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John sat down next to him, grateful for the modicum of freshness the spot provided. His gaze drifted over the bent form of Sherlock, who was oblivious to the spectacle he presented as he crouched on all fours, all caught up in ‘The Work’. John noticed with a certain chagrin he didn’t even look flushed, the creamy white of the throat where it emerged from the open collar of his shirt as pale as ever. Supple and graceful, begging to be caressed with reverent fingertips, ghosted over with barely brushing lips.
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