Sherlock worries over John’s wounds. <3
"That was stupid," Sherlock murmured, his voice dark as his sharp eyes roved over John’s face, cataloging every bruise and scrape on the familiar lined visage.
“Yeah, well, as you so frequently remind me, I am stupid,” John muttered, glaring directly at Sherlock and refusing to lower his eyes. He wasn’t ashamed of circling back to lay into the two men who had catcalled Sherlock when John had jogged ahead to toss someone’s discarded takeaway cup into a rubbish bin. In fact, it had been a pleasure to teach them not to treat others as pieces of meat on display, despite the fact that John was fairly sure he’d have a black eye and a swollen lip the next morning.
Sherlock scoffed, his graceful, long-fingered hands surprisingly gentle as he tipped John’s head lightly to one side so he could eyeball a scrape on John’s cheekbone. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”
John clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pervasive warmth of Sherlock’s fingers and thumb where they pressed lightly against his jaw. He was focusing so hard on ignoring what was happening, in fact, that he almost didn’t realize what was happening when the taller man suddenly leaned down, brushing the softest kiss against John’s scraped cheek.
“I… you just… did you kiss me?” John stumbled over the words, adrenaline flooding him in a trembling wave.
“Well…” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble in John’s ear. “I believe one kisses hurt spots to help them feel better, right?”
“Oh. OH.” John’s eyes widened in understanding and then squinted as John hissed in a pained breath; widening his eyes had made the swelling bruise around one ache. An idea popped into his mind and he rushed forward with it before his common sense could tell him how ridiculous it was. “I have a better around my left eye, too.”
There was a pause, heavy and significant, and John felt Sherlock’s breath trembling against his cheek as the other man have a silent sigh. Then Sherlock was raising his head, his lips pressing gently to the outer corner of John’s left eye.
John flicked his tongue out to wet his lips, pausing when he tasted the blood on his lower lip. He couldn’t…
“I have a split lip, too,” John said, not backing down. He’d undoubtedly regret saying it once Sherlock pulled back, but for a silent, trembling moment, John felt excited hope bubbling in his chest.
And then Sherlock was leaning back, pale eyes searching John’s face. John stared back. He would not back down.
“Mm,” Sherlock rumbled, eyes fastening on John’s mouth. “So you do.”
Sherlock lowered his face slowly, giving John time to turn away. Finally, his lips brushed against John’s in the lightest, most chaste kiss imaginable. John twisted his head, pressing his mouth firmly to Sherlock’s as the other macs breath shuddered out of him in delight.
John brought both hands up, burying his fingers in Sherlock’s curls up to his knuckles, scabbed from attacking the men who’d catcalled Sherlock earlier. He hadn’t regretted his decision to teach them a lesson before, but now he was positively blessing it.
I was hooked. He’s like a drug.
There you go.
Sherlock/Benedict parallels [1/?]
↳ [Benedict’s] first memory is of staring at the sky…. When Benedict would cry, [his parents] would carry his pram up to the roof and point him skywards. Then he would become still. He would smile. And often, he would sleep. He, remembers, still, the wonder he felt at this: “A vision of sky.” | GQ