The Curious Case of the Sodium Lamps

Thick, gooey light from the sodium lamps

Like from some off-set Victorian novel

Bled out over the cobblestones.

Dartmoor, he'd acknowledged, was worthy of some poetry.

In the dark of the moor

They'd held each other close

Watched the angry flames

Lick the sky.

Well that was one way of getting rid of a criminal.

But the horror

And pain

And raw, numb terror

He'd hurt John where even the Hound hadn't

That wasn't supposed to happen

John wasn't supposed to hurt

To feel pain

He'd not seen that through, he supposed.

So now, with

The heavy weight of John

Dragging down, down, down

So tired, but warm, finished, spent?

Rather nice.

John mumbled against his shoulder

Face pressed into the well-worn wool

An accident, this-

This pushing, but warmly

Until tipping edgewise slips them

Off Balance.

And so he reaches out for

The strong-weary arms in front of him

He reaches out for John

And he finds himself with both arms full

To the brim

Breathe. Breathe. He told himself to Breathe.

If heavily, well...

He looked down

To where a sickly halo of yellow framed

John's face

Tipped up, toward him.

Warm eyes... hopeful?

He had no way to tell.

White text wrote novels of meaning

Layers upon layers of impossible improbabilities:

Lots about the present.

Nothing about the future.

He hesitated for a still moment

Ivory warnings whizzing through

Ramification

Upon

Ramification

Before settling

He'd simply leaned down and pressed his own lips to John's.

John moaned

Reaching

Up into inky curls

To pull him closer, closer

Dragging him down, down, down

Into the welcoming heat.

Feeling the remnants of

Their argument in the graveyard that morning

His tender words held out, an offering. But

The look on John's face-

Bitter because the coffee was too sweet

But not bitter enough

Because the worst was still coming

Because John didn't know...

The secret he was still keeping

He pulled back slightly

Whispered "I'm sorry," into the soft mouth pressed against his.

John frowned

The soft folds around caring, care-worn eyes

Creases earned, they both knew, now

Showing the last few days on little to no sleep

Mumbling out the quiet acceptance of understanding

Neither wanted to have that conversation right now-

Too close, too near,

Here in the darkness and fog of the nighttime.

John began

To shudder at the memory

He held John tighter,

Cradling John, John... John...

Strong but broken shoulder

Sturdy but untrustworthy leg...

And he pulled John away from the blackness of the moors,

Into the warmth of himself.


A/N

Thank you again, my dear Watson, for beta-ing this. BigBluePudding: to a certain very opportune 'familiarity;' may it serve us well!