Sherlock's lips tasted like rain, like fresh rain on the pavement. And oh, god, he smelled like it too. Once John actually thought about it, he realized Sherlock was rain. He was quiet and beautiful, but in under a mere minute, his eyes could be sparkling in the loudest, most desperate way.
Christ, he was gorgeous.
John loved to knit his fingers in Sherlock's curls and just tug. Then a sultry groan of thunder would escape the latter's mouth, and his eyes would spark with the kind of lightning that lit up the entire night sky.
And it just electrified John.