zhainu:

i-o-u-a-fall:

dodo0228:

Waiting for an Answer

The kiss is soft and tentative and so unlike Sherlock in the most wonderful of ways. John’s toes curl in his shoes at the sensation on his cheek, and his eyes search the pleasingly peaceful expression on Sherlock’s face. His gaze does not remain long, for Sherlock pulls back soon after and tries to meet his look. But John is too touched, feeling too much, and fears that if he stares back at Sherlock he may break from the quiet, sudden emotions passing between them.

The soldier looks ahead, head tilted down, wearing what could be called a bashful smile as colour dusts his cheeks. He feels himself under Sherlock’s gaze; a gaze filled with curiosity and child-like wonder and fear that he’ll do something wrong; a gaze searching for answers to silent questions. When John finally has the courage to look up, those eyes watch him still, though a new light flickers when their eyes meet. John offers Sherlock a soft smile, and without breaking their stare he gently links their hands. Sherlock’s ivory fingers prod and caress John’s curiously as they quietly regard one another for a few moments longer. Finally, their gaze moves down in unison.

Sherlock’s fingers are cold; John’s are warm. The temperature difference does not hinder the feeling of utter completeness. They play with the feeling of their hands together, exploring the gaps in fingers and fingernails and digits and knuckles. The now shared touch is John’s response to every question Sherlock never spoke; mutual and real, unabashed and unafraid, the things they never need to say aloud.

Yes, Sherlock. This is love.

That was beautiful…