Drowning

John was afraid Sherlock would drown.

Because Sherlock sees, feels, knows. Everything. All the time. With spread-wide fingers he senses the static charge of rage in an empty room. With lifted chin he scents Thames mud slicked across a rucked up corner rug. With a glance he sees dust motes swirling fast in shadow, tiny tornadoes that shout, “The murderer ran through here…”

Sherlock sees, hears, smells, knows. Everything. All the time. Without a single hand laid on him.

So what would happen when finally John touched him?

In those first few minutes as lovers John was afraid that his body pressed soft against that pale skin would take Sherlock’s breath away, flood through his fine-tuned system and drown the man in too much sensation.

John was right.

Their first kiss lasted nineteen seconds and through it Sherlock recorded, indexed, and archived. Everything. All if it. And the more he focused the more he felt-sensed-saw; the more he felt-sensed-saw the more he recorded, indexed, and—

Well, you get the idea.

Yet instead of pulling away, John moved on instinct, surging forward and swamping Sherlock with too much, everywhere, all at once.

John tugged Sherlock in over his head with a lick at his ear, he dragged fingers from pale belly to neck to nipple, slid warm fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, sighed his desire on the heat of a shaky breath.

And instead of struggling, Sherlock opened himself wide and willingly drowned.

That’s when that magnificent, relentless brilliant brain finally shut damn well down and, for the first time in his life, Sherlock’s body and his heart, together they turned on.

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Kuuttamo, Kuuttamo, Kuuttamo. It’s a beautiful chant, isn’t it? As lovely as her art, as sweet as this art, which she drew for me. Thank you, you gifted creature, this is as pretty as our wonderful boys.