《Events after The Great Game》vernon

13、第 13 章 'I'm

　　'I'm kissing John... I'm actually kissing John,' was the predominant thought running through Sherlock's mind as he tentatively pressed their lips together, all his attention focused on the sensation of touching John in this previously forbidden way.

　　John seemed stunned for a moment, but he recovered quickly. 'No... John is kissing me,' Sherlock amended, inwardly, as the hand on his neck tightened and the lips beneath his own parted slightly, just as they had before, except this time Sherlock could taste tea and a hint of shortbread biscuit, instead of toothpaste.

　　He wanted to investigate that flavour; he wanted to explore John's mouth as he had explored the rest of his body, but, as he started to think about doing so, John suddenly pulled his head back. Unthinkingly, Sherlock followed his movement, bringing their lips together again, and then one more time, until John turned his head completely away, breathing hard.

　　For a split second, the fear of rejection brushed across Sherlock's mind and he felt the first trickle of a hot wave of humiliation, but then his reason reasserted itself. John loved him. He knew that. If there was one rock he could build his life on, that was it. He waited.

　　"Am I dreaming" demanded John, turning to face Sherlock once more, and everything clicked into place. Sherlock smiled.

　　There was a flurry of movement and rustling as John pushed himself upright, and Sherlock did the same, until they were sitting half turned to face each other.

　　"How did you... How could you possibly know this" John's voice was sharp with disbelief. "I never told you about my dream, other than it was about kissing you. I never told you where, or how, or... That was exactly... Well, almost exactly..."

　　Sherlock quirked a brow at him. John would get there, eventually.

　　"Did that... Was that... It wasn't a dream" He sounded dazed. "That first time... It really happened"

　　Sherlock nodded. Was John going to be angry now "Should I have told you, John" he asked. "I wanted to tell you, but I was af-... I thought you might be disappointed."

　　John seemed to still be working it out. "So it was that night, after the park, when you snuck onto the sofa with me. And then, in the morning you made that comment about my not minding at the time – this is what you meant."

　　It wasn't a question, so Sherlock remained silent, still unsure how John was going to react. Perhaps it had been a mistake to try to duplicate it, but it had been his first kiss, and he had wanted to share it with John, in a way that they both would remember.

　　"So, all this time, when I've been saying 'No kissing on the mouth'... Right back before we had that conversation in the taxi... I had actually already kissed you" John didn't sound upset, just surprised, perhaps a little embarrassed. Sherlock raised his hand to check – yes, that fit his expression.

　　He nodded. "You didn't wake up. It didn't occur to me that you would have any awareness of it, or I would have said something." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, John; it was my fault. I disturbed you and you – you just kissed me." He smiled, a little ruefully. "I've been nudging you in the night ever since, but you never did it again."

　　John chuckled briefly, but then fell silent. "Was that your... Did I take your first kiss and not even know it"

　　Sherlock tipped his head to one side. "You were asleep, John. Any taking was done by me." He thought for a moment. "That's why I wanted to..." How could he phrase this, without sounding unbearably twee "give it back," he finished.

　　John's emotions were not clear from his expression, and Sherlock moved his hand to stroke his index finger around the mouth he'd spent so much time thinking about.

　　"Can we start again" he asked, his voice low. "I still don't understand these feelings, but I am sure of them, now. I'm sure of us." He could feel John purse his lips.

　　"What if you wake up back to normal and the feelings have gone, as you feared" John asked, his voice sounding reluctant,yet determined. "What then, Sherlock What happens to me, then To us"

　　Sherlock found John's hand and brought it to his chest. "They would grow back, John," he said. "Whatever happened, they would grow back." He sat there, holding John's curled fingers against him, and just hoping that the man would accept his words, because he knew now, suddenly with a bone deep certainty, he knew that they were true, but they were all he had to offer.

　　Eventually, John's palm flattened and pressed over Sherlock's heart. "OK," he said, quietly, and Sherlock marvelled at his courage, at his faith, at his love. He was still marvelling when John pushed him back against the sofa and straddled him.

　　"Now, where were we" John asked, presumably rhetorically, as he seemed to have a definite idea in mind.

　　Sherlock raised both hands to John's face, intrigued to find that their heads were level in this position. Perhaps he would have to upwardly revise his opinion of John's intelligence, as he did have some amazingly good ideas at times.

　　Leaning forward a little, he paused, just a breath away from what he wanted. "You're not going to stop me this time"

　　He could feel John's exhale and the hands which had been resting on his shoulders travelled up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. "I'm unlikely to ever stop you again."

　　Sherlock pulled John towards him, until he could just brush their mouths together in the lightest of touches, holding John's head still and turning his own from side to side, gradually parting his lips to graze John's on each pass. The fingers in his hair relaxed, letting Sherlock lead, not attempting to control his movements at all.

