A Minimal Touch
So this is a sort of continuation of An Eluding Image. It's a minimalism piece, which is something I've never really tried before, so please bear with me and give me feedback as to how I can improve with this and editing and such. I appreciate all constructive criticism and comments! Thanks for reading! :D
It was barely there; a lingering feeling that tugged more at Sherlock's heart than it did his flesh.
There was no date or time in Sherlock's head. It just happened, time lost itself in the moment.
An innocent start: Sweet and bitter cups of tea exchanged between hands. The man leaned over Sherlock's shoulder, fingertips grace his neck. A shiver, visible pebbling of skin and a sharp intake. Lungs expand, expel. Slow as sleep.
Hm.
"Since when?" his voice breathed on his ear. Another tremble. Silence hung thick, tea being sipped delicately. No words were spoken, the question ignored.
"Tell me," gentle not furious. Good. Okay.
But still empty response.
An exaggerated silence broke, John's fingers finding themselves back on Sherlock's neck.
Another shiver. A soft sigh. A confession.
It wasn't long after that they became a messy tangle of limbs and heat and movement. Heartbeats thrumming double quick, but harmoniously. Hot skin to skin, breath mingling with breath. It was dizzying in its intensity.
"Lights on."
"Lights off."
"Lights on, don't touch."
A bitter frown.
"I want to see you."
Porcelain pale shades to sanguine scarlet, the lights stay on. Sharp cries, heavy motion, all of it timeless.
It could have been three hours. It could have been half of one. Time didn't matter. It was grounding, safe, and incredibly honest. A world of ways to be with each other, this the most intimate. Better than casework, drugs, breathing. No dispute, just bliss.
One refractory later, "Again."
One phone call to work, one to address a case.
Then back to falling into each other, like it was meant to be this way.
He had no mind to count the distance between lightning and thunder, only feeling the rumbles in between.