AN - Thanks for the prompt, as always. So I've finally finished all your words, thank you for all these, I had a lot of fun writing them all, and sorry for taking so long. And a HUGE thank you to all of you for reading and liking and sending me comments, you're all wonderful. I have got a LOT of prompts I still need to do, thanks for all of these, I'm loving writing them. I'm still accepting prompts, but please don't get mad if I take a while to write yours. Quite a short one here, hope you'll forgive me for that. This one gets rather steamy, obviously nothing nsfw (you'd all judge me because I'm fourteen, plus I'm crap at that). When given the prompt 'neck', well, how could I not write about that beautiful white thing Sherlock keeps hiding behind that scarf?

Neck ~anon

Sherlock Holmes was, indisputably, beautiful. Often men are described as handsome, but that description simply didn't fit the detective. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, stretched taught across cheekbones and collarbones and hipbones. His dark curls fell about his face, a stark and dazzling contrast to the whiteness of his skin. His eyes shone in his head, shaming the starlight that slipped onto doctor and detective as they walked. John had tried to fathom a word for the colour of his flat-mate's incredible eyes, but in vain. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was beautiful. No one could, or would, deny it.

One feature John Watson had always thought was key, was Sherlock's neck. He often kept it hidden beneath that soft blue scarf. Far too often, in fact. Tonight John felt especially irritated by the band of blue that covered the milky expanse of skin that lay beneath. Some rather agonising days, John just wanted to pin Sherlock to a wall and bite down on that neck, hard. This had most certainly been one of those days. And it was rapidly turning into one of those excruciating nights.

The night was hot and thick. Cars slipped past and people passed through their lives, head down and blinkers on, and Sherlock walked slowly, his head turned down, his eyes cast down to the pavement at his feet. John's breath hitched in his throat as he gazed at Sherlock, losing himself in the dazzling gleam of his eyes, in the stark whiteness of his face and the inky blackness of his curls, in the sharp determination pulsing through his body as he walked. John dragged his gaze from Sherlock and looked at the pavement, trying to ignore the hot pulse that rippled through him. He'd always known Sherlock Holmes was strikingly beautiful, almost uncomfortably hot, but he'd found that of late, every room turned into a sauna as soon as Sherlock entered. He swallowed thickly and tried vainly to turn his mind back to the case.

Sherlock was deafeningly silent, his thoughts screaming inarticulately through his mind and getting lost in the night air. The night was breathing hot air down their necks as they walked slowly down the road. His eyes gleamed. His breath was thick and audible. His genius mind worked at an impossible pace. John swallowed thickly. The silence enveloped them, pulsing in their ears, and John was sure Sherlock could hear his beating heart with those sensitive ears.

Sherlock froze at the end of the road, his head flicked up, his eyes gleaming brighter than ever. John moistened his lips, his gazed fixed on the detective. The perfect, almost invisible smile that Sherlock wore when his mind was most brilliant pulled just slightly at the corner of his mouth, narrowing his eyes that almost undetectable amount that John had come to see as the most obvious movement Sherlock had ever made. Almost a twitch, John knew it, saw it, loved it. His eyes danced.

"That's clever," Sherlock breathed, his eyes fixed on the air in front of him as if he could see exactly what they were looking for right before them. John said nothing. The twitching smile again. John's heart beat deafeningly. Sherlock turned and began to walk quickly, almost running, down a road. John ran after him. His blood pulsed. Heat rippled through him. The night got closer.

They ran along the river edge, breath heavy and loud, feet pounding on the road. Heads turned momentarily as doctor and detective ran in and out of their lives without stopping to realise they ever had. Sherlock turned onto a footbridge, John followed deftly. The river was black beneath them, perfectly reflecting Sherlock's pearly skin and John's hot gaze.

Sherlock stopped, John followed suit, standing a few feet from the detective, his eyes burning into that thick black coat. Isn't he hot in that? John wondered. He couldn't stop the smirk from spreading over his face at the thought, realising just what his question implied. Sherlock stood against the wall behind him, his head turned to the alleyway just next to them. John's mind flicked, a little reluctantly, back to the matter at hand, his face relapsing to his usual expression for action.

"What is it?" he asked breathlessly, slipping back against the wall, his eyes flicking to the road turning momentarily before resting once more on Sherlock's perfectly formed face.

