Despite the thunderous ticking of his wristwatch reminding him of the time, Sherlock slowed his pace even more as they neared the last of the path, not wanting it to end, not wanting to walk away from John Watson. “Sherlock,” John said abruptly, just before they rounded the final turn and were spit back out into the real world, “I know the stakes are high, so I won’t make demands about things like this in future—I promise I won’t—but just this once I’m going to say it, and get it out of my system.” Sherlock widened his eyes, clasped his hands behind his back, waited. “Miss your appointment, wreck your day, forget the Icehouse and everything that goes with it—“ John pointedly did not say, forget your husband, but the implication roared between the lines. “—come home with me and let me spend hours and hours getting your smell of incense onto my skin.” Sherlock’s breath left him in a soft but audible puff through barely-parted lips. The intensity of John’s stare was narcotic. “Please.” There was a moment where neither of them spoke. Sherlock teetered on the ledge, peering over, ready to drop, and just as he was about to lean into the freefall, John touched two fingertips to Sherlock’s lips, just briefly, and shook his head. “I know the answer. Don’t say it.” He tipped his head. “Go on; you’ll be late.
PoppyAlexander, At Night in the Floating World
