docwithablog

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[ There's a moment of silence, broken only by John's more-than-occasional lip-licking and the peripheral sounds of London hurtling by outside the car windows. The taste of John feels vivid along the lines of his lips, transferred to his fingertips where it lingers. He can't remember feeling this light-hearted for... months. Years.

There's just something about kissing John Watson that makes him inexplicably happy.

At John's comment, he glances sideways. Drops his hand into his lap, though he can't quite help rubbing his fingertips together, thinking about John's molecules, spreading against his skin. ]

Do you? [ Pause. Re-wind. That sounded doubtful which - no, not in the least. Sherlock looks away, the red flush around his nose spreading slightly down the sides of his cheeks. ] Then, we should. Yes. Do that.

[ It's a surreal situation, sitting here, talking about kissing John again, as a repeat, because they've just bloody well done it and he can't, it's absurd. So, he killed himself in front of John, left him to grieve for two years, got himself captured and interrogated quite unnecessarily and returns, as he is (what is left), and now... He frowns. Clasps his fingers together a bit convulsively, then starts cracking the joints on his left. Noisily. Belatedly, he realises that this will probably break the romantic air very efficiently and this, in turn, confuses him because 1) there's a romantic air? and 2) what if there isn't? and 3) did he just ruin something or merely reveal its flaws? Crack, goes his little finger. ]

[ Then, we should, says Sherlock, ever so perceptive, supposedly. For fuck's sake.

The other man adds to the altogether unromantic atmosphere by clasping his hands and -- yes, good, wonderful, starting to crack his joints very noisily and very annoyingly, but what the hell did you expect, it's Sherlock, Sherlock wouldn't know what romance was if it -- bit his bottom lip which, John can assure you, it was very, very close to doing, let's be real.

This is where it dawns on him. That although he just kissed Sherlock, nothing's -- absolutely nothing's changed, the man's still a first class idiot who makes stupid remarks and acts inappropriately (cold reading people and sniffing smoke by proxy, what have you) and the really, really interesting thing is, of course, that John honestly wouldn't have him any differently. Sherlock's come back from war and he's changed, the way soldiers do, but he hasn't changed beyond recognition which, perhaps, only becomes very evident at this moment, between them, like this.

How they're the same. Down to -- ]

Stop that, seriously.

[ John raises an eyebrow, a great, sweeping arch and scoffs, reaching out with his right hand blindly, but his aim was always excellent, yes, and grabbing Sherlock's left hand, closing his fingers around his wrist, brushing his fingertips up the palm of it before simply -- interlacing their fingers, like it's no big deal (because it shouldn't be) and like it's a everyday occurrence (as it should be, rightly) while looking out the window on his side of the car, London a light-scape, a neon jungle. Lots of crime, out there.

Though, crime's only half of it. Obviously. ]

[ He doesn't predict it, though potentially, one ought to be capable of foreseeing everything, down to the slightest little ripple through cosmos. As it is, however, Sherlock is wholly unprepared for the way John grabs onto his hand, the brush of his fingertips against his palm (softness, again, and a tingle of pleasure, rushing up his ulnar nerve) - and then, the lacing of their fingers, just. Like that. Take my hand, his own voice echoes in his head, and then, louder yet, John's rapid throwback (now people will definitely talk) and yet, here they are, in a cab, holding hands. It feels like ages ago, too. They were different people back then, weren't they.

Sherlock looks at his hand, interlaced with John's, the heat of the other man's skin seemingly slipping beneath his own and fusing with his very nerves. He feels warm through and through, shoulders devoid of tension and body lax in his seat, almost as if he could go to sleep like this. He can't, obviously. His mind couldn't possibly let him. But perhaps, once they get back to Baker Street and go to sleep (together), he'll be the one to reach out and clasp John's hand, to let them both rest.

With a soft smile, briefly there, quickly gone, he leaves his hand in John's dependable care, looks away and lets his mind wander as it wishes, dwelling on nothing in particular, the sensation of holding and being held overriding all other inputs. He shouldn't encourage sentiment - see where it left them last time! - but on the other hand, he's returned to John on the basis of nothing but sentiment, just as John's taken him back on that basis, too. It... is what it is. ]

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