The wall had it coming.

textsfromjohnandsherlock:

    Idiot.  Idiot idiot idiot.

    Before he realizes it, Sherlock is climbing out of his chair.  The floor: cold (very) on his feet (bare).  The television: strangely muted (to him); inconsequential.  His surroundings dim and narrow down towards one focal point, like he’s looking through a microscope.  He looks at John—not through John—and sees what’s there that he usually can’t.  Won’t.  Really oughtn’t.

    Not hesitant.  Not awkward.  Personal space issues?  Ha.  Walks over and simply sits down on John, in John’s chair.  Legs curl up in and in, and his arms are somewhere, and then his head gets tucked against John’s shoulder.  Heartbeat (faint), heart rate (unknown)—heart hurts, just reduce it.  Reduce everything down to nothing.

    It’s fine, though.  It’s all fine.

    “You’re too heavy to be a cat, Sherlock.”

    Sherlock sighs.  Too bad.

    And John hugs him, just a bit, however “just a bit” is measured.  Seems rather subjective.  “It’s okay,” John says quietly.  “You can talk to me if you want.”

    Only one possible answer: “Thank you.”

    Because Sherlock doesn’t feel disgusting right now.