A/N: Written because I needed some resolved UST in my life and I adore 2nd person POV. Let me know what you think guys, I hope you like this!

Enjoy!

Before John, you never truly wanted someone before. Attraction was a bland, uninteresting concept for plebs and commoners. It was never applicable to your own life.

Now, however, it haunts your days and nights. He's the first thought to pop into your head upon waking, and the final thought you indulge in before sleeping.

When John speaks, you hear more than words. You hear the rise and fall of his tone, the comfortable quake of his laughter, the warm pauses of silence in between. When John laughs, there are stars glittering on his tongue and galaxies resting just behind his teeth, and you wish you could press your lips there and burrow into the warm sound.

For the first time in your life, you're pleased to hear someone address you, because you know your name is safe inside John's mouth. He says Sherlock as if the word is a gift.

In the quiet nooks of midnight, John's voice is a sweet song among the darkness, and at dawn, the sounds of him preparing tea downstairs bring about the first vestiges of morning light, even when your blinds have yet to be lifted.

He's the sun and the moon and everything in between, and you can't get enough.

But even with this aching, hungry, desperate want clawing at the pit of your stomach, you remain cool and collected; you know how to control yourself. You keep your shirts crisp and your collars high. You act unruffled when he walks past. You feign a look of indifference when he touches you. You bite down the sigh that bubbles in your throat when he smiles. You force your legs to remain steady when he calls you brilliant.

But beneath that blank expression and cool gaze, your desire boils like lava.

John's eyes are bright and fierce like the glowing blue heart of a flame. The heat of them, the unwavering radiance of them, draws you close like a moth to a lantern. You want to cup your hands to his face and breathe him in.

It isn't just attraction, it is something elemental: something raw and basic that tears through your body like a whip every time he looks at you, speaks to you, or smiles at you in that warm, twinkling way of his. Desire rolls through you like lazy tendrils of cigarette smoke, like plumes of London fog, and the want—the pure, absolute need—consumes you bit by bit until it feels as if you are suffocating inside your skin.

When John reaches for something on the top shelf in the kitchen, his jumper rides up and reveals the band of his pants over his jeans.

You want to rip them off with your teeth.

"Is this the jam you wanted?" John asks, unaware and pure as the snow.

Somehow, your brain dredges up the answer. "Yes."

"Great, I'll just—Sherlock, are you okay?"

Your skin feels too tight, your face is blistering hot, and your hands have grown restless and twitchy against the tabletop. Something insatiable and hungry tears through your chest like a feral animal. Want-want-want. Desire tastes sticky-sweet in the back of your throat.

"I'm fine," you lie. "Would you get the biscuits too?"

Cold showers and meditation. According to the internet, these are the solutions.

You want to write him a song, but every time you set your hands on your violin, the music comes out flustered and uneven: a chaotic scramble of hot crimsons and burning yellows, a deluge of tangled melodies and crooked ballads that sound wild and out of control. If nothing else, the song is an accurate portrayal of what he does to you.

John appears in the doorway with tea in hand. "Are you composing?"

"Yes." Trying to, anyway.

"Do you mind if I stay?"

"No." Of course not.

John reclines back in his chair and listens, his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes keen. He's focused on you, and while you adore the attention, crave it even, you wish you could provide something more beautiful. A love ballad or a sweet melody would be nice.

Instead, you offer confused, jagged notes wrapped in an incomprehensible bar; overzealous pitches and stooping baritones; unsteady spiccato with a tense wrist and sloppy marcato with jumpy fingers. The bow is a wild animal that deflects the notes like rubber: a rapid bounce of music, half on and half off the strings, twisting the sounds into a mess.

"I like it," John says, when you've stopped playing and shadows have fallen across the sitting room. "It's imperfect. It's real."

It's us, you think. It's you.

You don't know how to stop looking at him. There is just so much to see. You could write epics about his eyelashes and novels about his bottom lip. The way his mouth moves when he mispronounces foreign words is captivating, and the look on his face when he laughs is lovely enough to put in a frame and hang over the mantel. His hands are strong and square and beautiful enough for museums. His eyes are mosaics of blue and brown, and are so delightfully expressive, you want to take a picture of him every moment of every day. His hair is an artful juxtaposition of gold, pale yellow, silver, heather grey, dark blonde, light brown, and you wish you could card your fingers through it for ages.

You stare and stare and stare until it eventually becomes a problem, and you have to pinch the inside of your wrist every so often, to remind yourself to avert your eyes before he looks up and notices you, noticing him.

