One-hundred, ninety eight days.
One-hundred, ninety eight days since I lost my mind.
One-hundred, ninety eight days since I saw him.
One -hundred, ninety eight days since I was began to be whole again. But empty all the same.
One-hundred, ninety eight days since Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his chair filling the empty
flat with his beautiful voice, his beautiful song, beautiful smell.
One-hundred, ninety eight days since I talked to him.
Sleep is little to come by. Almost nonexistent. No. Well, yes. It came in short bursts.
Sleep. Dream. Scream. Cry. Sleep. Blackness. Wake up.
That night I was granted the wish of sleep. Drifting off into a land i knew would pain me. Stirring up memories that already flooded my mind.
Phone. Cry. Fall. Dead. Dead. Dead.
The phone was ringing. In my mind. I answered. His voice. Mutated. Wrong. Not his. Calling out. Screaming, crying, telling me it was all my fault. I should have made them believe. Should have done something. Then violin. A sweet bright song, soaking into the hell of a dream in my mind. So real I almost feel the sliding of the bow against the tightened polished strings. Just like Sherlock used to play.
Sherlock.
Sherlock. Lock? Locked away. Far far away.
His name so foreign now. So bitter with my tears. So far away like a storybook character.
My body jumped. I sat up. My dream falling back into a million peices. That violin. Real. So painfully real. Immediately I sprang off the bed, leaving my cane resting against the wall. Limp. Limp. Run. Run. There. Right there. The song that bow sang from those strings. The hand that rocked that bow. His arm, slender and real. Standing by the window. His face cast along the vacant street.
Look at me. Look at me.
The music stopped. Silence ringing in my ears.
"John," his voice. Real. Right. Deep. So utterly real.
"Sherlock," He turned. Face cold. Emotionless. So much like stone I almost missed the tear running down his face. "Sherlock," Closer. Inches away.
Touch him. Feel him. Find a pulse. He's real. Alive. So, so actually alive.
I grab his wrist. The fast pumping of his warm, real, alive, blood rushing against his skin.
So pale, so thin, so real.
Dizzy. Fuzzy. Real. He's alive. Blackness.
One-hundred, ninety eight days ago.
That was the last time I uttered a single word to Sherlock. He sat in his chair every day, his pale eyes following me as I made my way from the door to my room.
One-hundred, ninety eight days of sitting in that room in silence.
Crying. Sleeping. Staring at the blank wall.
One-hundred, ninety eight days and it still was not okay.
It never would be.
"John," Sherlock stood in the door frame. His eyes weary and tired. I reckon he got as much sleep as I did. "Please," He stepped in closer. His stride short, timid. Nothing like it used to be. He has become so scared. So careful. Whether to protect himself or me was beyond my thoughts. "Please, John, say something! Look at me!" His body blocked my view of the dull wall. Such a perfect dull wall. "I don't expect you to forgive me, just, god, say something," A tear rolled down his cheek. A clear, crystal token of his sadness falling down his perfectly pale thin cheek.
Touch him. Feel that tear. Brush it away. Do it. You bloody idiot.
No. Don't give him the satisfaction.
This isn't about him. This is about me. I want him. I need him. His touch.
Yes. Do it. Do it. Do it.
Do it.
I lifted myself of the bed. Gazing at his chest as he took in a sharp breath. Look at him, his beautiful face. Sad eyes. Shaggy ink hair. God. So perfect. So real. I couldn't bring myself to move.
Still. Scared. Barely breathing.
His hand brushed mine. It felt right. Warm. Soft. The thirst for his touch grew. Warming my stomach and filling my head with possibilities.
Hold. Kiss. Hug. Strangle.
He whispered my name again. Soft and comforting. The thirst growing.
Just give in. Feel him. You know you want to. Stop punishing him. Stop punishing yourself.
I let my fingers wrap around his. He gasped at the contact. My other hand slid up to his chest feeling the tight fabric wrapping around his warm chest.
Rising. Falling. Rising.
"John," his voice almost a moan.
"Sherlock," I gasped. That's it. Give up. Without thinking. Without hesitation I pulled his perfect real face down, smashing his lips against mine with all the hunger and pain I had for him.
All that time without him. All those nights screaming. All those thing I thought I would never be able to say.
He was shocked. His hand tensed within mine. I pulled away, looking into those endless pale eyes. So much pain in there. Just as much pain as me. He let out a shaky breath, his face a vast emotionless canvas of his beauty.
