John loves the thrum of the motorcycle beneath them; the landscape blurred and rushing past, fields and trees and sky swept up in the wind. He’s never been on anything so fast in his life. Before Sherlock, nothing was ever so fast in his life. He holds onto Sherlock’s waist and he can feel the warmth and solidity of him, the way the machinations of the engine seem to vibrate through Sherlock’s body, as if man and machine melded together, operated together. Right now, out on the open road, with no one around for miles and no eyes upon them except the eyes of God, they could be anyone, anything. John could do anything, the wind singing in his ears and in his heart, rushing through the bloodwork roadmap of his body. He slides his hand down, over Sherlock’s taut stomach and dipping down to his thigh and between his thighs, feeling the heat of him, the hard press of him, the heat of Sherlock and the bike together. He feels Sherlock’s chest heave, can’t hear the way he gasps what with the wind and the roar of the engine, roaring louder as Sherlock goes hard on the throttle to make John hold onto him tighter, the two of them going faster, addicts high on the thrill of danger and speed. But when they stop later, motorcycle left on the side of the road, Sherlock presses John against a tree, telling him, voice low, “You’re dangerous,” and the way they kiss is sweet and slow, slow, slow.
Wow, that is gorgeous.
