soft hesitant kisses in the beginning when they are still both a little unsure about being allowed
terrible morning kisses that taste like sleep and sour and sunshine that they laugh into about how bad they both taste
quick hard triumphant kisses when Sherlock is excited about something, and every once and a while, when they’re alone, the slow, deep, filthy kiss John gives him back, catching him by the wrist and pulling him back in, whispering, you’re so incredible it makes me hard just to watch, before kissing him with too much tongue and a wicked smirk and then letting him go and watching him blush and stammer
fast, almost absent-minded pecks when one of them is on their way out the door, but only ever almost, because John promised, he promised when he came home to never leave Sherlock’s side again, even just to run out for the shop, without kissing him and telling him he loved him, just in case, because of all the times he thought Sherlock was leaving him for good, or the other way round, and he didn’t say it, and Sherlock had had to bury his face into John’s shirt and try not to shake too hard for a while, remember how badly he’d wanted to say it in all those same moments, the memory of the words he thought were so unwanted rising in his mouth still acid on his tongue
hard, needy kisses up against the door, up against the wall, falling up the stairs, Sherlock’s voice humming in his throat, John panting into his mouth, hands busy and skin too hot, the laughter of their victory fading into the need to see and touch and feel and hear and be touched and be held and be alive, the way they can only be alive when the other is alive with them, here and safe and together and whole
slow, careful kisses given alongside, all right?, given alongside, how does that feel, given alongside, you’re gorgeous, you’re amazing, given alongside, Sherlock, I love you, I am so in love with you, given alongside, John–John please–John I’m–
quiet apology kisses when Sherlock gets into a Mood or when John starts to fuss about the experiment spread out over the table and one of them snaps so one of them snaps back and they yell and stomp and shout at one another before suddenly realising they can’t even remember what they’re arguing about, and then they curl up on the sofa, a little stiff with shame, pressing kisses into knuckles and palms and the soft undersides of wrists, until turning to find each other, reassure each other, sorry, I didn’t mean–, no, I was just being stupid, and leaning into each other, finding comfort in solidity and still here
smiling happy kisses on rooftops and bridges and the dark places and the abandoned places and the dangerous places of London, sparking with adrenalin and adventure
kisses to shoulders and the napes of necks, you all right sweetheart?, clutching hands and letting hands be clutched, curling around each other, I dreamed–I dreamed–, and shh, shh, it’s over, we’re safe, I’ve got you
and The Kiss, the kiss that Sherlock thinks is just like any other kiss, the kiss he rolls his eyes and kind of hesitates to take because everyone is watching, but John is looking only at him and threading their fingers together and clinking their rings up against one another and then kissing him, hard and soft and deep and chaste and gentle and hot and comfort and peace and laughter and shared pillows and nights spent on stakeouts in dark alleys and mornings that taste like tea and jam and all of it stretched into forever, into always, with a promise and the first kiss of the rest of their lives.
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