A/N: I'm back guys! Sorry for the wait, I've been working my butt off for school and work as well as those university/college applications (which are DONE!), but I'm on vacation with the family for the week! therefore I'm going to be using some free time to write little drabbles for you guys!
A public service announcement: I will be publishing a new story, a short four-chapter fic in Sherlock's POV (forst person!) - stream of consciousness style, one of my favorites, titled "In My Mind, You're a Palace". Full of poetically pining Sherlock and eventual johnlock smut! Feel free to check it out on Thursday of next week!
As always, thank you for reading, following, favoriting and even reviewing! All of this gives me so much joy and confidence; honestly readers, you keep me writing :) please drop a review if you have time! Cheers, enjoy!
Your Heart is Beating Madly...
And there is a sleeping figure beside you, their breath dancing on the musky, sweat-steamed air. The blanket you're sharing rides low on their thin hip. Reflected on the pale skin there is the yellow light of the street lamp, stained orange through the dusty window. There are the sounds of a restless city, a creaking house, a beating body and your fingers tracing shadows on the cheekbones of your companion. It feels soft, like a flower petal but beautifully, dangerously wet with the aftermath of bloody fantastic sex.
Earlier today the two of you had been chasing criminals and shooting the bad guys, racing cars through London and leaping rooftops. A normal day, really. Barely a 5, in his mind. You smile anyway, in the god-that-was-ridiculous way you know he loves; the adrenaline is all the same and the red spots on his lovely cheeks, the prize for running almost half a mile after a tour bus, make your heart murmur sweet nothings into your mouth; you want to whisper them on his collar-bone, on the curve of his jaw and the canyons of his ribs.
Now it is later and twenty-minutes ago you did all that and more, whispers reduced to moans, reduced to gasps, reduced to soundless screams of pleasure. Now he who never sleeps willingly has passed out at your side. And you look upon that dangerous, sexy, genius man you call your own and you brush a stray curl from his brow. And you slide down, slot your forehead against his chin and it is so simple, easy beyond belief. You fit perfectly, right down to the adrenal lust in your veins to the passionate, intense love in the depths of your marrow. Right down to the core, you fit perfectly.
And nothing in the world, crooks or cocaine or carelessness can or ever will change that.
You're John Watson and he is Sherlock Holmes; the doctor and his detective. It doesn't get any more right, and you fall asleep within the following ten minutes, with that rightness on your lips.
