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John continues chuckling as he dips his key into the front door, the light from the street lamps guiding the way even if he himself is lost in laughter. Sherlock closes the door behind them as they tramp up the 17 steps to 221b, breaths still laboured from giggling and adrenaline, feeling somewhat loopy and high, not to be helped from a severe lack of food and sleep during the last week due to the onslaught of their latest [solved] case. John's progress is somewhat slowed down from the weight of the detective's hands on his shoulders behind him, who is using the doctor as a light crutch while doubled over in laughter.
John lightly looses his footing on his approach to the landing, pivoting slightly on his other foot and causing the two of them to both shift unbalanced on the final steps. They catch themselves against the wall to avoid falling, the stumble adding to their lack-of-sleep-induced hilarity.
Grabbing Sherlock's arm lightly, John assists the duo up the last step, onto the landing, and into the safe and welcoming embrace of their flat.
“Did you see her face? I've never seen her get her knickers in such a twist!” laughed John, throwing his coat off before pushing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes in attempt to control himself.
Sherlock dispensed of his coat as well. “It had nothing to do with her knickers John, that's just Sally's face. Not to mention, I made the most unfortunate observation that she wasn't even wearing knickers after just having attempted to shag Anderson. And I say attempted, as, well, I already went into why it was merely an attempt.”
This brings even more tears to John's eyes as he makes his way over to the sofa and plops down unceremoniously, bringing his head back onto the cushion as a tear of laughter runs down his cheek.
“Yes, yes. A most unfortunate observation which you felt compelled to announce to the entirety of Scotland Yard after having just solved yet another case, apprehended a gang of gun-wielding criminals after barely missing getting shot, all the while missing a shoe, having lost it in the Thames.”
Sherlock stared down at his feet...one shoe and one disgusting sock. He shed the shoe and flung himself onto the other end of the sofa with a forced huff and almost puppy-dog like look.
“Well, it was so obvious and after all the hell Sally sometimes puts us through it's quite fitting to announce that she can't quite convince Anderson to get it up.”
John starts giggling again. Not just because of the embarrassing situation Sherlock had left Donovan and Anderson in, but because of the general absurdity of the entire day – hell, the entire week – and which culminated in an intensely shocking soap opera drama back at Scotland Yard.
“Donovan,” John mimics Sherlock “You really must get over yourself. You missed the obvious evidence which would have led you to your ability to charge the Patricks brothers for murder. And its not only the Patricks brothers. I see that you can't even charge Anderson with being good in bed. Indeed. You've had to drop that charge due to lack of evidence. Not really your lucky day, is it now?” John barely finishes the statement before bursting out in laughter again. Not only had Sherlock thoroughly chastised Sally, he had made a joke.
Sherlock had been maintaining a light grin this entire time and John's attempt to mimic him edges the corner of his mouth up just a bit more.
“A joke Sherlock. And not even a joke. An erectile dysfunction joke. Since when do you make jokes?”
“I wasn't trying to make a joke John, I was just observing. I must, admit, however, I am quite impressed by how it turned out. At least I didn't berate Anderson for not coming on time. To the crime scene, of course. ”
John's eyes widen and he lets out a small coughlike-chuckle. “Sherlock...was that...another joke?”
“Again John, merely an observation,” Sherlock quips, but his face still holds his grin. “I can continue my observations if you'd like.”
By this time John can not quite calm down due to the mixture of hunger, exhaustion and his flatmate's sense of humour which he can still not quite comprehend.
“No, no, stop, Sherlock stop, I can't breathe you stupid git,” John chuckles as he lightly pushes Sherlock, teasing and still grinning.
“How about....” Sherlock's voice trails off as John leans over the side of the couch and wraps his hand over the detective's mouth in a dreaded attempt to stifle the next terrible joke or euphemism about to come out of Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock flails around, still attempting to get his words out, but instead of words a huge gasping breath escaps him as John accidentally tumbles onto him, the air being forced out of their chests.
By this point John is slightly dazed from laughter, and the awkward fumble causes his hand to run up across the detective's lips, his forehead, and then his hair. Before he can move another inch Sherlock has already regained his ability to speak, although still pinned down on the couch.
“Sorry Donovan, no hard feelings.”
John can't stand it anymore. He can't stand awkwardly lying on the other detective but really, he can not stand the jokes. He is much to susceptible to laughter tonight and his chest is aching with joyous pain.
