A/N Some more semi-sexual stuff here~

Thanks to Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, DuShuZhi, Natalie Nallareet, and Fayet

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XLII. Standing Still

To feel John, really feel him, is undoubtedly the most beautiful experience of Sherlock's life. He can't bring himself to move, to breathe, just remains standing, his eyes lightly shut and his lips parted as the other man's warm hands move over his neck and shoulders, stroking his cheeks, running his fingers along Sherlock's smooth skin like it's the most delicate, flawless thing in the universe. His sweet touches contain such reverence, condensed whenever he chooses to press their lips together—never an extended gesture, just a light application, a tiny ghosting whisper as he threads his hands through the detective's hair, winding his fingers along the curls, nails lightly dancing along the back of his neck and setting off so many chills that he trembles, choking on his suspended breath.

It hurts to hold himself back, not to simply lunge forward and drag John forward, crush them together with all the strength he possesses, feel the warmth and the thrum of their hearts and the hitching of their lungs…

But he restrains himself, because that pain is gorgeous, and he can't imagine anything better than the feeling of John caressing him so lightly, with an almost anxious cautiousness, as though Sherlock could shatter at the slightest pressure. He's stronger, stronger than John gives him credit for—just because he's unfamiliar with this doesn't mean he isn't positive that it's perfect, that it's exactly what he's always needed and that he's never wanted anything more.

And yet it's only after several minutes that he finally pulls together the courage to extend his own hand, to run his fingers along John's own jaw, savor the shaky exhalation that such an action provokes and let his touch linger as long as possible. God, these moments are so gorgeous—so small and meaningless and wonderful, and words needn't be exchanged between them, because it's more than enough just to revel in each other's touch, know that their connection is deep enough to render verbal communication utterly unnecessary. They understand each other more deeply than that, and all of their thoughts are communicated in these miniscule, precious sweeps of lips and fingers, savoring every centimeter of exposed skin offered, running over it time and time again.

They know that they'd both be content to stay like this, forever, perhaps, but that's not possible, of course it's not—they don't just live in a suspended dimension; there's a world out there, a whole world that needs them.

But that never changes the fact that they know this is the most real thing in the universe, and that what they share together is more important than any trivial matter the rest of the planet has to offer them.