Work Text:
"Words. It is beautiful really, how you can feel the slightly harsh smell of rain on a tin roof when you read the phrase 'pitter-patter' and you just want to curl up and watch the stray drops bounce off your window, trying to find a pattern to it all.
Patterns. Everywhere. In the curve of his shoulders as his body lies draped on me, our skin borrowing scents off each other and intermingling into incoherent confessions of love, beads of sweat stationary and humming against his forehead, peaceful now and unlined but knotted with lines when he thinks. The pattern of lost stitches on his scar, utterly and inexplicable beautiful, inviting roving fingers of none but mine.
We sleep in an endless caravan of dreams, our lives upon a dervish's shoulder, lullabies sighing through his nose as he buries it deeper in the hollow of my neck and rubs it gently in his sleep. Is it me or do we breathe in a pattern too, our chests heaving together and a common air around us.
If I were to ever make him something, I would make him words and press him gently against my chest, imprinting myself with every little line that ran on his body, till I was him and he was me and we were us. Till they couldn't tell us apart and replaced all the you's with them's."
John's reading was halted by a kiss on the back of his hand, warm lips staying there and just breathing in the scent. He had never read Sherlock's moleskin notebook before but had always been intrigued about what the genius detective wrote in it. It was a diary. And the utter normalcy of it made John ache a little, a diary to write things Sherlock felt. Sherlockfelt things only for one person and that was someone who was now reading it.
"Are you awake, sleepy?" John threaded his fingers in Sherlock's hair, feeling the detective purr against his side and tilt towards the touch like a cat. It was evening and a lazy one at that. They had no cases but for a change, Sherlock was contentedly sleeping and not drilling bullets into walls.
"I read your diary," John said, applying gentle pressure on Sherlock's scalp and drawing small circles on his temple and along his hairline. Sherlock hummed in response, he had left the diary on John's laptop in the morning and John had been drinking it in since then.
It looked non fussy but there was a small ornate flower on the cover, the pages neatly tucked in but a few random notes written on scraps of paper shoved in unceremoniously, sticking out in defiance. This diary was Sherlock's heart and he had given it to John, and it was the most open admission of trust he had declared. John looked at him gratefully, his fingers weaving through the curly locks and pausing to untangle a few, only to see them go back to their messy state again and smiling to himself.
He didn't say anything about the note. He didn't need to, they had grown out of words. Yes, there were days when they drove each other up the wall, when John wanted nothing but to sit inside his room and not look at the detective ever again. And then there were days like today. And they were welcome.
He bent down and met sleepy warm lips in a chaste kiss, an elegant palm cupping his face while the other one explored the nape of his neck. The mouth was warm and even after all the kisses they had shared, virginal. It made John's heart flutter that no one had explored the softness of the tongue that was now tracing the line of his lower lip, making his heart flip in his stomach. He grazed and applied a little more pressure, warm lips against strong ones, tongues teasing and drawing back, skin nipped and moans cut short. Sherlock's mouth tasted like old parchment and ink. And tea and chemicals.
The dulcet colours of the evening played on the carved features of Sherlock, John pushed his leg between strong thighs and knocked every little syllable out of the detective as he rode an avalanche of thunderstorms between his legs.