So, this turned out a smidgen different than how intended, but none the less. I wont say it's, er, enjoyable, per say. But interesting, maybe. Disturbing, definitely.
But not for everybody, I'll understand if you don't want to, or can't read it.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of pre-mortem bodily invasion. Blood and a fair bit of gore. All in all you might have to be a tad bit mental, like me, to like this.
And my shadow yearns (For your flesh)
John.
Sherlock sat in his warm living room, though musky and vibrantly horrible, concentrated, with his thoughts as the source, with his hands steepled in front of his face, thumbs gently pressing into the taught, soft flesh beneath his chin, seeing and observing the entirety of John.
John. John. John.
All of you John, John, your name, a single syllable, empty. Your name inflicts that upon you. That is wrong John. Only I get to inflict emptiness upon you. Only I get to empty you out. Sparing nothing but your entrails. They're all I require. Because they're you, John. John. John.
John, completely unaware, as usual, puttering around the kitchen, curling his toes up against the cold floor, and unintentionally digging his short toenails into the tiles beneath.
Would you let me walk all over you, John? You already provide me that privilege metaphorically, but physically? Fluctuate then tender skin on your golden stomach, untouched by the war? Let me scar you John. It belongs to me. Only me.
I want to open you up. Thinks Sherlock as he watches John split open a tea bag to retrieve the leafs. I want to open you up and consume you from all the way down to the very top, from your core to your crust. I want to swallow you whole. So you can't ever go away, John, don't ever go away. I won't let you. John.
He can't stop thinking, he doesn't want to, all of these things are very much Not Good, but he reckons that the good Doctor would rather he indulge on his Not Good thoughts once in a while rather than neglect letting them run free and having them burst out all at once, inevitably leading to him either saying them out loud our actually performing them. He ponders as he watches John stir the tea after straining the leafs.
How would your expression falter and mutate as I slice you like a fresh cadaver? So lovely on the slab that is my bed, still smells of me. You'll be lovely John.
Would you laugh or cry as I prod at your diaphragm, resting below your lungs, cradling them?
Would you chuckle fondly as I cradle your lungs? I bet they'd be soft and warm, like you and your jumpers and tea.
What about prying away your ribs? I'd do each one slowly and meticulously; maybe I'd use one to make a new bow for my violin. Would you smile at that? I know you wouldn't, I'd like to imagine you would though.
John's stirring speeds up a fraction.
What about if I delve into your lungs and collect samples? I think I'd like to look at your alveoli, John, and your bronchioles. Watch them perform respiration, turning oxygen into carbon dioxide, wonder if it mimics the way you made me so beautifully toxic.
"Sherlock?" John's voice brings him somewhere close to being back to the real world. Not quite though, "Here", said with a dazzling closed mouthed smile, crinkling of the eyes, arm outstretched bearing a cup of tea, "We didn't have any fresh Earl Gray leaves that you like, so I took some out of a bag, I think it should be okay though…".
Sherlock looks at him with wide, honest eyes, and without taking a sip, drawls, "It's utterly perfect, John."
I wouldn't go farther than that yet, but it will be utterly perfect when I do. No, I'd leave your torso, saving the rest. I'd the proceed to tenderly pry apart your neck, I might bite my way through a few layers of skin just to the side of your Adam's apple before I once again wield my scalpel.
With this I'd pierce your jugular, cutting off it's ties to the Vena Cava. I'd like to record the gurgle of your blood as it rushes from deep within, as it bubbles along with your chuckles of endearment, cascading away, but I wont let a single centimeter3 of you escape, I'll store it away in your favorite tea mugs, beginning with the one with the army symbol on it.
Oh but it will be gorgeous, when I paint myself with that blood, gingerly, savoring it. I'll be coting myself with a layer of your red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets. A layer or pure John, it will have spent 37 years inside of you, and now it's all over me, caressing me and shielding me…
"Er, your welcome then". John chuckles, with that fond smile.
I will begin my endeavor towards it now, the core, the heart. Your heart. I'll trace along your Larynx, your Thyroid, Trachea. Maybe linger over your vocal chords a bit, put my fingers lightly on them as they vibrate with your laughter.
Trailing your Bronchus now, over the stubs where your ribs used to be.
And then. There it is. Warm, so, warm and I feel love as it beats. Your heart. It beats with staccato pacing, regular and constant, so much reflecting its owner. It beats with health and sincerity, with the constant promise of the next beat, it sings to me, I'll sing back if you want me to. But most importantly, it beats with me, for me, it beats like me, with a 'Sherlock, Sher-lock, Sherlock, Sher-lock'.
After I've emptied it, I'll edge my long middle finger inside of your left Ventricle,, and your right Atrium with the same finger on the other hand. I'll be inside your heart John, well on my way to flowing through your veins, if only I were a liquid. You could put me in a jar labeled: 'Sherlock, use 10 times a day for the foreseeable future' and you could use me, inject me inside of you 10 times per day, more if you feel like danger. And you always feel like danger.
I'll have everything, because it's what I'll take everything. Everything and anything. Anything, John.
"So, um. What would you like with that?" Inquires the doctor, feeling slightly self-conscious under the consulting detectives careful scrutiny.
And it is with a wide, honest smile, that he utters; "Anything, John."