Three Is Company

How Neighbors Are Meant To Be

"Better?" John wondered, supposedly assuming that half a sip would warm Sherlock back to life. In fact Sherlock had been warm for a while now; the tea had only served as a stalling point if anything at all. He nodded, slowly, and took another sip. In John's mind that seemed to be enough. That seemed to be all that was necessary from the offering. John set his tea cup back upon the counter, the liquid still bubbling at its original level, and pushed his hair overtop of his face. Sherlock felt that he had no choice but to settle his cup down upon the table next to him, realizing that the only alternative would be to spill it all over himself. As John was approaching Sherlock realized his hands would be needed for better things. The kitchen was dark when they collided, and from the light of the lamp Sherlock could only make out a vague silhouette of the man who embraced him. Though it felt appropriate, the dimensions of the man, the ferocity, the intimacy. He had remembered this from their first kiss; in fact he had remembered everything. It all fit together now, again with the familiarity he had been hoping for. John's lips tasted as they had in the past, John's hands felt just as gentle. John's breath was just as warm. Sherlock accepted the man into his embrace, though his own balance was not enough to steady them. Instead he was pushed back upon the table, dragging the whole thing a couple of inches before he finally allowed himself to ease up on top of it, sitting with his legs wrapped tight around John's waist, allowing himself to take on all of the pressure of the man's continual advances. It would seem as if John could not stand the proximity, even when they were pressed together he wanted to get closer. He made up for this impossibility by squeezing his fingers tighter, by pressing his lips harder, collecting the bunched fabric of Sherlock's shirt in his fingers as their entire faces overlapped. Their foreheads bumped, their noses collided, their chins prodded into each other's. Most importantly their lips overlapped, their mouths gaped into one another's, pushing and pulling upon each other until they could not go any farther. Until they could no longer display what they felt by a kiss alone. John's hands dropped underneath the folds of Sherlock's shirt, pulling the fabric up so that he could run his hands across his bare back, colliding with the bones which were prodding out from his thin frame. He pressed his lips into the crook of Sherlock's neck, allowing the man to finally open his eyes and stare, stare across the darkened kitchen into everything he remembered as a child. Stare into the house that had hosted him in the stages of his life where he couldn't dream this was possible. This...not only this love, but this feeling. He had never understood that such intimacy could be met with such passion. In fact he had never experienced this before, the localization of all the excitement in his nerves. When it had been Musgrave on top of him Sherlock hadn't been able to cope. He hadn't been able to stay within his mind for the whole of the experience. Was this what made John special? Was this feeling, this intoxicating feeling, the very thing he had missed within his life? Sherlock pulled his fingers across John's head, he felt each motion it made, each relocation. He guided it; all the while his determined fingers were along for the ride. Sherlock felt where the lips were headed before the skin could feel their impact, he could feel John moving, pulsing against his body. He allowed his shirt to be pulled up and over his head. He assisted John in the same action, the same simple action. Their skin collided, sliding over each other's and making gripping more difficult. Their bodies overlapped, their heat exchanged, Sherlock's hands now grasping upon John's shoulder blades and feeling them move with every new motion, feeling the bones wiggle underneath the skin. John was kissing his chest, his arm, his hand. Sherlock had long since let his head fall back upon his neck, feeling his entire body shivering, pulsing as if with an alarm. His legs were wrapped so tightly that he might break the poor man in half, steadying himself upon his palms now as he could not trust his strength to hold him against the force of gravity. He was nearly blinded, nearly helpless. Weak with every new touch, his muscles forgetting their purpose if not to shudder. And then John paused, paused only to wrap his arms underneath Sherlock's legs and hoist him up off of the table. Despite the height difference Sherlock still fit easily within the man's grasp, the whole of his weight settling so easily upon John's waist, the man kissing against his collarbone all the way over to the couch. Here it was lighter; here Sherlock could see every detail of his neighbor's face as he was descended slowly upon the couch, enveloped by the cushions, settled neatly within the blankets. The orange light made John seem inhuman, angelic in a way. He was absorbed in a soft aura, a halo of orange light that surrounded his bare skin, one that only seemed to grow with every article of clothing he now shed. Sherlock modestly wiggled out of his own clothes; pulling a blanket around himself in some shame and allowing the soft touch of cotton to envelop him instead. It was a loosely fitting cloak, pulled around his body in a particular chill, the cold fabric only just beginning to absorb his excess body heat. He raised his arms, accepted his lover, and felt the safe, familiar pressure of John Watson settle upon him. Now the blanket was the only thing separating them, the blanket which John tugged out from underneath him, draping over both of their bare bodies as if to cover from anyone who might be lurking with the shadows. Their legs tangled, their skin slid, their lips met again.
"I love you, John." Sherlock managed between exchanges. Their blanket was growing warm, their body heat having nowhere to go. A drop of sweat collected upon John's forehead as he rose to meet his eyes, staring gently within Sherlock's gaze before pressing a kiss upon his cheek.
"And I you." John assured with a struggling voice, as if he had forgotten how to speak in the wake of their passion. Sherlock smiled, his smiled just as wide as his lips would allow him to go. He curled his arms tighter around the bare chest, eased his head into the crook of John's shoulder, and allowed the man to press into him in totality. They lay there, enveloped and safe, suddenly content with lying in their most human forms. Passion seemed to be replaced with understanding, with appreciation. What kisses could not make it to their lips were instead offered to the shoulders they now collected upon, and when Sherlock closed his eyes he wondered if he might fall to sleep, enveloped in the warmth and safety of his neighbor. John had stilled on top of him, their heart beats slowing into a more casual, matched pace. They were calm. It was ever so obvious now, as they steadied against the other's body, that this was how they were meant to be. This was how they were designed to be, to fit like puzzle pieces around their respective lover. There was no hiding that night, not from each other, at least. There was no guesswork. In this moment Sherlock wasn't crazy. In this moment John wasn't married. In the light of the lamp they were who they were meant to be. Irrevocably, unapologetically, themselves.