A/N And this is the first one that confirms a most definite 100% romantic relationship between them. In other words, well, snogging. REJOICE. Also, we're almost to a hundred reviews, odfmhgjsyrtgtshytsrd. Thank you all so, so, SO much. I never imagined that this collection would get that far, but we've almost reached it and we're only a third of the way through!
Thanks to MapleleafCameo, Fayet, and ThisDayWillPass
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXXV. Hold My Hand
The handcuffs bite into John's hand as Sherlock thuds down on the other side of the fence, their grip tight and painful. He grits his teeth and sidles up as close to the cold metal bars as possible, wincing and dragging the detective back in his direction. "Sherlock!" he hisses, rolling his shoulder to assuage the ache forming in it as he reaches through the fence, grips Sherlock by the front of his coat and pulls him up as close as possible. The detective stares back, his pale eyes alight with the thrill of the chase and his tousled hair drooping onto his forehead, lips parted with quick inhalations.
John really has no way to justify what he does next—it must be some combination of adrenaline and nerves and just pure madness, but he leans in closer, the icy bars of the fence pressing against the sides of his face as he forces his lips against Sherlock's, squeezing his eyes shut, taking in the consulting detective's scent and feeling his mouth in a desperate action, a reminder that they're both in danger now, that both Lestrade and Moriarty are after them and that this is the climax of everything, all they have to rely on at this point is each other.
Sherlock's pale hand snakes through the metal barrier between them, his fingers clenching around John's shoulder and pulling him in yet more, so that they're incredibly close but still separated by that damn fence. And John's stomach is leaping in a thousand directions at once as his hand moves from Sherlock's collar to the side of his face, fingertips running along the smooth skin and the silky hair. Their hands joined by the metal cuffs wind into one another, gripping each other's wrists painfully tight as they hold each other close, frantically, hungrily.
It's obvious that Sherlock has no idea what he's doing, clear in the clumsy movements of his lips and the uneasy stiffness of his body, but John doesn't care, because it's still Sherlock and that's what makes this perfect.
It's the sirens sounding through the usual hum of late-night London traffic that cause him to finally tear away, gasping for breath, his free hand dropping to his side and his eyes flinging themselves open, wide and sharp. They're still being chased, and they don't have time for this, for this ridiculous, impulsive holdup.
He locks eyes with Sherlock, stares at him, dares him to speak a word about their shared action. But he doesn't speak a word, only gazes back stonily, until John finally nods, taking a final deep breath and glancing up towards their joined hands.
"We're going to have to coordinate," he tells Sherlock in an almost stern manner, but he's smiling, he knows he's smiling. Smiling because they both must be crazy, but he doesn't care, because the city is dark and crime is afoot and they're Sherlock and John, and he knows now more than ever that nothing will come between them, not in a million years.