Nov 1, 2018
There was no sleeping that night. And not due to the awkward stammering in the stacks of the library. Or the phrasing of what felt as a sudden dismissal. All Sherlock could think about was John's gaze on his neck, lips, reddening cheeks. How heated he felt under that gaze, how alone when John left. He was itching with desperation to not just be looked at but also touched. It was juvenile fantasy. But he was alone in his bedroom, it was past midnight, and he could indulge. He imagined John's hand reaching to touch his cheek, his fingers brushing his lips. He buried his head into the pillow and groaned. Could John ever see him like that, ever want him?
