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Fic: Coordination
Mar. 13th, 2012 06:58 pmTitle: Coordination
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Prompt: That bit with the fence in TRB involves steamy, slow kisses.
Genre: Slashy, slashy goodness.
Rating: Just kissing.
Sherlock is running, and John is just managing to keep up without wrenching his arm out its socket. It's round the corner, heavy footfalls, and Sherlock's up and over a fence before John really knows what's happening.
He grabs a fistful of Sherlock's jacket, pulls him close. “Sherlock!” he hisses. And Sherlock turns back with those pale eyes, and John needs this not to end like this. Because they could die or the police could lock Sherlock up or Sherlock could disappear in the name of John's safety. John doesn't know where this night is going or what's going to happen, but he knows Sherlock, knows he'd doing anything for this man, no matter how dangerous or boring or exciting it is.
He yanks Sherlock forward and crashes their mouths together. After a split second of surprise, Sherlock responds, slipping a hand through the bars to hold the back of John's head. It's rough and messy and their teeth click together but, oh, there's that slip slide of their tongues together. Sherlock sucks at John's lower lip, bites it and John can't suppress a soft moan. If everything's going to end, John wants the end to be like this. Hot, full of passion and fire. Hell, he wants to stay in this moment forever, even though his arm's stretched up uncomfortably and he has to go up on his toes to kiss Sherlock properly. The taste of Sherlock's mouth for eternity, no arrest, no Moriarty, nothing but teeth and tongues and lips and gums.
And then the moment's broken and Sherlock pulls back. “We have to coordinate,” John says breathlessly.
And then they're running again.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Prompt: That bit with the fence in TRB involves steamy, slow kisses.
Genre: Slashy, slashy goodness.
Rating: Just kissing.
Sherlock is running, and John is just managing to keep up without wrenching his arm out its socket. It's round the corner, heavy footfalls, and Sherlock's up and over a fence before John really knows what's happening.
He grabs a fistful of Sherlock's jacket, pulls him close. “Sherlock!” he hisses. And Sherlock turns back with those pale eyes, and John needs this not to end like this. Because they could die or the police could lock Sherlock up or Sherlock could disappear in the name of John's safety. John doesn't know where this night is going or what's going to happen, but he knows Sherlock, knows he'd doing anything for this man, no matter how dangerous or boring or exciting it is.
He yanks Sherlock forward and crashes their mouths together. After a split second of surprise, Sherlock responds, slipping a hand through the bars to hold the back of John's head. It's rough and messy and their teeth click together but, oh, there's that slip slide of their tongues together. Sherlock sucks at John's lower lip, bites it and John can't suppress a soft moan. If everything's going to end, John wants the end to be like this. Hot, full of passion and fire. Hell, he wants to stay in this moment forever, even though his arm's stretched up uncomfortably and he has to go up on his toes to kiss Sherlock properly. The taste of Sherlock's mouth for eternity, no arrest, no Moriarty, nothing but teeth and tongues and lips and gums.
And then the moment's broken and Sherlock pulls back. “We have to coordinate,” John says breathlessly.
And then they're running again.
