A/N: A little addition; there will be more! Please do R&R, it keeps the creative fire flowing!
He tasted of tea, of dust and of arrogance; if John had ever been told that this would be the taste of unfulfilled, unexpected and undoubtedly dangerous desire he would have laughed, mocked, responded with disbelief and sarcasm but here and now, with his lips pressed to the unresponsive fullness of Sherlock's perfectly bowed mouth he was finally and devastatingly aware of how wrong he had been all of this time. The mouths of the women before, where words would fall as light and gentle as a summer breeze and pepper his ear with sentences of lovely, nonsensical proclamations, in comparison they now seemed overly sweet, their lips too soft and their velvet-smooth skin too pliable – those memories were like smoke now, intangible and immovable. The stark form of reality that he was now impressing his kiss upon was awakening him in more ways than one, and taste – a sense that before now had seemed so temporary and unimpressive – was suddenly of the utmost importance.
Sherlock tasted of tentative possibility.
Heart hammering and breath hitching, John pulled his lips from Sherlock's with the tiniest sound of release, so quiet was the room around them since the music had ceased that he could hear the moment their lips were separated; like the brushing of pages against one another, or water on sand. So whimsical, so ridiculous. The pictures these sensations were creating were utterly unfamiliar; never before had he found himself with a delicate phrase curling the edge of his tongue against the moist roof of his mouth but at that moment he felt as if he had been replaced by poetry, lyrics to the notes that Sherlock had so perfectly wound around each separate letter and impossibly, painfully out of character. He was caught, utterly trapped, his breathing broken and fractured with each word he could not say and body frozen between the heat of the solid form just millimetres from his and the cool, frail air floating through the open window. He paused in his incessant wonderings and found himself poised on the edge of a seemingly impossible possibility, awaiting the moment where the man he had just recklessly kissed would either invite him to lead the dance once more or decline his invitation with a quick word, a blunt blow.
A hesitant tongue darted out to taste the impression that John's lips had left on his, Sherlock's eyes locked unwaveringly on the circle of raw skin that had brushed so daringly against his own.
"That was… not… my intention."
The fingertips that still rested upon Sherlock's cheek, static until this point, pressed themselves into the taut skin with every intention of leaving a mark; his mark, John's mark. "A consequence, then."
Blazing eyes flickered perilously to meet his own, unspeakable emotion just seconds away from revelation in a space that had once seemed so safe but now threatened to lead them both into unknown territory. "A consequence of what?"
John was not oblivious to the sheer heat of the man's gaze, nor was he impervious to it. His lungs constricted, a breath drawn from him alongside a word he had not considered relevant when considering the man standing before him.
Narrowing eyes pierced him. "Mine?"
John's mottled blue eyes flickered down, momentarily unable to pull his gaze from those lips which just minutes before had sent him into a juncture of intense mania. How had he never seen before just how perfect they were? The notion was ridiculous, perfection didn't exist, not in John's world, whenever it had been promised in the past it had always been a lie... yet these lips spoke of no lies. He had tasted them. He knew exactly what they were.
Reason fought irrepressible Desire.
You must respond, Reason urged.
You must surrender, Desire begged.
John swallowed thickly, forcing his stare back up to meet the glacial eyes still piercing him like an x-ray. His breathing was ragged. He was cracking. The words, when they came, were wrong.
"Yes. I think I might be."