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!
