dirtycorzaharkness asked prettyarbitrary:

if you’re still taking prompts, john/sherlock cthulhu or ballroom dancing au.

Oh, you know, Lovecraft or ballroom dancing.  Either/or.  Not like that’s a whipcrack contrast or anything. 😉

John opens his eyes when he feels the bed dip; Sherlock swings one immaculately naked ivory leg over his hips, and stretches out luxuriously atop him, a heavy, living weight of muscle and bone.  

He is cold as winter marble.

John can’t move, except to reach out and wrap his arms around Sherlock’s frigid shoulders.  The chill soaks into him till he’s wracked with shivers, but Sherlock’s eyes are so warm when they meet John’s with a teasing smile, and his lips are the perfect soft kiss of the first winter snowfall as they brush with gentle desire at John’s.  Even though John knows what comes next, he can’t bear to turn that affection away.  He wants too badly, aches too deeply, and Sherlock knows it.

They kiss langorously, lips and tongues stroking and twining, in just the way John never believed he could have.  And Sherlock’s breath pours into him, a gelid tendril creeping down into his lungs.  John can feel it there, the frost piercing the blood-air barrier of his lungs to invade his bloodstream, feasting on his heat to multiply in his veins and spread through his body.

He wakes up alone, chest aching with the cold.  Every night, it seeps a little deeper.  John doesn’t know whether to love or dread sleep.