He alters his position slightly over the detective's squirming form, knees now straddling the awkward comedian and now in a better position to regain the upper-hand and place his hand once again over Sherlock's mouth.
“No more. Stop. Seriously Sherlock. I'm going to rupture something otherwise. Seriously. We should sleep. Tomorrow morning we have to meet with Lestrade again, which means we only have four hours until we have to get up again.”
Sherlock's eyes widen again. Shock? Understanding? John takes his hand somewhat off his mouth to let the detective get his next words out.
“Get. Up. Again.”
This sends John spiraling once again into maddening giggles, which he loves, but which he also hates because he is really trying to make this stop. He puts his right hand to his face, his left back against Sherlock's mouth, and pushes his hand against the lids of his eyes, forcing himself into some sense of sobriety.
After a few seconds he takes his hand down from his face, finally feeling in some sort of control over himself and his earlier uncontrollable laughter. But as soon as he does so his light calmness is replaced by just a bit of, well, let's say awkwardness.
He is still straddling his flatmate. Yes, he sees this now, now that he is no longer in his laughter induced haze. He is straddling Sherlock, with his hand over his flatmate's mouth...which means to be able to do this he is at quite an interestingly acute angle.
He takes one second to access the situation and removes his hand from Sherlock's face. He is about to react with embarrassment, with an apology, with an awkward “Oh, sorry, um. Right. I'll just...” but a split second before he acknowledges the embarrassment, the apology and the awkwardness, he sees a look in the detective's eyes. Sherlock's face is lightly red from the lack of oxygen, his hair tussled after their scuffle on the sofa, and his lips glistening from saliva and sweat. And his eyes...his eyes are laughing and teasing but also dark and hazy. And in that same split second he feels the detective's body beneath him, the heat radiating upwards.
And...oh. Oh. He failed to notice that during this tussle, somehow, Sherlock's hands had landed on each of his thighs.
One moment later John lets gravity do the work for him as he makes the angle between the two of them even more acute until it doesn't exist at all and his hand is back on Sherlock's face once more, this time joined by his other hand, cradling the detective's face.
And as John's hands and body move closer, Sherlock turns the tables around, mimicking John and moving his hands to cup the doctor's face and bringing him down towards him, their lips lightly brushing before closing the distance, lips parting and breaths sighing but still struggling for air. A long, deep, treacherous kiss that sucks the life out of each of them, bodies magnetising and breaths catching in their throats. Limbs entangled and passion bubbling uncontrollably.
But it doesn't happen like that.
--------------------
He knows it's going to happen as soon as they get into the taxi. He doesn't have to have Sherlock's powers of observation and discovery to know that there's an attack on the horizon, a possessive, physical, intimate and dangerous attack. Truth be told, he never saw it coming really. He knew Sherlock was dangerous and he knew he was passionate, but he never really allowed himself to think those went hand in hand with intimacy. Well, that's not quite true, he did allow himself to think that time to time, which resulted in some ridiculous shower wanks as he held himself up against the bathroom wall.
No, he didn't quite see it coming. He had pinned Sherlock to the wall in the middle of a chase. He might never be forgiven, even if he knew it was for the detective's own protection. Sherlock was running into a trap. Well, not exactly. Indeed, it was a trap they were both fully aware of and which Lestrade's team had infiltrated, but that was before they knew just how many members were involved in the killing spree. It wasn't a duo as they had imagined and as Sherlock had attempted to deduce. Indeed, they were running right into what could have been a massacre, with eight men wielding knives and with an intent to kill.
Running after them would do no good. The most intelligent thing to do would be to radio Lestrade and inform him of the increasing number of murderers on their hands, rather than let Sherlock and himself fall into the hands of a secret society of notorious torturers. No, he had Sherlock in a vice against the wall, his body and one arm holding him against the brick building as his other hand went to his pocket, bringing his mobile out with it and dialing Lestrade's number.
“There's at least eight of them. I'd suggest still following the plan but I've held Sherlock and I down the alley and they've gone into the warehouse. It's too dangerous for us this way, so we'll cut around back towards you.”
John hung up. He was panting. Sherlock was panting. But he couldn't see his face, with the detective facing the brick building.