　　It was fascinating how different this contact felt to everything else; Sherlock couldn't really account for it. More information was needed.

　　Slipping one hand round to the back of John's neck, he pressed their mouths together more firmly, in a definite kiss, then pulled back slightly, running his tongue along his own bottom lip, appraisingly. Interesting. He moved forward again, parting his lips a little more and feeling John do the same. Were you supposed to aim for the middle of the other person's mouth, or more for one lip or the other He tried it each way, pulling back more slowly each time.

　　Two realisations were dawning on him. The first was that he didn't have the slightest idea what to do next. What he wanted to do was to explore the inside of John's mouth in as much detail as he could get away with, but presumably there was some sort of etiquette involved, an approved method of going from here, which was nice but relatively superficial, to there, which, to the extent he had in mind, was undoubtedly pretty invasive. Unfortunately, he was sadly unaware of the appropriate procedure.

　　The second was that kissing was very important to John and something with which he no doubt had a lot of experience. This had several corollary realisations, ranging from immediate and intense dislike of everyone John had kissed in the past, with the possible exception of close family members, to the concern that John might be disappointed with the current endeavour and feel that it wasn't up to normal standards.

　　In view of their closeness, it was perhaps unsurprising that John seemed to pick up on his uncertainty and, after a couple more kisses, simply asked, "My turn"

　　Sherlock smiled against his mouth. "Yes, please," he said, feeling a hand slide round to cup his jaw, while the other tightened in his hair. John tilted his head to one side, brought their mouths together and took over.

　　Sherlock tried to keep hold of his rational approach as John took his upper lip and sucked on it, as John's teeth nibbled on his bottom lip, as John's tongue reached into his mouth and brushed along his own.

　　He tried to keep his mind separate and record what was happening, so that he would know what to do and could review this experience at his leisure, but John's hand stroked along the side of his jaw up to his ear and John's fingers stretched up to run through his curls and John's tongue encouraged his own to reach out and then started sucking on it and Sherlock could feel his brain going off-line.

　　He pulled back, out of breath and disoriented, resting his forehead against John's and gripping the back of his neck tightly, to ground himself. "You OK" John asked, and he was just as breathless, his voice rough and so wanting, and Sherlock couldn't resist that want, couldn't leave that need unanswered. He tipped John's head back and simply took.

　　No longer concerned about what he should do, or what was appropriate, for once in his life Sherlock relied on his instinct and every part of his body was screaming at him to hold on to this man and never let him go, to mark him and claim him and bind him so indelibly, irrevocably tightly that he would never again think about anyone he'd been with before and never even contemplate there being anyone else in his future. Because, as sure as night followed day, John Watson belonged to him and, equally as certain, Sherlock Holmes absolutely did not share.

　　They kissed until there was nothing else, until the rest of the world had faded and drifted away on a cloud of irrelevancy, because anything that wasn't John's mouth, and John's tongue, and John's taste, and John's smell, just didn't matter anymore. And at some point their position had become uncomfortable for John, putting too much pressure on his knees, and Sherlock had scooted forward and John had wrapped his legs around him, and Sherlock had twisted and tipped them over until they were lying full length on the sofa, holding on to John all the while, with an arm wrapped tightly round his waist and the other diagonally across his back and up to his neck, so that they fell together, never losing their connection.

　　Then Sherlock stretched out and snuggled in and tilted his head and pushed his tongue further into John's mouth, and welcomed John's tongue into his own and sucked and nibbled and licked and tasted until he knew everything he had wanted to discover and had mapped every inch of John's mouth and learned everything he could learn about how to kiss, and about how John liked to kiss and what made John shiver and what made him moan and what made him pull away for a moment so that he could tell Sherlock that he loved him, and that he was amazing, and that he was the only one, the only one that John wanted, the only one that John had ever wanted like this.

　　And when he knew it all, when he had learned everything there was to learn, and gleaned every bit of new information that could possibly be gained from this experience, Sherlock was surprised to discover that it wasn't enough, and he kept on kissing John and realised that it would never be enough and it dawned on him that he had found a new addiction which made cocaine look like caffeine and he wasn't sure if he was addicted to kissing or addicted to John, but it didn't seem to matter, because John was there, and he wasn't going to leave, and he would never leave and at that point it became imperative to stop, and he had to stop, and he forced himself to stop and to raise his head and put his hands on John's face to keep him from following and, "I love you," he said.

　　And then John choked out his reply and kissed him again and John's face was wet but he was smiling and they kept on kissing, although it was more difficult because John couldn't stop smiling, or was it Sherlock who was smiling, or Sherlock whose face was wet and he couldn't tell and it didn't matter because they were together and they went to bed, eventually, but they didn't do anything more, they just lay together, kissing and murmuring and wrapped around each other and Sherlock felt whole and complete and perfectly happy and he wouldn't have exchanged John for his vision, or his life, or anything in the world that he could think of.