A/N: Oh, God. It's been a while. I'm sure it shows- you'll have to tell me yourselves, though, as I'm horribly inept at self-criticism. I'll probably be coming back on occasion and editing this- fair warning, this certainly isn't the final draft- but I didn't want it to just stagnate on my desktop for weeks until I'm completely satisfied with it, so I'm posting it now. I can't think of a better title, but that'll be remedied soon enough.

'Follow'

one-sided John/Sherlock

stream-of-consciousness like rambling, no real plot

1,192 words

You follow me everywhere, Sherlock, although to the casual observer it's quite clearly the other way around (but in my defense, that's only because you've got longer legs than I do and you can't be arsed to adjust your stride to accommodate me). Under normal circumstances that statement would mean only one thing -you, literally, physically following me with your ridiculous coat billowing out behind you as you murmur deductions in that sinfully low voice of yours- but as of late, you've started following my conscious mind as well. Even when you've left for the day (or never returned from the previous one), even when I've popped out alone after a row, you're there. You linger, Sherlock, far longer than society deems polite.

You're at my side in the coffee shop near the roundabout after a rough day at the clinic, perched on the edge of a wobbly stool at the bar with your elbows resting against the somewhat sticky granite-blend countertop. You tell me the life story of the lady with the sad smile and the scarily large handbag that things just keep coming out of in endless succession- a book, a magazine, a purse-type thing that you inform me is used to hold makeup, a cell phone, even an immense clear pink plastic water bottle at one point- and you laugh when I suggest that she's somehow acquired Time Lord technology because my mental projection of you loves Doctor Who just as much as I do and understands all of the silly little jokes I make about it that the real you usually snorts derisively at or ignores entirely. There you are, listing off on long, thin, gloved fingers the extensive string of mistresses that the bloke who makes the coffee has had with only the marks they've left on him to go on. Look, John, you murmur to me, shifting ever-so-slightly in your rickety stool so as not to offset the careful balancing act of staying upright as you lean in close and drape your right arm across my shoulders, look at the lipstick stains on his collar. They're just there, on the inner left, almost hidden- they're completely different sizes. Two mistresses, at least. You raise your little finger and the one adjacent to it, deliberate for a moment, narrow your eyes as a new piece of evidence that only you can see presents itself, then raise your middle finger as well. No, three.

You're there at the clinic when there's a lull, your soft, steady, gasping breaths teasingly hot against the shell of my ear as you rock in and out of me at an agonizingly slow pace. You steady yourself with one hand splayed out against the wood surface just millimeters from my head while the other pins my wrists to my desk in a vice-like grip, and you grin that terrifyingly disarming grin at me as I beg you for more, harder, please. I want you to make me hurt, Sherlock. I want the unyielding, slightly abrasive surface of the desk to scrape against my bare shoulder blades and arse as you slam in and out of me, your hips twitching forward erratically as you push us both closer and closer to the edge. I want you to watch me with that breathtakingly focused gaze you reserve for the most interesting of experiments, your blue-grey eyes cataloging my every gasp, twitch, tense, and shuddering breath and using them to deduce what I need from you before I can even formulate the words to ask you myself. I want to knock every stack of neatly filed manila folders to the floor, sending weeks of careful sorting and translucent x-ray sheets fluttering to the flecked grey tiles. I want to not give a bloody fuck, grin at you even, as you destroy innumerable hours of work. Please, Sherlock use me. Break me as you see fit, then pull out and walk away without a backward glance. Leave me raw, hollow and pleading for more on the surface of my desk, stark naked and covered in semen.

You're here now, Sherlock, pervading my thoughts and consuming me entirely as I lie on my bed in the dead of night and wonder. I wonder what you'd do if I went to you now, desperate and needy and utterly yours for the taking- would you turn me away? Scoff at me? Or would you acquiesce to my unspoken demands, because sometimes you're just as human as the rest of us? If I could summon the courage to cross the floor, make my way down the stairs, tiptoe across the living room (possibly bang my shin on the coffee table in the dark), and stand at the entrance to your open door, cock achingly hard with want for you and only you, what would you do? I like to imagine that you'd look me over hungrily, your searing gaze lingering on my blatant arousal, and slip out of bed. You'd be naked, of course, and I'd lean against your door frame for support as my cock pulses insistently. Get over here already, I'd pant, and you'd obey me. You'd cross the room and firmly press my back to the frame's moulding, a hand splayed out against my chest. My hips would rock forward involuntarily- your touch alone is enough to set me off- and you'd smirk knowingly at me, relishing the complete control that you quite obviously have over me. Your hand would travel lower, fingertips trailing across the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of my boxers before slipping inside and palming me. I'd groan and press desperately forward against you- God, Sherlock.. not hard enough, I need more- and you'd press your lips to mine to keep me quiet. We'd stand there in the door frame for an immeasurably long amount of time, you keeping me on the precipice of release with stroking fingers and a probing, talented tongue until I'm unable to take it any longer and I just- Sherlock, please!

You follow me, Sherlock, and while I know that there isn't space in your mind palace for me to follow you, I can still hope. I can hope that one day there'll be a broom cupboard in some distant, disused corridor labeled 'John' where you'll keep me with you even when I'm gone. I'll feed you a steady stream of Doctor Who jokes and references that you've tried not to pick up but failed, I'll call you brilliant, I'll chide you about your sleeping habits and recurring drug problems (but I'll be there to comfort you when they finally overwhelm you even though you don't need me nearly as much as I need you), and I'll occasionally murmur that I love you but you'll have to ignore me then. I'm just a dingy little broom closet in a vast, palatial mansion furnished lavishly with far more useful knowledge than the status of my heart and the fact that it's unconditionally yours.