“I'm going to let go now Sherlock. But it isn't safe. We can go and join Greg's team. I know you want to ascertain the vial yourself, but they can do it just fine and you and I both know that while two versus two was manageable, two versus eight is a death sentence. I'm going to let you go, and we are going to run around back. Okay? Please?”
No response from the detective. He knew Sherlock was not going to be happy. Not. One. Bit.
He waited another second, knowing Lestrade's team would be able to handle everything for the first few minutes, and wanting to be sure the criminals were apprehended before Sherlock got it into his brain to ignore John's protests and continue running down the other side of the warehouse, away from the safety of Lestrade's team.
John sighed, retaining his grip but bending forward slightly into Sherlock's back, attempting to show Sherlock he was just trying to help, protect and care for the detective rather than coddle him. But that was a mistake. The intimacy of holding Sherlock so tightly against him and between his body and the wall had created a bit of a problem for him, but midst the worry, the adrenaline and the phone call he hadn't noticed this problem until he had leaned closer towards the detective. He pulled away and let go of Sherlock as soon as he noticed, but not soon enough. Sherlock must have noticed. He obviously observed...no...felt...the start of an erection against the back of his thigh. But only for a moment.
When John let go of the detective he took a few steps back, a bit scared that the detective might take a punch at him, but also prepared to run after the git if he decided to take off in the wrong direction.
Instead, Sherlock just turned around and stared. Glared. Scowled. Shot a dozen daggers in John's direction. The gaze was heated. It was dangerous. John couldn't help shuddering from the stare, nor could he help the twitch of his cock as he saw the danger move towards him, disheveled and heated. Sherlock continued his scowl right up until he was mere inches from John's face. But before John could even consider his options, Sherlock immediately turned on his heel and fled towards Lestrade's team, with John right on his tail.
The wrap up of the scene had been just as tense. Sherlock barely spoke to John at all, and only in a very terse manner when absolutely necessary. Instead of speaking he only stared. An angry, heated, frustrated and intense glare that shot straight through Jone's bones and formed a pool of something in his stomach. Lestrade shot John a questioning look, but John just shook his head and attempted to concentrate on just getting the case over and done with.
And once that was that, the two hailed a cab and got in. They stuck to their respective sides of the cab, the silence in the vehicle stagnant and vicious. John attempted to stare out the window the entire time, but every so often he was able to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the window, staring at him with that same heated intensity. Was that anger? Or was it....something else?
John wracked his brain and tried to think of any excuse whatsoever why he might need to go anywhere else but back to the flat. That stare. What was that? What would happen on the other side of that door? If he didn't know and trust Sherlock as much as he did he would probably be scared for his life, and he'd most definitely escape from any further confrontation.
But he really couldn't think of an excuse and, even if he could, Sherlock would probably bite his face off in that very cab if John tried anything like that.
They were just a few minutes from the flat now. John flashed through that afternoon's events to try to get ahold of what exactly had happened between the two of them so that he could try to predict what exactly was going to happen in the next few minutes.
He remembered pushing Sherlock against the wall and holding him there. For his own safety. For their safety. He remembered talking to Lestrade while still holding the detective to the wall (somehow). He remembered leaning into the detective's body afterwards in an attempt to say “Okay, moving off now, but I'm so, so very sorry, you understand, don't you?” only to realise that by doing so they both suddenly became aware of John's goddamn erection. From holding Sherlock. From pinning him aggressively to the wall, hopeless, angry.
The cab drops them off in front of the flat, they pay the fare, and Sherlock makes sure that John leads the way instead of running off somewhere else instead. They climb up the stairs, the impending doom sending shivers down John's spine. He opens the door to their flat and walks in two steps, but that's as far as he gets.
The door slams shut and before his body can react to the force of that sound and the shaking of the walls, his body is shoved against the still shuddering door. His body is pinned to the wall and while in most cases he could probably start fighting off the force holding him there, he instead feels like stone. He can't move, he's in shock, and he wouldn't want to hurt Sherlock anyways.
Sherlock is holding his hands above him and against the door, Sherlock's body pinning his own to the door, and he can both hear and feel their two heavy breaths heaving up and down. But he can't see anything, his vision obscured by the door in front of him. His eyes are closed tight and while he knows he is breathing heavily he also feels like he can't breathe at all.
Suddenly, he hears a low growl next to his right ear, “That wasn't nice, John.”
