"Oh, you are, aren't you?" Watson breathed, smirking a little. He slid his hand up Holmes's back, and moved to kiss him properly. "But we are talking now, I suppose. Is this all you desire?"

He was beyond teasing; he needed the answer to be no, because the alternative was to keep dancing, and while it was certainly pleasant, it wasn't was he wanted, not truly. There was a desperation in that. Though Watson found it easy enough to disconnect himself, to be in the moment and only in the moment (and a fortunate thing that was, for how would he have ever managed to let himself love a man if he were otherwise), this was touched by the darkness of dread, the sharp tang of fear that always seemed to flavour their lives. They could die tomorrow. They could die now. There was nothing permanent in their lives except each other and they could lose that at any moment. Watson could never quite forget that fact, nor the fact that he seemed to need Holmes like he needed air.

To make his point a little clearer, he kissed him again, unable to help himself, his fingers at the back of Holmes's neck. He had all the attitude of a connossieur savouring a fine wine.