The Science of Osculation
As a young man John hadn't been big on running, never wanted to spread his arms through the air raising his coat into the wind and pretend he was flying. He was contented to walk through life, continuing in his own leisurely pace as the world rushed around him.
He'd learnt to run pretty damn fast in the years since then, be it from a bullet in Afghanistan or pelting after Sherlock when he chases a criminal down the backstreets of London in complete blackness.
It appeared that the practice had paid off and he soon put a good mile of winding backstreets and darkened alleyways between him and Baker Street and the promise he would do anything to avoid keeping.
Midway between the 2nd mile, his limbs began to burn, salty sweat poured down his face threatening to mix with the pure tears streaming from his eyes and the rain water from the sky, his mouth was dry and his head pounded.
Somewhere in the darkness, a whiplash like feeling seemed to slap across his legs, leaving him sprawling to the floor, his head colliding with the floor with a sickening crack.
He heaved himself to a sitting position, blinking rapidly as white spot appeared in front of his eyes.
"Sooooo... Here is the John Watson. You're so, so... ordinary." a snake-like voice hissed in the darkness. John, immediately went to raise his fists but found them pinned to his side in a harsh clawed grip.
A horned being came into view, his lips stained red with the blood of what John assumed to be his last kill. He tried to struggle but found himself frozen in the man's gaze.
"Yet killing you be the final step to pushing Sherlock over the edge, and onto our side. He'd come –willingly, to us. You'd be the martyr to our cause and the catalyst in the end of the world." He took a step forward, pressing a cold, forked tongue to John's neck, revelling in the man's scent and the pin-pricks of blood which flooded to the surface.
John... where are you?
Sherlock's voice seemed to flood his mind, filling it with bright light and strength. John struggled once more, freeing a hand to bat away the creature that was focused on his neck, his fist colliding with a noisy crunch on where its nose would be.
The two- things, shrieked, the one behind him forcing his head back so that it clicked noisily, the position now more unnatural than uncomfortable.
OPEN YOUR MIND JOHN... Your there but... I can't quite get to- oh.
The creature raised a fist, bringing it down to John's face. His eyes slammed shut, tensing for the strike that never came. After a moment, his eyes flickered open, widening in wonderment as he took in the scene before him.
Another thing that John never considered himself as a boy was religious. He went to church on Sunday with his parents, like every good little boy did. But never really believed in it.
But now. Looking at Sherlock in all his glory, he could believe in one of the parts he'd learnt about in church.
Hand's held aloft, his whole body emitting a golden white light, illuminating the rain particles that were flying around them and his eyes the most brilliant blue he'd ever seen, Sherlock was an angel.
His guardian angel, pinning both creatures against the wall with a swipe of his muscled arm, the fire that John often saw in his eyes ignited as he squeezed the life out of them. Saving him from their grasp.
Avenging. He was an avenging angel. In his right hand, he held a golden stream of light aloft like a sword, bringing it down on the head of the leader, watching as it screamed in pain, causing John and the other creature to shield their eyes from the light as he exploded in the darkness, jets of pure light flying in every direction.
Mercy. He was an angel of mercy. When he turned to the other creature, the younger as he could now see in the semi light of the alley, his expression softened and he gently touched it on the shoulder.
"I know you were forced into doing this by Meshawn, and I know he has your little sister held ransom if you didn't comply. I know you didn't want to hurt me or John so, this once I will let you go." He paused for a moment, allowing the deep echo of his voice to bounce around the other than them deserted place.
"She's underneath the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco- go find her. And never return to London." He said, his voice perfectly comforting and unsettling at the same time. The thing melted into the shadows, a look of pure relief and wonderment on its horrifically unsettling face.
Sherlock span, his chest heaving, the buttons on his shirt straining as the tremors of forced breath racked through him. He locked eyes with John, his mouth pursed but pouted as if words were threatening to form on his lips.
"John... I'm-" his word's were cut off by Johns hand tracing the soft skin of his forearm, bare from sudden rescue plan he'd been forced to undertake.
His gaze followed a rain droplet as it dripped down one of the hairs on Sherlock's arm, and slowly but surely moved his hands up the man's muscled arm, surgeons hands feeling every crevice and twitch beneath them.
His hands met silky cotton, brilliant white in the moonlight. His eyes flashed upwards back into the molten silver pools that seemed to always probe into his soul.
The detective's unruly curls where hap dashed from the short but powered run and fight he'd just finished, the rain forming smoothed curls to form at the front of his fringe, water dripping from them and down the man's nose and sharp cheekbones, leaving tiny trails of water on the otherwise unblemished skin.
He heaved a sigh of relief, he motion shaking the raven like curls, making water fly from his hair to John's face, spattering the doctor's face with the tiny droplets as their lips met.
Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, allowing a small puff of breath to escape from his opened lips, capturing the ex-army man's gaze in his once more before surging back down into a heart-stopping kiss.
John's hands reached upwards, entwining his fingers in Sherlock's hair with one hand, the other fisted in the man's silken shirt, his fingers brushing the cool, wet skin that lay beneath the now soaked shirt.
In a quick movement, faster than the eye could see and the brain could react Sherlock span the man round, pushing him lightly against what should have been a cold, wet brick wall.
Instead John toppled backwards into a soft feathery quilt, Sherlock's body long and lanky over his, his hardened member pressing against the wet material of John's jeans.
A quick look around revealed that Sherlock had teleported them back to Baker Street, to Sherlock's room to be exact. John raised himself to his elbows, looking round the room in his flat he'd never been in for fear of disrupting one of Sherlock's experiments or more rarely the man himself when he allowed himself an hour's sleep or so.
The man in question was slowly unbuttoning John's shirt, peppering hot wet kisses along the skin that he revealed, causing the doctor's teeth to bite his lip in order to stop him crying out prematurely. Blood oozed at the point of his teeth, and his eyes rolled back into his head as Sherlock's talented fingers brushed against his chest and neck.
His hand's seemed to be everywhere, in John's hair, scooped around his back, threaded with John's hands, roaming over his stomach and further downwards, the fingers long and cold.
A strangled groan escaped John's mouth causing Sherlock's silvery eyes to flash up to meet his. A soft smile lit up the detective's face as he claimed John's lips with his own.
Authors Note: to be continued with el smutio in the next chapter. John begins to wonder about his sudden change in feelings? Has Sherlock done something to him?
