Sherlock wanted to catalogue everything, but there was so much and the smallest things were pulling at his brain, narrowing his focus down to the tiniest things and not letting it go.
There was the warm, slippery texture on his tongue when he kissed John, the subtle taste of pasta sauce and tea. The taste of salt on John's skin.
He could smell salt, too, hanging in the air under the smell of sweat and musk and breath and the tiny hint of chemicals from the lube. He could feel salt in the way his skin slid against John's, hitching and catching and making the slick, in-and-out slide of his cock that much more noticeable by contrast.
He could feel John's eyes on him, too. He shouldn't have be able to, but he could. He wanted to meet John's gaze, but he couldn't. Because he was wrapped around John and John was wrapped around him, and then he knew that John was looking up at him as though he were the best thing that could ever have happened to the world, and it's insane because obviously John is the best thing that could ever have happened to the world, and that he would even think to look at Sherlock that way is too much to even consider.
John was shaking underneath him, but Sherlock needed this to last.
Sherlock is so long. It's all John could think about.
The long arch of his spine that leads into his long neck, bent so that Sherlock could kiss John without breaking the rhythm he's created. His long legs only slightly bent, causing his long toes to tangle themselves into the sheets at the bottom of the bed in a search for grip. His long hair tickling John's nose. His long fingers encasing John's face.
Well, that last one is just too easy, isn't it?
And it was John this time who was being picked apart at the seams, torn, ripped, pulled, until he shook and cried and yelled things out (some expected: "Sherlock!" "Oh God!" "Fuck!" "I love you I love you I love you!", some utterly stupid: "Fingers!" "Ugghhhhh fucking open door, slam it open!"). The unfairness of the situation occurred briefly to John - it wasn't enough for Sherlock to have his heart, no, he had to go and snatch his mind away as well, as though his own mind could ever be considered insufficient - before Sherlock groaned loudly and stopped moving. He was tense, every one of those long muscles pulled in every direction, and he bit the inside of his cheek, just inside the corner of his mouth. John watched a trickle of blood run down between his bottom teeth, then leaned up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's; Sherlock didn't move, only made a muffled sound that was something between a sob and a name (Johhh-uhhh), then suddenly went limp and crashed down onto John, knocking the wind out of him and forcing his hips down rather painfully considering the delicate angle they had been (necessarily) maintaining. Perhaps Sherlock's length had some minor disadvantages, fast exits being one of them.
"Ouch, careful, you lanky git!" The words were supposed to come out half-forceful and half-teasing, but instead they had to force their way out of his chest, breathless and awed. Sherlock's only response was to huff a laugh.
They both waited, catching their breath (John having had his literally knocked out of him, Sherlock, only figuratively), until John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's mouth, which again failed to respond. John smiled up at him, still completely limp and breathless and gone. "I think you may need more practice with this kissing business. Let me up, I'll get a towel and clean us up."
A slight frown appeared on Sherlock's forehead. "I'd prefer the first one. The kissing one. Let's do that instead of you getting up."
John just smiled wider and pushed him off (too easily - should probably heat up something to eat. What time is it?) but dithered at the edge of the bed.
"The clock fell off the table. It's roughly 9:30. Why do you want to know the time?"
John kissed him (again) (already addicted) (should remember to buy chapstick). "Would you like something to eat?"
"Yes. You. Come back here."
"Something that's actually nutritious, Sherlock."
"Yes. You. Come back here."
John just laughed again and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "In a minute."
John is a liar. A terrible, filthy, pants-on-fire liar of the highest order.
He said he'd come back in a minute. It took him three minutes and sixteen seconds.
Sherlock was scowling at him when he got back. "That was three minutes."
John dropped two oranges onto the bed in front of him and started wiping his face with a warm, damp towel, working his way down his chest. "It wasn't my fault. I had to scrub the oranges. Someone stacked them with a pair of lungs, a liver, a skin sample and some rotting apples."
"Fruit flies are fascinating creatures, John."
"I'd still prefer them out of the flat. Here." He tossed one of the oranges to Sherlock. It smelled like vinegar (good disinfectant, but not appealing on oranges). Sherlock stared at it.
Pain suddenly shot through his eye. When he turned, he saw that John had dug his thumb into the peel of the orange, positioned precisely to send a spray of acid into Sherlock's face.
Sherlock dug his thumb into his orange, ready to retaliate, but only managed to catch himself in the face. John was beside himself with laughter. Sherlock tore his orange in half and dug out a segment to squeeze directly into John's hair.
John stopped laughing at once, then tore his own orange in half and dug his fingers into it, scooping out a fitful of pulp that he slapped directly onto Sherlock's forehead, letting the juice run down his nose and drip off his cheekbones. Sherlock returned the favour, before John leaned in to catch the juice dripping off of Sherlock's face with his tongue.
The towel didn't help. They fell asleep all kinds of sticky.
Sherlock's brain still wouldn't stop. It still climbed the walls, still turned itself inside out between cases, still shouted and screamed for something, anything, to fill it, keep it occupied.
Now his heart was the same, but it seemed to have found a never ending case. John.
Not that that made it any better. Any time John left the flat, failed to text back, went to watch the football game with Mike (whom Sherlock could never fully decide if he liked or hated; introduced him to John, also takes John away for bloody football), Sherlock's heart joined his brain in that restless animation.
Sometimes his heart and his brain fought, as his mind insisted that his heart was being irrational. More often they worked together, while Sherlock attempted to discern the minimum amount of time that should elapse before he could reasonably suggest going shopping for rings.
Those bloody studies were as useless as ever.