Another shiver runs through John's spine and he can feel a spark in his veins while his stomach starts to flop and all he can do is keep his eyes closed. That's as much control as he has in this situation right now.
“I was so close John, and you stopped me,” he continued, in another low growl.
“But that is not all John, is it? You did not just stop me from running straight into that warehouse. You pinned me against the wall. You could have just said something. Tripped me. Held my hands around my back to stop me. But no. Your decision to pin me against the wall? Why John?” he growls once more and waits.
Suddenly, John feels the pressing of Sherlock's groin into his lower back, “Is this why, John? Such an interesting choice of restraint.” John can only gasp and whimper as Sherlock grinds once again against his back.
Sherlock brings his mouth closer to his ear, whispering “John, you're not answering me,” before lightly biting John's earlobe. John shudders again but before he can say anything Sherlock uses his hands to rotate John's body around. Before John can take advantage of his own space, Sherlock pins him once again to the wall, hands again overhead.
This time John sees. He sees everything. He sees that heated intensity of Sherlock's stare, a scowl that isn't really a scowl, a glare that isn't really a glare. It's a look that's almost...predatory. As if Sherlock is about to pounce on him, about to strike at him and consume him. And while John is somewhat terrified he also feels like a puddle beneath Sherlock's feet, his legs are shaking and his arms feel like jelly. But his neurons are firing like crazy with both pain and pleasure and as Sherlock's body pins itself against him he knows he is wrong. His body is not a puddle. He is definitely hard, and he can feel Sherlock's erection against his own, and all he can see is stars and red and pain and pleasure.
“John,” Sherlock growls. He growls it one more time before he pushes his face towards John, pushes his lips into John's, consuming him. John's body on fire. His hands and arms ache, his body is full of tiny pricks of pain but the pain shoots down to his groin and all he can do is arch his body into Sherlock's, press his lips and his tongue forward and over and through and in and out and...
But it doesn't happen like that.
-------------------
John takes his portion of Chinese takeout to the sofa, plopping down with his feet on the coffee table, cold beer in one hand and warm food in the other. Setting his beer down he takes the remote out and turns on the telly, ready to watch some mindless television while consuming his food, famished.
Sherlock walks toward him, food in hand, and plops down on the sofa as well, mimicking John's pose and lightly digging into his supper. They both just sit, eating and watching the television set in front of them. It was nice like this. A calm and relaxing night after a few days of crazy running and case solving. John loved these moments just as much as the adrenaline filled chaos of the week. He would relax. Sherlock would need another case soon. He couldn't stand too many nights off. But this night, the first night after a successful few days hunt, this night was just fine.
The lights were low, the glare from the television and from the streetlamps outside showing them the way to their food. Sherlock played with his food a bit, taking a few bites before shoving the rest of it away from him, finally allowing himself to ease back against the back of the sofa, his body a bit less tense than a few moments prior.
His attempts at relaxing his body cause his leg to briefly brush against John's. But only for a moment. It was nice. Comforting. Familiar. John noticed the touch, his chewing slightly paused, but after a millisecond his brain comes back online and he finishes his mouthful, allowing himself to return his attention back to the telly.
A few minutes later he finishes the last bite of his food, his body too comfortable to move a single inch. Sherlock glances at him. “Done?” he asks. “Tea?”
“Oh, um, yeah, great, thanks,” John mumbles, his attention pulled from the television and to Sherlock, a bit surprised by the offer of tea but very grateful for the offer. Sherlock lifts himself off the couch, leaning forward over John to collect his Chinese takeout, his hands unintentionally and lightly grazing John's along the way. Two slight fingers had grazed across the back of John's hand, the feather-like touch initially tickling, but leaving a searing feeling once the cold, pale digits finishing their quick trace. Sherlock takes their food remnants to the kitchen, depositing them while turning on the kettle and bringing out two mugs.
A few moments later, Sherlock returns to the sofa, two teacups in hand. He holds one out for John, another light graze of hands as the tea is transferred to a different owner. Sherlock settles back into the sofa, perhaps just a bit closer to John than he had been before.
The pair continues their relaxing night in front of the television, John setting down his empty mug once he finishes, and allowing himself to slouch further into the back of the couch, no longer needing to keep an eye on warm food or hot tea in his hands.
