Sherlock practically growled at the praise, pressing against John as much as possible, free hand demanding there be no space between them as he pressed against his back hard enough to bruise. He would murder anyone who so much as looked at John. Every word from John's lips were for his ears only, every thought for him alone to digest and enjoy. If he couldn't have John to himself, he'd simply have to kill everyone. Including John. Like the heart in the jar he could just keep the pieces of him that mattered and never fear of losing or having to share him ever.
Sherlock moaned against John's skin, pleasure tainted in mild terror. No, he'd never kill John. He could never dream of doing such a thing. That wasn't right; those weren't his thoughts. As much as sense seemed to reason they needed to stop and consider what might be happening above and beyond the sexual stimulation, a foreign hunger in him demanded more. He needed John more than he needed anything in all of creation.
no subject
Sherlock moaned against John's skin, pleasure tainted in mild terror. No, he'd never kill John. He could never dream of doing such a thing. That wasn't right; those weren't his thoughts. As much as sense seemed to reason they needed to stop and consider what might be happening above and beyond the sexual stimulation, a foreign hunger in him demanded more. He needed John more than he needed anything in all of creation.