Lust and love are not colored in fiery reds and burning crimsons, as poetry and music might suggest. Rather, they are blue. Deep, endless oceans of blue that run back to the beginning of time, onward into the foreseeable future, downward into the loam and the mire and the half-dissolved fossils, and upward into the yawning, clear sky, with its limitless, infinite, boundless blue. The color of John's eyes. The color of cool waters.

Your love is a bright, hopeful cerulean, and it stretches endlessly in every direction.

The want sits beneath your skin like an itch. Like a rash. Like an illness.

You watch John absently suck honey off the dip of his spoon while he makes his morning tea, and the animal inside of you wants to leap across the table, tear that robe from his shoulders, crowd him against the fridge, and kiss him so deeply that the taste of honey will linger in your mouth for hours.

John licks the corner of his lip and puts the spoon down. "Sherlock, did you hear what I just said?"

"Mm?"

"I asked if you'd spoken to Lestrade about last week's case. The paperwork, remember?"

John's robe offers a wonderful view of his throat and collarbones. You imagine drizzling honey over the elegant column of his neck and licking it clean. Sucking love bites into the side of his throat. Planting kisses along the jut of his collarbones. You lose yourself in the daydream.

"Earth to Sherlock!"

Reality swims back into view. John is standing at the counter with his arms crossed. "Are you even listening to me?"

You blink out of your daze and take a sip of tea. "Of course, John. Now what about the paperwork?"

It, like most miracles, is unexpected.

It happens one night when the two of you are stumbling into the flat after a terribly exciting case, laughing loudly and shushing each other, because it's one in the morning and Mrs. Hudson is sleeping. John is still holding your hand from when the two of you were running down that alleyway and he was pulling you in the right direction and you couldn't stop grinning, and now he's tugging you up the stairs, snickering like you're schoolboys sneaking around after curfew.

There are tears of mirth in your eyes. Everything seems hilarious and vibrant. "I still cannot believe you told that security guard to bugger off."

John swats your shoulder and dissolves into another fit of laughter. "You're the one who bloody told me to! You said it would 'help the overall outcome of the case!'"

"Dear god, your impression of me," you groan, chuckling at John's exaggeratedly deep voice. "I do not sound like that."

"Oh, yes you do," John insists, eyes bright with humor. "Mr. Deep Voice and Dramatic Coat, that's you alright."

It's then that you realize how close you are to him. He's standing on the top step and you've unwittingly crowded him against the wall. Your faces are a mere two and half inches apart.

"Am not," you murmur.

John's eyes look dark and unfathomably deep. "Are too."

"Hm. What else am I?" you ask. Your eyes are on his mouth. You're no longer thinking clearly. Your judgement blurs around the edges, and you press a hand to the wall, effectively caging him in.

John just looks up at you. He's still smiling a bit, but it seems more subdued now. The atmosphere feels quieter. Softly, he says, "You're incredible."

Adrenaline is still buzzing through your veins like a drug. You feel lightheaded and dizzy. "No, you're the incredible one," you reply, matching his quiet tone. "You're clever and kind. And your eyes—John, your eyes just…"

"Just what?" Barely a whisper.

You swallow. "Draw me in. Make me want to do things."

His hand tentatively finds your hip. You step closer and erase the distance between you two. He tilts his head, almost in challenge.

"Like what?" he breathes.

"Like this," you say. Then you lean down and kiss him until you see stars.

…

John's fingertips leave sweet imprints on your hips and thighs, little indelible marks that scatter across your white skin like stars.

"I need you," you tell him, hours later when you're tangled up in his sheets, wrapped in his embrace. "I don't know how not to."

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighs, full of affection. He runs his hands through the curls at the nape of your neck. His touch feels like liquid gold: luxurious and consuming. "I need you too. Always have, always will."

He pets back your hair and watches your expression in the dim light of his bedroom.

"I need to tell you something," you whisper.

He presses his lips to your temple. "Tell me."

"I love you," you say, and it feels incredible because those words have been welling up for years.

John pulls you closer, frames your face with his strong hands and angles your mouths together in a decadent, toe-curling kiss. "I love you too," he says against your lips. "Deeply and irrevocably."

When John pulls away to look at you, his eyes are a profound, endless blue. Blue like love. Blue like longevity.

For the first time in your life, you feel completely at peace.

John pulls you to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around your waist. Into your hair, he murmurs, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

You burrow closer and sigh. "Goodnight, John."

And when you finally fall asleep, your dreams are colored in every shade of vivid, brilliant blue.

A/N: Thanks for reading, loves! Let me know what you think in the comments, I love hearing your guys' opinions :)