americas_son | (no subject)

Sherlock gives him a studying look, lowering the violin momentarily. When did he stop playing again?

Cal wouldn't be able to answer that if Sherlock asked.

He looks at the floor.

He's just tired and it's been a long couple of days and he's not -

He never cared that much about watching Sherlock play before.

(Did he?)

He sets his violin back in its case and comes forward to sit beside Cal on the couch.

Another thing Cal's been doing a lot of today: Looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

It isn't usually this hard to do.

Well. Here they are, then.

Sherlock has a strong feeling that he should get right back up and keep playing, and an equally strong feeling that that is the last thing on Earth he wants to do. While he is deciding between them, he looks into Cal's eyes as though if he watches closely enough he can see right through them into the mind on the other side.

And now he finds he couldn't look away if he tried.

It's not as terrifying as he might have imagined it would be.

It's Sherlock.

It is.

He smiles, uncharacteristically tentative.

It's all getting to be too much. Something is going to have to give.

Much to his own surprise, that something is Cal, who leans in and kisses Sherlock like he'd meant to do it all along.

He hadn't. He really, really hadn't. But, at least for this moment, that doesn't seem very important anymore.

—Oh. Well then.

Only one outcome is possible from here.

Sherlock very gently and affectionately kisses him back.

Cal reaches up automatically to touch Sherlock's cheek and - and that is definitely some five o'clock shadow under his fingers there. He's not sure what to think about that, so.

He doesn't.

Not thinking isn't exactly much of a chore right now, anyway. This is - this fits. This makes sense.

However he might feel about it in thirty seconds, right now he can't imagine a single reason why it didn't happen sooner.

It must be because he's so tired.

That is the only explanation for why Sherlock is not analyzing this moment on every available level, taking it apart at the seams to understand just what is going on and why and how it happened. He has in fact stopped at the level of awareness that says this is entirely perfect, and is reaching no farther.

But he doesn't feel tired anymore. The weight of exhaustion lifted around the time Cal met his eyes. He just feels right. As though this of all things is exactly what he needed.

His own hand rises to cover Cal's.

If he keeps kissing Sherlock, then he doesn't have to think about kissing Sherlock.

If Cal were currently capable of forming a plan, that would probably be the one he'd pick. But then, if he were currently capable of forming a plan, it wouldn't work, because he'd have to be thinking in order to do it.

Any plan that involves Cal continuing to kiss Sherlock is a good plan, and one Sherlock supports!

Nevertheless, there's something holding him back—some instinct that says giving in to his impulse to slide into Cal's lap would be a bad idea. With so much of his usual analysis suspended, he doesn't follow it to the root to find out why. He just shifts a little closer on the couch instead, stroking the back of Cal's hand with his thumb.

Having Sherlock closer is good. Cal shifts a little himself, for a better angle, and slides his other hand carefully around Sherlock's waist.

Has he by any chance mentioned that this is perfect?

Because it is. It really, really is.

Everything, the taste of Cal's lips and the smell of his breath and the warmth of his hands, everything is perfect. Sherlock's eyes fall shut; with so many senses to choose from, sight is the first to become superfluous.

This is exactly what he was thinking while he was watching Sherlock play, about touching him and feeling what he's like with his guard down like this, with that mind Cal can always see working doing nothing more than absorbing the moment.

Touchable.

He breathes a quiet, contented sigh.

Absorbing the moment. Yes, exactly. Not reflecting, not studying, just... letting it happen. Letting his hand drift to Cal's jaw and his lips part slightly and his eyelashes flutter when he inhales again.

Cal is more than willing to take the implied invitation, brushing his tongue gently against Sherlock's lips.

(It's been a long, exhausting weekend. They both need this.)

Sherlock slides an arm around Cal's shoulders and presses closer. Whatever half-conscious mechanism is in charge of these things is starting to reconsider the lap option, particularly when it becomes apparent that Cal's tongue is as delicious as the rest of him.

Cal's arm tightens encouragingly around Sherlock's waist, his other hand slipping back around into Sherlock's hair.

Oh, the hell with it.

He straddles Cal's lap in a quick, fluid movement and kisses him again immediately.

The move takes Cal by surprise, but Sherlock doesn't leave him time to think about it. At least, not more than a second or two.

But the momentum that's carrying them along bridges the gap nicely, and he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist before any of the dozen unwelcome thoughts threatening around the edges can burst free.

There will be plenty of time for thinking later. Not now. Not now.

Bracing his hands on the back of the couch lets him lean even closer, which in Sherlock's opinion is an unqualified win. He hums triumphantly into Cal's mouth.

Closer is good. The heat is fairly pouring off Sherlock now, and that's good, too.

He can't help but laugh just a little at the humming, though. It's so - Sherlock.

(But that's why this is happening, isn't it? Of course. It's Sherlock. The rules have always been different with him.

It's perfectly okay.)

Which sets Sherlock to laughing, too, between quick, soft kisses.