Your body's poetry, speak to me
Won't you let me be your rhythm tonight?
Move your body, move your body
I wanna be your muse, use my music
And let me be your rhythm tonight
Hot.
It was extremely hot. The air burned his lungs when he tried to take a deep breath. Those red lips were a temptation, oh, John knew that clearly. It was a devil's trap, a struggle that he has never faced before.
Living with Sherlock Holmes was harder than fight in war.
But, hell, this time the temptation was even worse. The detective was wearing nothing but a towel around his wrist, moving it charmingly while he made his way to the living room. His dark hair was wet just like his white skin, which seemed a bit rosed thanks to the hot water.
God, John hated to admit, but his friend was hot and gorgeous.
He wasn't strong, but his slim and tall body was... Admirable. And Sherlock's moves were always soft and smooth, sometimes gentle, sometimes agile, depending on the situation. Sherlock Holmes was a living poetry.
"John, can you please come back to Earth and listen to me?" The brunette smiled, giggling a little when the shorter man gasped. "Thank you. Have you seen my dark purple shirt? Mrs. Hudson told me that she put it in your drawer but I won't enter in your room to get it."
He stared his friend for a few seconds. Sherlock's eyes were another type of poetry. Light, sweet, determined, strong. They were supernovas, shiny stars of beauty trapped in a devilish body.
A piece of Heaven on Earth.
John stood up from his chair, walking towards the man while his hands landed on his wrist, slightly above the white towel, touching his warm and perfumed skin. Watson's green eyes were shining like they never did, warning Sherlock how he was feeling.
"John...?" Holmes' voice was low and soft, a bit confused, while his own arms surrounded the doctor's neck. "What are you-"
The detective was cut off when John pressed his lips against his, in a passionate kiss full of desire. Both of them closed their eyes, enjoying each other's taste while the afternoon started to fade.
Nothing else was important. John wanted to be part of that beautiful poetry that Sherlock Holmes was.
