For Pat and Angel, who love boyfriends.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
Fire and ash rain down from a darkened sky with thick clouds of smoke hovering over John's body while the building behind him crumbles to the ground. Blood drips off of his nose onto his sleeve, mixing with dirt and soot to mingle with more bloody patches that stain his clothing. He lifts his throbbing head, blinking a few times. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes from the smoke.
"Sher-" John chokes, cut off by a hacking cough that rattles up from his lungs. Deep breaths were impossible. He lies on the ground with his eyes closed for a few minutes.
Explosion.
Sherlock.
Explosion.
"Need to move," John whispers to himself. He pushes up off the ground, onto his knees, and squints through the smoke. It's dense, but he can make out a figure on the ground not far from where he is.
A figure. On the ground.
"God, no," John groans, moving to stand upright. The world spins and he falls back to the ground onto his hands and knees. With a moan, he crawls toward the man who has yet to move.
"Please be okay," John prays.
He reaches Sherlock, whose eyes are closed, looking still as death. "No," John breathes, and puts a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming out. He reaches out and grips Sherlock's arm, his whole body beginning to shake. Then he closes his eyes.
A minute passes, then, "No, what?"
John's eyes snap open. "Sherlock!" His voice is hoarse and he begins to cough again.
Sherlock pushes up onto his elbows and lightly lays a hand across John's back. "No, what?" he asks again, once John's coughing fit quiets down.
John shakes his head. "I thought you were dead." He takes in the sight of his flatmate, blood running down the side of his head and small, dark scratches marring his light skin. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Nonsense, I was controlling my breathing. Smoke rises, it's more safe the closer you are to the ground. Besides, you're a doctor, and any person with half a brain knows how to take a pulse, which I know you know how to do, and you would have known I wasn't dead."
John snorts and shakes his head again. Typical.
"You're an idiot," he scolds, though his face breaks into a bright grin. They made it out alive.
Sherlock looks at John and smiles that lazy smile of his, a bit crooked from the pain he obviously feels, which only makes John's fondness for him deepen.
Before either of them can stop it, they start to chuckle. Then the chuckles turn into deep, hoarse laughter, which soon turn into wild, uncontrollable giggles that the two were so prone to falling into. It hurt John's already aching body, but he keeps laughing.
When they finally slow, it's all John can do to keep from grabbing Sherlock's face and kissing him with all the force his adrenaline-pumped body can give him. Instead, he puts both hands on Sherlock's cheeks with a gentleness he doesn't feel, and leans in.
They breathe heavily onto each other's mouths, their breaths coming in and out in fast, uncertain spurts. Sherlock licks his bottom lip, and John falls forward first, tasting blood and sweat on his mouth, sweet and tangy and hot.
Sherlock's fingers grab frantically at John's shoulders, then at the base of his neck. John pulls harder, fingers exploring the damp curls on Sherlock's head, tugging, pushing his tongue in deeper. Sherlock gasps but doesn't pull away. He moves his hands to John's torso, leaning closer, opening his mouth wider.
John feels as though he can breathe him in.
Their feverish groping and pulling and twisting lasts a few more minutes. John stops and sits back slightly, panting heavily with his hands still holding onto Sherlock's face and Sherlock's arms still around his waist.
With that same lazy smile, Sherlock breaks the silence. "You're the bigger idiot for following me into a building rigged with explosives." He closes his eyes leans into John's touch.
John smiles back and brushes his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he mumbles, then presses his lips to Sherlock's once more.