Word Count: 875
Summary: A series of observations upon the various senses, gained whilst in the sitting room, 221B Baker. [So, this one? I think I'll give to mildred_bobbin]
John Watson is a very sensual man, as is Sherlock.
It's the flat of tongue pressing wet into ear cavity and twisting about that starts the idea rabbiting off in Sherlock's head. Sherlock jerks his chin (it's similar to ocean-noises in his head; he feels penetrated; it's a little like rimming but not quite) and then John's teeth are happily nibbling down his neck and along his jaw, which distracts him completely from thinking about such revelations. He twists his head because he must then taste John and John is there for the tasting, sheened with faint perspiration and smelling of faded aftershave and ammonia. John's skin is a little rough to his tongue, as there's short spiky blond stubble scraping, but then his mouth when met up with is all minty and hotter than blazes; that's all right, then.
John loves to kiss for hours on end. They begin on the sofa watching the telly together, a decorous distance between them, and end on the floor sprawled out every which way and with shirts off—or wrappers, in Sherlock's case—eating away at one another's mouths as if that's the sole form of sustenance to be found on the planet…or in 221B, and perhaps it is, at this late hour. Maybe it is, but John can taste aioli on Sherlock's gums, all garlic and wine and oil and lemon, and he can taste musk in Sherlock's armpit (salty and all wiry hair up his nostrils; nice in a weird way) and he can taste the unique scent of Sherlock in the crease of a pale thigh and the neatly trimmed array of dark pelt available when pants are pulled down. He can savour the slip of spit and the excess of it, gliding across his palette and sometimes choking him a little when he's remembering to breathe. Sometimes he forgets and his lungs burn delightfully with a snootful of Sherlock-smells when he inhales. His fingertips and palms and arm joints and any other skin that's bared relish in the heat rising off Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock's skin is mostly smooth, with exquisite firm ridges under: all muscle, sinewy, taut and delicious.
Sherlock's very tactile and cannot stop fiddling, but then that's perfect when it comes down to handling John. John likes being handled, very much so, and he makes interesting little sounds of approval and emits tiny pleased grunts when Sherlock's hands descend upon his shorter length of back and press wide and flat, all digits fully extended and digging in. Wide sweeping circles at first, Sherlock's hands describe, then smaller, more intense, and it's an embrace and a rub-down for John's sore body after running and working and running again. And also a way of allowing Sherlock's sense of touch some welcome relief, for John feels so good to his own thirsty skin when he's right there, delightfully available. And he is right there, practically atop Sherlock, for they've fallen off the sofa and not even noticed.
When they roll about or one or the other one squirms or jerks or wriggles (a touch too, too hard or pinching in passing, a love bite that stings, a stray tickling down a rib cage, a tug of someone's hair, accidentally or on purpose), it only improves the sensation: two into one, melting together. Like a chemical compound, in a way. Sherlock feels as though the whole of him is singing, albeit silently. John closes his eyes and simply feels it all, a tide of simple happiness rising high in his chest. He laughs, under his breath, and it's a joyful shiver, but too soon lost to the feel of Sherlock's inquisitive tongue, invading again.
The carpet is tatty, the sofa sagging, the telly screen winks at them madly from above, muted. There are rickety piles of things everywhere about and furniture legs to bump into with an elbow or ankle bone. There's that faint scent of scorched something still lingering in the air from Sherlock's experiment, and there's motes of dust suspended where the room is lit up now and again by the pale moon sky, peeking in and out through the half-drawn curtains from the veil of scudding clouds. It's quite a narrow gap only between the sofa and the long low table before it; they fit into it as neatly as two corpses might share a coffin. There's nothing dull about the closeness they've chosen, nothing at all boring.
When they settle to sleep, both dozing off, sated, the cramped space makes for the best of all possible beds. Though there's naught bed-like about it, and John will be rueing the ache in his neck come the morning quite loudly. And Sherlock will stand to stretch widely, arms entirely extended, head tilted back as far as it may tilt comfortably, spine arching into a crescent arc, and listen...just listen, with great interest, to the sound of his own bones popping back into position.
Oh, sound. Yes, that. The rush of oxygen in and out, through nostrils, from mouths, which is basic. John's little moans, the ones which send a marvelous thrill through Sherlock—those aren't utilitarian, at all. Neither is the constant repetition of names, given, gasped, growled, rumbled, in bits-and-pieces sometimes, and sometimes only shaped by gratified lips but not spoken aloud. The slick noise a hand makes when fisting saliva-wet flesh, that's brilliant.
Taste, touch, sound and odour, shared, taken, given. Sensually satisfying, these, and they two, the both of them, they very much appreciate all they've observed of each other, while in the parlour.