A/N: This one just would not leave me aloneee. Hate it or love it? Tell me why. Warning - uploaded at like 1am and not exactly proofread, hence the incomplete status. Point any mistakes out if you like. Warning #2 - feelings everywhere. On AO3 by the way.
They're kissing.
There are many ways to kiss, really: slowly, passionately, chastely, desperately, delicately, tenderly, fiercely, mediocrely, reassuringly, initially and lastly.
Not an exhaustive list, that.
They're kissing though, and they're kissing softly; reverently. Their breathing and the warm, wet sounds of their kissing fill the room. Residual fear taints the room's air as well, but their doing their solid best to ignore that and focus solely on their kisses instead.
Maybe if they focus hard enough, if they ignore it long enough, that cold black fear will leave.
They're both shaking – and not from desire, although there's usually plenty of that. This isn't about getting off though. They're shaking – even though the adrenaline has long passed, even though they're enveloped tightly in each other's embrace, even though they can feel the other's lips against theirs and the warm press of skin on skin and feel the other's breathing. Feel the other's heartbeat.
Even though they have solid, tangible proof they're here and not there, gone gone gone and never coming back.
On silent mutual agreement, they're not relinquishing their vice–like grip for a while yet.
If they do, they might shake so hard they'll fall apart.
–––
Sherlock couldn't stop staring. His limbs felt boneless; his blood was like ice in his veins paling his face to an almost unearthly ivory. He felt sick and cold and his mind was stuck on a loop, stalling like a broken record player: this is all wrong, wrong wrong wrong.
He needed to help. He had to or else –
Or else nothing. There was no way anything like that could ever happen, because the very thought of an idea like that was enough to give Sherlock a sick, vertiginous, black feeling that could be labelled as panic.
No. John was not going to die.
But God, there was so much blood. So much, too much, all leaking out of a knife wound in John's side. Sherlock swallowed back the choking, bile–tinted lump in his throat and put as much pressure around the wound – and the treacherous knife still embedded – as he could.
John was staring up at him determinedly, breathing shallowly, drinking in Sherlock while the detective did the same to John, and both of them knew that there should have been words. At that precarious, critical moment suspended in time, there should have been so many words but instead there were none and Sherlock hated that he couldn't seem to let them out – let the screams that were clawing at the back of his throat out. The screams of how John can't do this, can't leave, not like this, not now after they've finally found something in each other that is ineffable, inconceivable, and irreversible.
He couldn't go back to how it was before. He just couldn't. Not when he needed – not when he lo–
This wasn't how it was meant to go.
This wasn't how it was meant to go.
Sherlock's eyesight blurred as John's eyelids started to droop shut against his will. The wails of an ambulance resounded in the still frosty air playing orchestra, a backdrop to that moment suspended in time.
–––
They can't let go of one another. Physically – yes, it is possible. Highly improbable, though. But psychologically?
Impossible.
There's just too much hinging on this, now, this moment. They haven't said much – uncharacteristic for the both of them – but somehow, this escapade is different from the rest. Perhaps because it was a hairbreadth away from it being the end of it all this time. Perhaps because this is the first time they've cut it so close after taking their relationship that one step further. Perhaps it's because it has finally hit home how John has dug out a permanent little home for himself in Sherlock's heart and how that little home is essential to Sherlock in every conceivable way possible.
It's a little home John refuses to relinquish a hold of, and Sherlock's not complaining, because he knows he's done the same to John.
It's probably true that this isn't healthy. It's definitely true that they're both fractured, flawed in some ways, and that those chaffed edges sometimes cause enough friction for one or both of them to get hurt. Yet at the same time, there isn't a better fit for either of them out there.
They know that.
It's never easy, exactly, but they fit.
If faith in anything is deserved, then this is the one thing they would both take with them to war.
They don't understand it, this bond they share. John accepts that, but Sherlock's vowed to continue doggedly on his quest for answers until he breathes his last breath. In their own way, they are humbled and treasure what they now know they have.
What they now seem to fully grasp isn't invincible.
So they're not going to stop kissing each other hard enough to bruise for a while yet.
Because if they do, they might shake so hard they'll fall apart.
–––
Sherlock has often thought of the many little things that could have gone differently, and resulted in him not meeting John.
He knows it's terribly plebeian of him but wrapped in John's arms, in the early morning when he can't sleep because his mind is whirling too fast, listening to John snore and feeling his warmth enveloping him in contentment, he can't help himself.
If John had not been shot and honourably discharged …
If John had not walked through that very park on that very pathway on that very day Mike Stamford was sitting on that very bench …
If Mike hadn't noticed or recognized John …
So many little details that, if altered just enough would have changed nothing from how it was before. And he would have been none the wiser about it.
Soon enough after musings like this, he starts to feel very discomfited indeed. Soon enough, he returns his focus to the here and now and the very real, very beautiful, very his ex–Army doctor in his arms.
Soon enough, his mind quiets and falls asleep to the lullaby of John's breathing.
–––
They both have nightmares, afterwards. That's nothing new for John, but Sherlock finds the whole thing – irritating.
Distressing, horrifying, petrifying.
But that's okay, because this is them. They know what to do to help the other. They know when the other needs to be held, or needs space, or needs a few words.
After all, it's hardly the first demon they've had to deal with.