@anotherwellkeptsecret prompted: The slowest, sweetest, gentlest first kiss you can possibly imagine.
It was a lovely, crisp day, and Sherlock—in an uncommonly good mood—left the window open behind him after forcing it open to gain entry to the suspect’s flat.
The curtains fluttered in the breeze, carrying a myriad of vivid city smells, unmistakable London air, sharp and sweet and sour all at once.
He breathed in deep, then turned away, clapping his hands together as he surveyed the cluttered room.
Dust, dust everywhere, and that was wonderful, he could read years’ worth of history in dust, he could trace his way backwards through every book the man had read, every single move he’d made in the flat right up until the moment he'd—
"Christ—" John wheezed from the window, grasping the sill and dragging himself inside. “A little help—” he dropped onto the ground, back against the wall, breathing hard. “—would have been nice.”
"You managed just fine,“ Sherlock said, smiling a little bit.
"Thought you were going to go around back and unlock the door.”
"I’d have gotten there eventually.“
John made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat, stood up. Moved to shut the window behind him.
John paused, gloved hands on the window frame. “Someone might see.”
"Nothing out of the ordinary about an open window on a nice day.“
"You are aware that breaking and entering is not actually legal?” But John stepped away from the window without shutting it.
Sherlock smiled again, an almost involuntary pull at the corner of his mouth. He liked John like this, sharp-tongued yet indulgent.
"All right,“ John said, letting his hands drop to his sides. “What are we looking for?”
"Well. Plenty of that to go around.”
Sherlock could not seem to stop smiling. Perhaps it was the weather. “Exactly.”
"Will any dust do, or are you looking for something in particular? Clogged ceiling vent, perhaps? Maybe some dryer lint?“ John was looking at him, his brows raised, something approaching amusement in his face. Ah. Teasing, then.
"Our suspect has a rather extensive personal library,” Sherlock said, tearing his gaze away to look at the shelves that stretched floor to ceiling along the wall. He scanned the rows of books, eyes flitting across faded, dusty spines. “Including several volumes on rare poisons.”
"Pot, kettle,“ John said.
Sherlock turned to look at him, narrowed his eyes. John offered up a shrug and a small smirking twist of his lips.
"He’s more of a collector than a reader,” Sherlock said, turning back towards the books. “You can see from the dust that most of these haven’t been touched in years.”
"He does seem to lack a certain standard of cleanliness,“ John agreed mildly.
"Except—” Sherlock smiled at a smear on a lower shelf, a small half-moon pattern where clean wood gleamed through. He framed it with his hands, measuring. The perfect size for a rested knee. He allowed his gaze to climb upward, catching the imprint of fingertips in the thick dust, and there, there, the place where a book had been pulled free, dislodging cobwebs and ancient dust bunnies.
"A little light reading?“
Sherlock rummaged around in his coat, withdrew a crinkling evidence bag, a bloodstained book resting within.
John groaned. “Did you steal that?”
"Just wanted to be sure,“ Sherlock said, and he grinned, a quick flash of teeth, the kind of dangerous grin that John usually responded favorably to. He leaned back and looked at the gap on the shelf, looked at the book in his hand.
"Looks like it fits,” John said.
"Hm,“ Sherlock said, and he moved carefully, delicately, resting his knee in the smooth clean space left behind, pressing the very tips of his gloved fingers where they would not disturb fresh trails of dust. He lifted himself slowly, with utmost caution, climbing until he was eye to eye with the gap.
"Sherlock,” John said. His voice was muffled, slightly. As if he was speaking through clenched teeth.
"Mm,“ Sherlock said, distracted, scanning the shelf for anything else, anything he might have missed in his first assessment. It was beautiful, eloquent, the way that history was written into dust.
The shelf under his foot creaked, an alarming, sharp sound, and Sherlock’s pulse jumped.
There were hands on his waist, strong hands, sure hands, John’s hands, steadying him, holding him still.
"Careful,” John said, his voice low. “Or you’ll bring the whole thing down with you.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but found he could not speak, not with John leaning back, taking his weight, easing him off of the shelves and back down towards the ground.
He stood facing the books, mind blank, pulse racing, John breathing close at his back.
"All right?“ John asked, when the moment had stretched too long.
Sherlock turned, slowly, straightening up. Meaning to say: My weight was perfectly balanced. There was no danger of the shelf breaking and instead clearing his throat and meeting John’s eyes and saying nothing, nothing, because John was very close and had not yet moved to step away.
"Sherlock,” John said, and he was so close his breath puffed against Sherlock’s face. The window was open behind him, letting in that sharp-sweet-sour dangerous air, and John was close, he was so close, so close and so utterly beloved and just like that, after years and years of careful restraint, all of Sherlock’s self-control simply fluttered away on a gentle breeze.
He only needed to tilt his head slightly to bring his lips against John’s, to slide his nose along John’s cheek, to catch John’s warm surprised breath in his lungs.
They stood like that for a moment, lips ghosting together, just breathing. Sherlock’s back brushed against the shelf and he spared a brief thought for the dust, and then John made a noise in the back of his throat, a noise that was pained and joyful all at once, and his hands came up to cup Sherlock’s face, to press against the heat rising in his cheeks, and Sherlock thought quite clearly: sod the dust and then on the heels of that came: this moment has been written in dust, scrawled here on the shelves for anyone to see.
He let the evidence bag drop, the book hitting the ground with a muffled thud.
John’s hands on his face, cradling him, thumbs moving against his cheeks. John’s mouth on his, soft and warm and wondering, their breaths mingling.
Sherlock realized that he had, at some point, tangled his hands up in John’s coat, had grasped at the collar of it and had wound the edges around his fingers, pulling him closer, locking him in place.
"Oh,“ he said, mumbling against John’s lips, because each gentle slide, each damp press, each tug and pull and nibble and rasp of chapped skin was a revelation. "Oh.”
John laughed, not a cruel or mocking sound, but a soft huff that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He laughed and Sherlock could taste it, sweet against his lips.
"Oh?“ John said, nudging Sherlock’s nose with his own.
"I’ve just realized—” Sherlock said, and his voice was alarmingly unsteady. “Well. No. That’s not quite accurate. I’ve known for some time. That I—well. But. It hadn’t seemed—”
"Oh,“ John said, and there was a surprised light in his eyes, a dancing mischief that Sherlock hadn’t seen in a very long time. He looked younger, somehow. Unburdened.
"Is that—?” Sherlock hesitated, feeling uncertain and clumsy and much too slow. His pulse skittered under his skin, joyful, ebullient bursts.
"I don’t know how you didn’t know,“ John said. He shook his head, shut his eyes, smiled.
Sherlock looked at that smiling mouth and thought: I’ve kissed those lips.
"Me too,“ John said. He slipped one of his hands back, running it through Sherlock’s hair, settling it on the back of Sherlock’s neck, skin warm and slightly sweat-damp. He leaned up and Sherlock let himself be kissed. "Just—me too.”
"Oh,“ Sherlock said again, and it was all forgotten for a moment, the dust, the books, the crisp air and the sharp-sweet-sour London smell. He was smiling. He couldn’t seem to stop. He thought perhaps it had never been the weather at all. He thought perhaps it had always been John.
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