This time he was the one that kissed me, his passion and tenderness made my mind cloud into a space of nothingness. My knees went weak with the feeling, but he held on to me, keeping my body pinned against his. His pale hands pressed to my back and waist. His chest beating against mine.
"We're okay? You forgive me?" he muttered against my lips. I could never be unforgiving towards Sherlock. I owed him more than just my life.
"You're a twat and I hate you, but you're everything I have and I'm incredibly turned on right now," he looked at me, his eyes squinting searching my face. "I love you, Sherlock, I forgive you," I say finally. Those were the magic words.
Instantly, I was tossed down onto the bed, my hands pinned above my head and lips trailing down my pulsating neck. I could feel Sherlock's tongue trail down my skin, leaving a tingling warmth, followed by small nips of teeth. Moans slipped from my lips as his kissing progressed, his hands letting go of me and replacing them to my hips. My fingers itched to run through his hair, get the full extent of his real touch. I wanted to touch every inch of him. Feel everything that is and always was real.
Our lips meet again, one hand intertwined with his, the others wrapped sweetly around our necks. His thumb rubbed my jaw. To tender and Sweet. So utterly and purely perfect.
Aware that both our manhood were pressed so closely together, hardening, rubbing through too many layers of clothing was beyond frustrating. I undid his trousers, he undid mine. Through misty kisses we shimmied them off on to the floor.
He sat me up. Took the hem of my jumper and tugged it over my head, lazily letting it drop off the bed. Again he kissed my neck. Making my body shiver with need. His tongue traced over the scar that dominated my shoulder. He kissed it so tenderly as if to say he would never let me be scarred again.
I trust him so much that i full heartedly believe that I would never be scarred again. He would never let that happen. He'd take a bullet for me without hesitation and I for him.
He's unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his smooth chest. He is too scattered with light pink slivers and gashes from his battles over the years.
We are sitting on my bed in only our pants, this makes me smile. He smiles when I smile.
The wait was too much to bare. In what I hoped was one swift motion I spun around Sherlock's lean body, my lips pressing down at the back of his neck.
"I'm going to take you Sherlock," I whispered. He groans, his neck vibrating under my touch. Quickly, while pulling down my pants, I open the bedside drawer and take out a small bottle of lube. Unused. I don't even know when or why I have it. Just that it's there.
Sherlock has removed his pants as well. I am taken aback by his body. Not just the fact his pale firm skin was all but mind numbing and his cock mouth watering, but that this was Sherlock Holmes, cold hearted Consulting Detective before me his eyes misted over with lust, mouth parted in a seductive sigh wanting to please and be pleased by me. He is mine.
"John," He gazed at me, his stare almost enough to get off on right at that moment. I smiled, positioning myself behind him once again, squeezing the lube onto my trembling fingers. It's cold against my skin, even colder against my cock.
I push myself against his entrance, I could feel him tense as I did so, and wrap my arm around his chest pulling his back against me. I kiss him between his shoulder blades and push my hardness into him.
The feeling is indescribable. I moan against his skin, my fingers curling into balls in the sheets. He gasps sharply, his hand wrapping around mine. Slowly I push myself deeper, feeling his warmth tence around me. A deep moan vibrated within him, his deep voice like liquid velvet and cold night air all at one. My heart beats fast at this sound.
Sherlock moaning. Moaning because of me.
With a slow rhythm I rock myself within him. The sensation making my vision blur into darkness and ecstasy. Sherlock grabs my hand and trails it down his chest, guiding it until it is wrapped around his throbbing member.
In timing with my hips I began to rub his cock. His moans became more and more frequent until he began to pant.
"John, ah, Joh-, oh, yes, John,"
His voice is the trick for me. I could feel myself get closer and closer to the edge. My thrust become faster, more forceful. My nails digging into the sheets, teeth clamping around his pale skin.
A loud rusty sound pours from my lips. It sounds nothing like me. It is not me. Its pleasure.
"Sher- Sherlock, ah god,"
One final thrust.
One final pump.
One final bite upon his skin.
And one final scream of a moan.
I came inside him, he onto my hand and the sheets.
My body is weak and shaking. I roll over onto my back, Sherlock letting his body fall next to mine.
Our hands remain together throughout the night. Our heads pressed together, noses touching, smiles planted upon our lips.
One-hundred, ninety eight days and I had finally made love to Sherlock Holmes.
Johnlock, how sweet the sound.