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When they’re curled on the sofa, heads sharing a cushion and their sweat and breath swirling invisibly together in the air, Sherlock says, “I would like to rot with you when we die.”
“You need to brush up on your pillow talk,” John tells him.
Sherlock hums in agreement and strokes the contours of John’s bicep with a finger. ”Dirt together, though; you can’t say it hasn’t got its charm. In a few decades, no one would be able to tell your flesh from mine. Maybe even a plant…hmm, a hawthorn tree. It’d grow from the nutrients in our mingled blood. Almost like a child.” His smile flashes sharp and amused. ”Beautiful and vicious. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
John rolls his head toward Sherlock. ”Who would you get to plant a hawthorn tree?”
Sherlock shrugs and reaches up to trace the curve of John’s brow ridge. “Our bones would fall together once the connective tissue had decayed. Think of it, John: your ulna, tucked cozy between my ulna and radius. My fibula snugged up to your tibia.” He curls over, crowding John as if to demonstrate, his lower register a hot thrum of black velvet against John’s ear. ”We’d lie locked together, our skeletons interlaced. I’d weave my ribs in with yours, and come to rest in your abdominal cavity.”
John lies quietly for a long moment, Sherlock’s spread hand hot and broad across his belly. Finally he begins to wriggle free to his feet. When Sherlock looks up at him, indignant and nonplussed, John smiles an invitation and holds out a hand. “Come to bed.”