Title: under me you quite so new
Spoilers: None.
Pairings: S/J.
Rating: M
Warnings: Very brief mention of drug use.
Wordcount: 1209
Summary: They study each other's bodies, through careful touches and kisses, the slide of skin on skin. / And maybe this is something like love.

A/N: Written for a kinkmeme prompt which asked for Sherlock thinking about his relationship with John, inspired by the e. e. cummings poem "i like my body when it is with your".

i. i like my body when it is with your / body. It is so quite a new thing. / Muscles better and nerves more.

"It's all transport."

The physical is predictable – Sherlock knows about the scar sliding along his sixth and seventh ribs, the way the tips of his fingers press and slip over violin strings. He knows about the warmth that chases itself along his spine upon an injection of a 7% solution of cocaine and the beat of his heart, double-time. He knows the precise tilt of a smile and pitch of voice to convince, to command, to anger, the way to uncoil his spine and straighten his shoulders.

He knows, and yet—

"What's this?" John asks languidly, tracing ridged scar tissue.

"Knife wound. Glancing, nickel-alloy blade, two years ago."

John dips his head, following the path of his fingers with the tip of his tongue. "Idiot," he says, fond laughter against his ribcage. "I'll bet you didn't even go to get stitched up."

"No need," Sherlock says. "I took care of it, it wasn't—"

"Shh," John says, sliding a hand over Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock parts his lips in invitation, lets them close around John's fingers. There's slight salt on his tongue and the line where smooth keratin curves into yielding skin, and Sherlock wants to lick John's fingerprints into himself, those swirls so uniquely John – have them painting his skin and sparking through his nerves.

"And – broken clavicle. Wasn't set right." John slides his fingers from Sherlock's mouth and slicks a thumb over misaligned ends of bone and swell of calcium. "What, did you fall out of a tree?"

"Stairs," Sherlock says, breathless. "I was seven."

"Clumsy, for you," John says, dragging himself upwards, his body pressed flat against Sherlock, and he nudges a thigh in between Sherlock's own, sending pleasure shivering through his lungs.

"John," Sherlock whines, his fingers clenching in the sheets without conscious thought, "I need—"

"I got you," John says, his mouth descending upon Sherlock's own, "yeah, that's it," and Sherlock tips his head back and his eyes flutter shut and John's murmuring nonsense syllables into his ear.

ii. i like to feel the spine / of your body and its bones, and the trembling / -firm-smooth ness

Sherlock blinks himself awake, lets himself luxuriate in the warmth still trapped in the blankets and the unfamiliar contours of a mattress with two occupants. To his right, the dim light of the dawn filters through the window; and Sherlock turns onto his side to gaze at John's softly illuminated form.

John is unobtrusive even in his sleep, limbs tucked close and his shoulders rounded, the line of his back facing Sherlock.

The knob of the C4 vertebrae rises below messy strands of hair, and Sherlock's reaching out to brush them aside when John stirs. Sherlock stops with a thumb perched very lightly on the nape of John's neck.

There's an exhale, and then John is perfectly still.

Sherlock touches his fingers to a fading tan line, slides the sheet off John's shoulders so he can splay his hand over the exit wound there, pinkish lines in a jagged starburst. A few more centimetres and the bullet might have hit his heart; or it might have missed him completely.

John is beginning to tremble from the effort of holding motionless.

Sherlock presses at the smooth scar tissue, John's ticket out of Afghanistan, and then hooks an arm over John's chest and frantically tugs him closer.

"Are you done?" John asks, voice still blurred with sleep.

Sherlock buries his nose in John's hair and just breathes.

iii. which i will / again and again and again / kiss, i like kissing this and that of you

"We should probably go upstairs," John says, breathlessly, pressed to the wall of the downstairs hallway.

"Hmm," Sherlock says, trailing kisses along his jawline. "Later."

"But," John protests, and then, "Sherlock!" at Sherlock fumbling John's trouser button free.

Sherlock drops to his knees and pulls at the zip, then smiles crookedly up before mouthing at soft, warm cotton. John's erection is already leaking precome and hot against Sherlock's mouth.

One of John's hands twists in Sherlock's hair before he pulls it back down to his side. "Sherlock, you nutter," he groans, "what if—"

Sherlock runs a finger along the waistband of John's Y-fronts and slowly peels them down. "I suggest," he says slyly, nipping at a jutting hipbone, "that you try to stay quiet." And then he wraps his lips around John's cock, slides up up up.

John makes a faint whine; one hand is gripping Sherlock's shoulder and the other's spread flat on the wall. His hips squirm forward as Sherlock keeps up a steady pressure, and-

"Sherlock," John says, strangled, "fucking hell," and then he's coming, the slightly bitter taste flooding Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock swallows, lapping one last time at John's cock before he pulls back in satisfaction.

"Jesus," John says, breathing hard, somewhat unsteadily zipping himself back up. "You just—" He aims a guilty look at 221A, a hot flush spreading along his neck.

"Not in," Sherlock shrugs, careless. "Said so this morning."

John stares wordlessly at Sherlock for a minute. "Right, upstairs," he says determinedly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sherlock Holmes."

They get as far as the top of the stairs. Sherlock doesn't even try to keep quiet.

iv. and possibly i like the thrill / of under me you quite so new

"Yes, do it," John says, desperate. "Christ, I'm not going to break—"

Sherlock slowly pushes forward, and has to force his eyes open. "John, are you—"

"Just...move."

Sherlock pulls back, a bit hesitant; John's gone soft beneath him. But though his voice is a bit strained he aims a tight grin at Sherlock, and Sherlock thrusts twice more, trying to vary his angle, before—

"Fuck, yes, do that again," John pants. "Oh god."

Sherlock does. The look on John's face is glorious.

"Perks of shagging a genius, is it?" John laughs breathlessly. "Or maybe it's the detective bit. Can locate your prostate in under a minute."

"Do you always talk rubbish in bed?" Sherlock reaches down for John's cock, which has twitched its way to half-hard in the interim. He runs a thumb over the head, feeling it rapidly grow under his grasp.

"I'll shut up if you keep doing that," John says, mouth falling open. "Oh, Christ. Fingers like yours ought to be illegal."

Sherlock settles into a steady rhythm, hands mirroring his hips, and he keeps his eyes on John's face, thrills at the myriad of expressions flickering by. He doesn't know what it is about John, precisely, that makes him want to catalogue every sound from his mouth and every angle of his smile; but John's staring back now in a way that makes Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

"Yeah, I'm going to—" John manages before his muscles clench down; and Sherlock can't suppress a small cry as his own orgasm uncurls in one swift rush.

He pulls out and collapses boneless besides John, presses a mumbled "I love you" into the crook of his neck.

One of John's hands is stroking his hair. "Yeah, I love you too, you mad wanker," he mutters, and Sherlock can practically hear his smile.

Thoughts? Concrit? Always appreciated (loved).