A pair of keen brown eyes move slowly down the detective’s long, lean body.
They are perfectly matched in height and weight, these two. Similar frame, similar weight, similar enough to share clothes although Sherlock is far too proud and far too eccentric to wear anything remotely humble or comfortable. Even though Victor’s suits would fit him well, the tailoring isn’t straining into the seams.
The consulting detective is thoroughly engrossed in a new piece, eyes flickering over the manuscript, frowning across the staves and chords and running his tongue over his top lip. It’s a rare occurrence, and it never takes the other man very long to learn, so Victor stays quiet and watches him carefully.
His curls – dark and wonderful and so very soft and something he wanted to sink his hands into – the slope of his nose, the deep almost-impossible dive of his cupid’s bow balanced by a fullness of his top lip and the sweet, short curve of his lower. A collarbone shifting restlessly under polished wood, adjusting to read, to play, to read, to play.
The rise and fall of his chest, a flat, pale, marble-like expanse – a long torso that goes on for days like his legs. Victor’s gaze still moves over his body, wondering where to kiss, where to nip, where he would pause for breath. He’s unsure for how long he swims through his thoughts, but they’re broken by a thick baritone.
“Victor, you’re very distracting.”
“And so are you,” he replies.