Suddenly, John is lightly jolted awake to find himself on a slight angle, his head still against the back of the sofa but angled closer to Sherlock so much so that he could smell Sherlock's hair, and almost feel the wisps of the hair on his nose, almost tickling his skin. He breathes in lightly, taking in the scent of Sherlock and he finds it momentarily difficult to fight back a sudden urge to bring his nose in closer, to breathe in deeper and to nuzzle just there.
He had been roused from his nap by Sherlock's hand on his knee, a brief touch to awaken the doctor from his slumber. John allows himself to stay under that touch for as long as he can without making it look too awkward, allowing the warmth from Sherlock's touch to radiate upwards. John mumbles lightly before moving back to his previous position, shutting his eyes quickly again, and slowly opening them once more.
“Mmm, sorry. Must have dozed off there. I think my body is telling me it needs some sleep.” John slowly lifts himself to his feet, losing Sherlock's touch and stretching his arms above his head as he did, his shirt riding just slightly upwards, a centimeter or two of skin exposed. Sherlock quickly glances at the stretching doctor, then at that centimeter or two of skin, and then to the indentation in the sofa the doctor had left in his wake.
“You should catch some sleep too, you know,” John mumbles, breathing enough energy back into his body to prepare for his trek upstairs to his room. “I know you don't really sleep, but it has been a hell of a week and I know you need it.”
“Sleep is for the weak, John,” Sherlock states, although his eyelids don't necessarily fully agree with him.
John notices. “And not sleeping is for the weaker, come on you git,” he says, offering his hand to help the detective out of the cozy confines of the sofa. Sherlock takes it, allowing the doctor to help him off the sofa and again mimicking John by stretching his own hands above his head. He thought he saw a small smile on the doctor's face but before he can be sure John turns towards the coffee table, grabbing the two empty mugs and carrying them towards the kitchen. Sherlock follows him, brushing against the doctor's back at the sink as he grabs the empty bags of Chinese takeout to toss them in the bin. John has to force himself not to shudder at the contact, no matter how light or accidental it may have been. John feels his eyes close lightly, memorising the touch, before opening his eyes again to continue the quick washing up of the mugs in the sink.
He is just about done washing the second cup when Sherlock reaches in front of John at the sink, squeezing a bit of soap into his hands after having just disposed of all of their empty Chinese takeout. He reaches over, leaning towards John so that he just barely brushes the side of his own torso with that of John's at the sink. John has just finished cleaning the two mugs now but lets the water continue running as Sherlock reaches back over to rinse his hands of the soap. John steps just out of the way to allow Sherlock access to the sink, toweling off his hands before passing the towel over to Sherlock.
He is more careful this time. He wants that touch. Just one more time tonight. One last time so he can take all of tonight's touches, roll them into one and tuck them away in his memory nice and safe. But he doesn't want to need it and he doesn't want Sherlock to observe that he wants it, that he needs it. He barely feels the it this time, and really only through a layer of the towel with just the lightest touch of a finger, but it is enough. For tonight, it is enough.
John slowly makes his way to the edge of the staircase before slowly turning his head back towards the kitchen. “Night Sherlock,” he calls. He waits a minute for a response, but there is none, and John makes his way up the stairs, shutting his bedroom door behind him before leaning against it, a long stuttering sigh escaping his lips.
His skin tingles. This is what happens when Sherlock touches him now. He can't really remember a time when it didn't. He also can't remember when he started memorising the touches and carrying the memories of them along with him to bed each night, thinking of each accidental touch and replaying them over and over again as he traces one of his hands over the other, feeling Sherlock's touch instead of his own. He falls asleep like that most nights now, the memories of each touch igniting tender spots along his body, a slow burning fire licking its way through his veins.
Tonight would not be much different, except for the fact that he has much, much more to play with. The graze of Sherlock's fingers not once, but three times tonight, the cool pale digits etching burning lines into his skin, leaving a stinging trail in their wake.
And the hand on his knee. John flops onto his bed, a warm memory of that lovely hand against his knee. He feels like a schoolgirl with her first major crush, but he relishes that feeling as he remembers each touch down to the last detail. And not only the touches, but the smells. What a perfect way to wake up - feeling Sherlock's warm hand on his knee and smelling his luscious curls so near to his face that he could feel a few strands tickling his nose.
