
A tongue darted out to wet lips... He wanted to catch that tongue... Sherlock edged forward, his right hand reaching out carefully.
The mouth turned up, a slow crawl of movement.
Sherlock released the sheet, letting it fall to the floor. Arms raised to pull the t-shirt over a bed-mussed head, the trousers unbuttoned and kicked off.
The two men stumbled back through the door...
John pulled away from his lock on that mouth, his fingertips drawing softly across those lips...an apology...
Sherlock's hand gripped the fringe of hair at the base of that neck, and he tried to read the look on that face.
"Sherlock. About what happened...last night... I've got to call Mary."
"I don't understand."
John touched his fingers to that waiting face. "I'm calling off the wedding, you idiot."
Sherlock tucked his nose into John's neck.
"I can't get enough of you."
That deep voice growled in his ear.
A/N: And that, my friends, is how it should have been... I present this fic with lyrics from Lorna Vallings' "Taste":
If I could have just a moment of you
Would I be wanting more?
If I could have just a taste of you
Would I be addicted?
If I could have just a touch of you
Could I tear myself away?
Hence, the title. I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading!