Careful
They got back about an hour ago, all smiley and with a slight flush to their cheeks from too much sun. Sherlock fell into his chair as soon as they arrived, pleasantly exhausted from running around the city, doing god knows what.
It took a playful kick to the leg to get him to move his lazy bum and to help prepare dinner. Judging by the delicious smell and the ingredients, I’d say they are making risotto, which is a favourite of both of them.
It’s moments like these when I can’t help but be reminded how much they actually enjoy being in each other’s company. No case work or chasing bad guys, only calm conversation and quiet everyday life. Spending time together with no ulterior motive. Domestic, open and happy. That’s how they look.
John has Sherlock chopping onions and mushrooms, which he is doing with the same level of diligence he applies to everything he does. His slow progress is being watched with a raised eyebrow, as John alternates between stirring the rice and frying the ham.
J: Could you hurry up with those onions? They don’t need to be exact, just chop them into pieces.
S: Similar size equals less variations in time needed to reach the same degree of doneness.
The look John throws him says he is about done as well, so Sherlock relents. He does, however, turn up his nose at the resulting decrease in precision of his handiwork. He is about to complain, when suddenly there is a warm body leaning into his side, one hand braced on his shoulder,. Sherlock remains still, while an arm reaches across his front and snatches the chopping board from his grasp.
J: Thank you.
Before Sherlock has time to react, John is already gone again, adding the onions to the ham. Nervously, he swallows.
S: Don’t blame me if some of them end up undercooked.
The sizzling of the pan masks the slight rasp in his voice and his fingers seem unusually twitchy as he starts in on the mushrooms. It might just be the soft light in the kitchen, but I could swear there is a hint of colour to his cheeks.
J: I take full responsibility.
John's mouth is curved up in a lighthearted grin, unaware of the proceedings behind him. He is concentrating back on his task, giving the rice one last stir, before pouring some white wine over the ham and onions. There is a loud hiss, steam rising from the pan, and he has to lean away to avoid getting burned by it.
J: How are we doing on those mushr...
His back collides with an unanticipated obstacle and he breaks off mid word. Before he can lose his footing, long slim fingers grasp onto his waist to steady him. John instantly freezes.
S: Careful.
Cautions Sherlock’s voice from right behind him, every syllable a tendril of warm air against the shell of John’s ear. As the tiny hairs on the side of his face stand up, his skin there begins to tingle. At first, just a little. He clears his throat in an attempt to mask his reaction, but when Sherlock doesn’t move away, the sensation starts to spread out. It crawls down his neck, turning into a warm shiver and races along his spine, all the way down to his toes. The fingers just below the side of his ribcage falter, but resume their previous position after a second of hesitation.
Everything seems to slow down and the noises from the cooker and the street outside fade to a low mumble.
Then, wordlessly, Sherlock bends forward. Chest pressed against his back, he is using their height difference to his advantage and curls over John’s shoulder. He is close enough for his hair to graze the uninjured side of John’s face, while he tips the perfectly sliced mushrooms into the bubbling mixture and discards the chopping board to the side. As if on autopilot, he turns off the cooker and lets his hand rest on the counter, effectively caging John in between his arms.
John has yet to move or say anything. The only sound coming from him is his breathing, which is getting faster and more laboured with each second of contact between them. Sherlock seems to be drawn to it like a magnet, because he keeps inching closer until his forehead comes to rest against John’s temple. A tentative hand finds it’s way into his dark curls and his eyes fall shut, lost in the moment.
The rise and fall of their chests has synced up, quick and shallow. Every time Sherlock sucks in air, the short wisps of blond hair before him tickle across his lips. Every time he breathes out, they glide back over John’s cheek, making him shiver yet again.
With a soft nudge, Sherlock pushes his forehead and nose further into the heated skin. His fingers tighten around John’s waist, as if trying to pull him closer, asking him to do something, anything, wanting to know what comes next.
John’s forehead is crinkled up, eyes and lips pressed shut tightly. He seems to be fighting with himself, trying to resist, terrified he is reading this wrong yet again. Then, almost against his will, he begins to shift. Inch by painful inch, his head turns until his nose touches Sherlock’s. They seem to be frozen in time, breathing each other’s air, bodies tingling in anticipation and fear, neither of them daring to move.
It’s John who breaks first. Between one thundering heartbeat and the next, he closes the distance between them, lip’s finding Sherlock’s, warm and pliant. It’s a chaste kiss, barely more than a drawn out peck. Quiet, with both of them not daring to breathe.
Finally, John pulls back. As soon as their lips stop touching, though, his finger’s in Sherlock’s hair tighten imperceptibly, pulling him in once more, just for a second, soft pressure and dry skin, one last indulgence, before he manages to get a hold of himself.
With his eyes still closed, he rest’s his forehead against Sherlock’s, unable to draw back any further than that.
J: Is this okay?
There is a slight tremble to his whispered words and his worst fears seem to come to pass when the room remains ominously silent. He lifts his head in trepidation and glances up at Sherlock, who is staring right through him with an unreadable expression.
Slowly untangling his fingers from within his curls, John turns around, his body no longer facing the cooker, but Sherlock. His last glimmer of hope is the hand on his waist that still hasn’t stopped touching him, only releasing him to accommodate the motion of him turning, before coming to rest on the opposite side of his waist.
Even if he wanted to, John has got nowhere to go, trapped between the counter and Sherlock’s arms. So he waits.
Eventually Sherlock starts to come back to himself. He sucks in a gulp of air, lashes fluttering with every blink until his unfocused gaze clears.
S: That was g...
He breaks off, surprised by how raspy his own voice sounds. A small crinkle appears between his brows as he clears his throat.
S: ...good.
His tongue darts out to lick his lips and he averts his wide eyes to the floor.
John huffs out a relieved chuckle. The tension flows from his shoulders, body slumping forward into Sherlock, who instinctively wraps his arms around him.
S: We are definitely doing that again.
Sherlock is still a bit dazed and it shows in his voice, which causes John to giggle-snort into his skin. His face is buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and he lingers a second longer before he pulls back to beam up at him.
J: Dinner?
S: Starving.