"She's there," Sherlock replied almost silently. His head turned to John, his blinding gaze blazing into John's bluest eyes. The air got ever hotter. The detective raised a finger deftly to his full, sharp lips. John nodded. His tongue ran over his lips. Sherlock turned his head back to the alley turning. John swallowed, readying himself for action.

Heat surrounded them, creeping into their very pores. The night span. Sherlock ran. Shouts. Running. Smoke. Fire. Shit, fire. Run. John's head whirled and his heart beat louder than the yelling. Water. Smoke. Running. Leather boots. A smirk and a wink. The sound of the motorbike as it sped out of reach. Silence.

"No, no, NO!" Sherlock yelled, running after it vainly as it sped through another alley and out of sight. John leaned against the wall, his breath heavy and thick, gazing at Sherlock. They were so close, so damned close to catching her this time. She wasn't called Vixen for nothing. An image of her with her leather boots and her sly smile and her red hair flashed through John's mind as Sherlock paced before him. They'd been on her tail for a long time, and John knew Sherlock had been sure they would get her tonight. Somehow, they'd catch the fox tonight. Even if they had to smoke her right out of her den.

Sherlock stood above where her fire had been, gazing at the alleyway she'd disappeared down. He ran his tongue over his lips, then turned his eyes to the wall in front of him. He pulled the scarf from around his neck, revealing the whitest skin that hid beneath, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The night grew hotter. John swallowed. Sherlock cast his eyes to the ground, his head turned down. Smoke rose from the floor at his feet, swirling around his head. His eyes gleamed. His hair coal black, his skin ice white. His neck teasingly bare. His cheekbones casting perfect shadows across his face.

John stood up, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, and stepped towards him. His breath still hitched in his throat. His eyes burned. Sherlock turned his eyes to John, the gleam they took on when he was lost in thought not fading as he met John's gaze. John stood close enough to feel Sherlock's breath. Sherlock didn't move. John flicked his eyes over Sherlock's face, those dazzling eyes, those sharp cheekbones, that marble skin, those soft lips. The air grew thicker.

John's hand was against the back of Sherlock's neck and he pulled Sherlock down as he turned his head up, their lips meeting in smoky, half-senseless urgency. John didn't realise he was doing it until too late. Sherlock's tongue trailed along John's bottom lip. Sherlock pressed a hand to the base of John's back, pulling him closer, as John let his fingers slip through Sherlock's black curls.

Sherlock tore away, gazing deeply into John's cobalt eyes, blown wide with hazy lust. His brow creased ever so slightly. "What?" he breathed his eyes searching John's face.

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones," John replied, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Taking your scarf off because you are too damn hot."

Sherlock nodded ever so slightly, and collided their lips together again. John kissed Sherlock with feverish need, pushing him back against the wall. Sherlock's hand pressed against John's back, the other grabbing his hip.

John's lips moved to Sherlock's jawline, his teeth trailing it, leaving tingling sparks under Sherlock's perfect skin. Sherlock tipped his head back slightly, letting John's mouth move to that neck. He kissed, sucked, bit it, colouring the white canvas with blooming red marks. Hot, heavy, thick breaths. Sweat and saliva. Biting kisses. Smoke and smouldering summer night air. John's mouth moved to Sherlock's collarbone, slipping his hands to that tightest shirt, pulling open those desperate buttons and tracing the revealed skin with his mouth. Sherlock's chest heaved. John kissed. Licks and bites and sucks. Burning skin.

Sherlock dipped his head to John's and pulled him away from his chest, shoving his lips against the doctor's again. He pulled him close again. John's arms curled around that neck, his fingers clutching at the curls. Their tongues danced together. John moaned slightly into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pulled him closer.

Sherlock broke off the kiss, shoving John back slightly. John gazed into those beautiful eyes, almost completely black with desire. A smirk toyed with Sherlock's slightly swollen, red lips as he did up the button of his shirt again. John ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"Come on, then," Sherlock smirked, his voice vibrating in John's bones.

"Come on where?" John asked breathlessly.

"Let's go catch that Vixen." Sherlock turned and walked determinedly through the alleyway she had disappeared down. John swallowed, then followed.

Just as they were about to reach the end of the alleyway, Sherlock turned and pinned John to the wall, meeting his gaze again, his hands pinning John back by his hips .

"And, when we get back to the flat," Sherlock murmured, his breath hot on John's face, "I'm going to catch you." And with that promise, he walked to the road, leaving John staring after him, images of that beautifully marked neck flashing through his mind. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man. And all John wanted to do - like any human does with a beautiful thing - was take that beauty and mark it.