|bewarethesmirk (bewarethesmirk) wrote,|
@ 2011-09-22 00:47:00
fic: the rush (sherlock/john, pg-13)
Title: The Rush
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Word Count: ~500
Summary: The alley is stifling, reeking of sweat and piss, but the freedom is sweet.
Notes: An exercise in UST and hints of kink.
John runs at breakneck speed right behind Sherlock, a gang of mobsters hot on their heels. There's a hot ache in his lungs and a cramping in his right shin but adrenaline—not safety—propels John forwards.
Sherlock takes a sharp turn and John sees their opportunity and seizes it: a narrow alleyway that he yanks Sherlock into by his arm. Sherlock hits the wall and John holds him there, hand clamped tight over Sherlock's mouth. Their chests are pressed tightly against each other, rising and falling.
They wait, just a flash of a second, and the stampeding of footsteps passes their spot. John has known too much, seen too much, and it takes a long moment before his shoulders slump in relief. They both gasp for breath, lungs constricting, and a chuckle bursts from John's mouth, breaking the silence.
The alley is stifling, reeking of sweat and piss, but the freedom is sweet. With Sherlock, John feels like he owns the world.
The time stretches out. Sherlock is forced up against the grimy, disgusting wall, angular and sharp and hot next to John. When John looks up to find Sherlock staring at him with some kind of mad intensity, John shivers, caught.
"Did I do something?"
"Not yet," Sherlock says, his breath hot against John's cheek. "But I'm rather hoping you will."
Air, John thinks, because he's having trouble breathing again.
"I don't care," Sherlock says, and grabs John by the front of his sweater, pulling John up—not to his mouth, but to the white column of his neck. John can only pant against Sherlock's neck, his lips brushing the pale, glorious skin of Sherlock's throat, the pulse there racing.
What if John is wrong? Three-quarters of the time he doesn't even know what Sherlock is talking about.
"Do I need to send a bloody invitation?" Sherlock says, low and hissing, and John needs nothing else, no further mandate before he opens his mouth over Sherlock's neck and bites into it, tasting skin and sweat. He bites deeper, wanting to taste blood, wanting to hear the hitching sounds of Sherlock's breath.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes and slides his cold fingers at the nape of John's neck, pulling him closer. John presses closer, mouth opening further, tongue soothing the bite and teeth grazing behind it.
John's skin is on fire and he grabs for Sherlock's delicate wrist, pushing the one not at his neck against the wall, and when Sherlock makes a wounded sound unlike nothing John ever expected, John pulls back.
His grin is sharp and maybe a little diabolical. He wraps his hand around Sherlock's throat very loosely, thumb rubbing at the mark he has made.
Sherlock's irises are barely-there, and there's a fine sheen of sweat at his temples that might be from running but might not be. His mouth—his gorgeous pink mouth is open and wet and John leans forward and—
"There they are!" a voice yells from the mouth of the alley.
John curses, and Sherlock grabs him, and together they take off.