But he feels his body temperature increase slightly with the memory of feeling more of Sherlock's body than he usually does. How the detective brushed against his back only to return moments later to brush against his side when reaching the soap. Perfectly friendly movements...perhaps...but for John they wreak havoc on his body and his mind replays each pass in slow motion, feeling the weight and texture of the detective against him.
John closes his eyes, replaying these moments one more time before pressing his fingertips to his eyes, either hoping for the images to fade away or maybe asking them to progress, to alter, to change into something real, something fantastical, something more.
His fingertips are still to his eyes when he hears light steps on the stairs outside his bedroom. Sherlock's. His mind races, wondering why the detective might be coming up the stairs to his room. Did he forget his phone or any of his belongings downstairs? No. And John could swear the footsteps were lighter than usual, as if the detective was trying to go soundlessly up those few steps towards him.
The footsteps stop outside the door but not a single word is spoken, nor is there a knock at the door. The steps and their owner wait just outside the door. John almost wants to call out to make sure Sherlock is okay, but when he tries to do so he feels his voice is trapped, barely letting out a squeak, and his body is paralysed in fear or...something. He hears a quiet sigh on the other side of the door but still, no word, no knock, no anything.
A whole minute goes by in complete silence. John feels his heart pound in his chest and his whole body throbs in fear and anticipation and confusion. Another quiet sigh on the other side of the door. Was Sherlock planning to stand out there all night? Was he planning to knock? Or would he change his mind and just walk back down the stairs?
Finally, John can't take it anymore. He shuffles towards the door but he doesn't quite have the willpower to open it. Not tonight. His body and mind are too sore, too broken, too needy. He just wants to end this night with thoughts of Sherlock's touches, instead of any ridiculous drama or discovery he might find on the other side of that door. He puts his head against the door, leaning his weight against it as if leaning into Sherlock himself.
Of course Sherlock knows he had made his way to the door, for as soon as his head leans against the wood Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “John,” Sherlock's voice lightly rattles.
“Yes, Sherlock?” John throatily returns, face still flushed and heart pounding. God, what was happening to him? For all he knew Sherlock was coming up to ask him a question about a case, or remind him of something for tomorrow, or something equally innocuous.
“John, will you just open the door?” asks Sherlock, almost exasperatingly, but still hushed.
John takes another breath. He pushes himself lightly from the door. Hesitates. Head bent, he closes his eyes momentarily before opening them again as he opens the door to his bedroom. The detective on the other side just stares with him, fumbling with his hands and shuffling with his feet before taking a single step over the threshold to John's bedroom. He stops, with only an inch or so separating them from each other.
“I'm just tired Sherlock,” John sighs, hoping the detective will take the hint and exit the same way he had entered. Instead, the detective just leans forward, allowing their foreheads to press against one another. They each close their eyes, savouring the closeness and the feel of skin to skin contact. John doesn't know whether his fight or flight response should kick in, but even if he had a say in the matter he couldn't do either. He feels compelled to stay exactly the way he is.
They can feel and almost taste each other's breaths. John feels as if he is drowning and on fire at the same time, his pulse increasing and his palms sweaty.
Sherlock raises his hand and holds it to John's cheek, letting it stay there and sink and leave a warm handprint.
“John,” Sherlock breathes. He allows his lips to just barely graze the doctor's, and they just stay there for what feels like years. Foreheads leaning against one another and lips touching, but oh, just barely.
John is still silent. His heart is pounding, his voice inside screaming, his body yelling for release and his veins ablaze with want and need and pain. He wants to say something, anything, but his senses are too overcome with the new sensation against his lips. Such sweet, delicate lips, almost as if they weren't even there.
He can't take it anymore. He closes what little space there is between them, applying more pressure and lightly touching his tongue against the detective's lower lip. A light moan escapes the detective's lips and John takes this as an invitation to delve deeper. His hands go up to cup Sherlock's face and Sherlock mimics him by bringing his other hand over to John's other cheek and the kiss deepens. The two allow their lips and tongues to explore, each giving the other his own breath, desperate but soft and gloriously tortuous.
But it doesn't happen like that.
--------------------
[John sighs deeply.]
It doesn't happen with a laughing rough-and-tumble on the sofa.
Nor does it happen with a forceful pinning to the wall.
It doesn't happen with a brush of delicate hands, a shuffle on the other side of the door or two foreheads and two lips merging into one.
It doesn't happen like that.
Because it doesn't happen at all.