If this were a romance novel, there would be a fire, two glasses of wine and roses. If this were a Disney movie, there would be little birds, music, vivid colours, so vivid they burn, and a final moral. If this were porn, there would be tongues tracing fast, eager routes down a shaven chest, a sculpted abdomen, skin shining with a layer of sweat. If this were an old movie, here would be an intertitle that’d say “They kiss”, a tickling moustache, a bowler hat blown off by the wind, and a fade-out. If this were a 90s TV show, there would be a canned aaaawww from the audience, a close-up to their mouths, there would be make-up, and next-week preview. If this were a dream, if this were a dream, John’s lips would be of paper, a wet paper that’s melting in the kiss, and Sherlock’s mouth would be a mirror, a steamed up mirror, with a drawn heart as his lips, and licking the mirror is like licking a reflection, it’s like licking oneself -it’s like a cat lazily licking himself, like two cats sharing a kiss. Two cats made of paper kissing each other.
But this is not a dream. It’s not a romance novel, this is not happening on a set, this is not moving at 24 frames per second, there is no make-up, there is no wind. And yet, they kiss.
It’s easy. Their mouths have always been close (since the very beginning; since that Bart’s lab; since incaseyouwereneedingtwobedrooms; since the cab; since their first crime scene together; since that small table at Angelo’s, that small flirting at Angelo’s; since the drugs bust; since that window from which John saved Sherlock from himself; since they walked back home; since walking together was already like being at home). Even with the height difference, their mouths have been always very close, too close, close enough to make this easy. To make a kiss mean only being those few inches closer.
So they kiss. There is pressure - a pug nose pressing against an aristocratic cheek, and pale chin rubbing against stubble - but it’s the wet, warm, electrifying pressure of their mouths which eclipses everything else, in a more-than-pleasant overwhelming way. So overwhelming that John has closed his eyes, drifting in the feeling that is not a dream, that is just pleasure and uncertainty. Because this is unexplored territory, and as the kiss deepens, lasts, for a second of panic, John wonders if Sherlock will have his eyes closed too, and thinks (though he doesn’t dare to check it) that of course he won’t. Those aseptic, slightly intimidating pupils, will be looking at John’s closed eyes. Cataloguing. Observing.
I’d like to tell John that he’s wrong. That Sherlock's eyes are indeed shut. That he isn't methodically cataloguing every sensation the kiss brings, but that he is also reduced to feeling (perceiving? processing?... no, feeling, definitely feeling) what is beneath his lips, his skin, deeper, so much deeper, far away from the surface, feeling what is in his heart (brain? nerves? loins?... no, his heart, definitely his heart). But I can’t tell John this, because I am only the narrator. I exist here only to write that they kiss. That Sherlock and John are kissing in the kitchen.
Obviously their first kiss has to be in the kitchen, because it was a domestic space that Sherlock turned into a war zone. It was a war zone that John has turned into the place they kiss for first time. Was John, then, who decided to kiss Sherlock? Maybe it was him, because in Afghanistan (no, no, even before, much before, at the rugby field), John had got into the habit of moving forward just when everybody and everything had shouted at him to back off, withdraw. One. Step. Forward. Just a few inches closer. Throwing himself into danger. To unexplored territory. So maybe it was him, then, but not because of all the above. No, it was because Sherlock had been leaving (like a trail of bread crumbs), secret hints, signals towards that unexplored territory, hints that whispered (shouted) kiss me (KISS ME). Signals towards the kiss. A trail of breadcrumbs towards his mouth. In fact, just a few seconds before the kiss, just a few seconds after finishing his breakfast, Sherlock had two (distracting, tempting) breadcrumbs on the left corner of his mouth, which John licked away with his (distracting, tempting) tongue. Because John has always been good at following trails.
Obviously their first kiss has to be after breakfast. They kiss after breakfast and before sex. If this were a NC-17 fic, I would write about the amazing (maybe amazing is not enough to cover it) sex (maybe sex is not enough to cover it) they had after the kiss. About just how good John is at following a trail, down down down and into, just a few inches deeper ohjust-t-t-there, or about how good Sherlock is at tracing a map with his fingertips on the new territory that John’s body is, from the West to the East, from the North to the South (oh-the-South-I-will-conquer-you) and again towards the North, teasingly, playfully exploring, with the promise of return.
But this is not a NC-17 fic; nor a dream; nor a novel; nor a movie.
It’s a kiss. A long kiss. A kiss that lasts 895 words. A very long kiss, then. But (because) it’s not a kiss.
It’s the kiss. The kiss that’s going to change everything.