i want this shot of like, 221b in the dark, okay, it’s nighttime and you’re in the sitting room and it’s dark, but the light is on in the kitchen and it’s spilling out onto the rug, just barely illuminating the silhouettes of their two empty chairs. so the shot moves forward and there’s the clinking sound of people moving around, and maybe john’s low voice coming through, nonsense words really, there you go and how is that, and the shot moves around the corner so you’re looking into the kitchen.
and in the kitchen only the light above the table is on so the corners are all still dark, but it’s sherlock sat on the table, his legs sort of hanging, his toes just brushing the lino because he’s tall, and john standing between his knees with a latex glove on and a look of concentration and he’s dabbing something on a wound on sherlock’s forehead, the both of them speaking very quietly like if they were to speak at a normal volume it might shatter something in the night, murmuring back and forth with that specific sort of humor that people use when they’re worried or nervous about something and trying to play it off, you know the one i mean, the kind of humor that seems a little too forced and too quiet but everyone laughs a little because they’re grateful for it, they’re grateful for this act of normalcy even if it’s just pretend. and john is leant a little too close and his eyes are worried, too worried, and sherlock shifts under his touch because the look in john’s eyes makes him unbearably guilty for all the worry john’s carried, for other head injuries john’s seen him bear and not been able to save him from, and it’s quiet and their gentle laughter sort of peters out as john puts aside the antibiotic and takes off his glove, still standing between sherlock’s knees. there you are, he says, right as rain, and sherlock dips his head a little to avoid those bright, worried eyes, and says thank you, and sorry you keep having to do this, and john blinks with a tiny smile and says you know i don’t mind, because he doesn’t, not really.
and sherlock just shrugs and looks up again, because he’s expected john to move away but john hasn’t, he’s still standing there, looking at sherlock like he means to be studying the scrape on his forehead but really just looking, in that kind of melancholy affection people get when they’re looking at a thing they love dearly but will never really have, that sort of fond resignation that this is the way things are, good enough but only because you tell yourself that, not because it really is, and sherlock looks up at john and john looks back down at him and their eyes catch and the room goes quiet, terribly quiet, more quiet than london ever really is even at night, so quiet john can hear it when sherlock swallows, so quiet sherlock almost hears it before he feels it: john reaching out and putting his hand over the back of sherlock’s where it rests on sherlock’s knee.
and john steps closer, and sherlock doesn’t look away, and the light above the table is too bright and john thinks his eyes are too pale, too beautiful, the thin color of a creek swollen with summer rain, something lush and green just waiting on the edges but just barely out of sight, and john leans in and sherlock smells like antiseptic and the raw, tremulous edge of anticipation and fear but he doesn’t back away, he doesn’t pull his hand away
and it happens like a brush of fate, john leaning in and it’s not even a kiss, not really, it’s the corners of their mouths slipping against each other in a trembling breath, sherlock stuttering in an almost silent gasp, his lips barely parted as john just barely, just barely, touching the side of his mouth to the side of sherlock’s, and sherlock wants to reach out and grab hold of his hips but doesn’t want to startle this into stopping, and john holds his mouth there a moment, the both of them breathing in cautious sips against each other’s cheeks, and sherlock can feel john’s breath against his lips, impossibly intimate, as if john is sharing something with him, as if john is trying to share something with him that cannot be shared with words but only with this exchange of life
and when john moves away he doesn’t move away, not really, he just moves forward, mouths moving away as he presses his cheek against sherlock’s cheek, and his shoulders are shaking, and sherlock slowly slowly gently gently dares to raise his free hand to john’s waist, and he feels solid and sturdy and warm and gorgeous, and then it’s sherlock’s turn, it’s sherlock nose nudging over john’s cheek, leading the way to find his mouth and this time, properly, this time, lip to lip and sherlock can’t breathe past him because he’s there, all of him, his skin and his jaw and his fingers and his eyelashes, this push and press of mouths settling together like the plates of the earth, quaking into sherlock’s chest, underneath his ribs
and this one kiss turns into another, as softly as the sun rises into another day, and another one after that, and it’s john’s hand, protective on the nape of sherlock’s neck, the delicate press of tongues and the voices trapped in their throats under the weight of gravity, under the weight of time, under the weight of finally, until john pulls back and finds the shell of sherlock’s ear and figures out how to let it go, how to let it all go, how to lift all that weight into nothingness: i love you, sherlock. i love you.