He slows them down, though they're still vaguely dancing; he winds his arm tighter around Watson and draws him in close, even as he lets go of Watson's hand and opts to lay it against his chest instead. He fingers Watson's collar, the lapels of his jacket, brushes his fingers against the skin of his neck, and lets the kiss drag out because it should drag out. It should never end, none of it; the kiss, the love between them, their life together -- it should all go on for as long as they have the breath in their bodies.

No, he doesn't only desire talking; he desires so much more, he desires everything, desires all of Watson. He needs to feel their connection, needs to feel connected to Watson. He feels so disconnected already, so out-of-step with this trip, with Watson's good mood and his own good mood, but this -- Watson in his arms, it grounds him, and he can find something genuine in it.

"No," he breathes against Watson's lips when their mouths finally ease apart in a fluid motion. "No, my Watson, my John. I desire everything that is you."