"Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move."
He stretched out his hand.
Another hand instinctively responded.
Between their fingers, there now lay several meters of air and buildings and people. Yet, only yesterday, Sherlock’s fingertips had been pressed gently against John’s neck and chin, had tilted John’s head up so that their lips were only a breath apart.
John, close your eyes.
But they had already shut.
Sherlock leaned in slightly until their bodies touched, chest against chest, legs intertwined, and then, just hovered. His eyes passed over every detail of John’s face. His mind recorded everything he saw. This was important. This was not to be deleted.
For a moment, there was silence—
A subtle touch of fingertips against skin. A soft hum of breaths intermingling. A low, slow drum of heartbeats. Everything synchronizing into one great ebb and flow of rise-and-falls and ins and outs, and gravity gently beckoning, beckoning each towards the other.
For an eternal, intensified moment, there was silence.
…what is it?