taking turns ch.1
Sherlock was a consummate kisser. Several sex partners had told him as much over the years. But kissing Joan Watson made him feel like an amateur.
As he had predicted a thousand times over, physical contact with her was so similar to a drug there were times he had to leave her presence or risk lashing out in his manic ways that Watson either took for his usual energy or mistook for anger. This seldom happened during casework. It was the quiet evenings, nights, and mornings, when he knew Watson to be asleep, or when she was reading or taking care of Clyde or cleaning or cooking, when their focus was on anything but the work, that her presence latched onto his brain like a brand new stimulant he had no idea what to do with.
Their first kiss was too much for him. He could not categorize, classify, or compare the experience. Too much was behind it, and it was as if his thoughts were taking all the visual evidence of Watson’s body that he had categorized over the years and had projected it onto that almost chaste touch of their lips for the first time. They were both hesitant, so completely like teenagers but also completely not, in that they felt clumsy, but instead of frenzied, unsure passion, the passion was tightly leashed on both sides. Joan dared not initiate too much, and Sherlock was still in disbelief that she was allowing him to go forward at all.
In the end he had reached up to cup her face in his hands, at the same time trying not to touch her too much. His fingers did not grab, his hands did not pull, more he coaxed her forward with the mere motion of hands brushing either side of her face. Her eyes were still open, and so were his. It was he who submitted first and closed his eyes, milliseconds before their lips brushed.
When the kiss deepened and she made the first sigh into his mouth, Sherlock’s body froze in a way he had no idea how to react to. His body remained engaged in the kiss, but his mind had stalled. What he didn’t know was it was actually his heart and lungs freezing for the briefest milliseconds, a part of his consciousness crumbling as his reality shifted, and then shifted again.
The only thing that brought him back was Watson’s warmth and breath moving into him, and the smallest brush of her fingertips on his face. His body visibly shook—he had to pull away. Her eyes opened slowly, and a dozen feelings were exchanged in silence as they stared at each other. But for once Sherlock had nothing to say, no conclusions, no facts. All he could force his brain to pinpoint was the new softness in Watson’s dark eyes that had nothing to do with concern or empathy, but everything to do with more fragile, precious emotions he’d never had to deal with. Immediately he felt as if his mind was trying to juggle many breakable items, each one more valuable than the last, and he had no idea which belonged to him and which to Watson. Another knot had been tied between them in that moment.