"John—John Watson," whispers the low baritone into the blond's hair, "your hand is around my throat again." Twelve strokes from short nails caress his Adam's apple, and although the palm appears to have relaxed, the wrist has not. "John?" The man's exquisite eyes roll onto the other's face, tracing the contours of his expression. He appears to be asleep, but one would argue that assumption with the prior movement of his fingers. The action could have been done subconsciously, but that is doubtful.
"John," the man tries again; however no other speech is given that night, and John's hand remains on Sherlock Holmes' neck.
Somber eyes revolve, attach to the brown-and-white patterned walls, drift down the hallway—right eye lid twitches (stress? lack of sleep?). Nostrils flare, and thin lips form a slow frown. "No," they create, "I'm not hungry."
Sherlock picks at the toast in front of him. The crust is cut off, lying in a pile pushed off to the side for a later experiment. Jam is spread across the surface, more ample on places to conceal the hint of a burn. He runs his finger along the edging, encasing his tongue around his appendage to suck off the sweet substance. "I knew you weren't," he remarks around his finger, as he nonchalantly tosses the pathetic excuse of a breakfast into the bin.
A soft puff of air escapes the other's lungs—a weak chuckle. "Do you have anything on?" the trembling lips tell, but Sherlock hears, "Fix me tea and stay in today." He grabs mugs from the cupboard.
Tapping feet and curling toes visualize (anxiety? fear?)—another sigh peaks. "Thanks."
He fetches the kettle. "You're welcome, John."
The telly drones in the background with the tiny peck-peck-peck of a pair of hands skimming the keyboard at a remarkably slow pace. The sound is annoying, but Sherlock doesn't put the noise at the top of his list of things to deal with at the moment. He sits on the sofa, brow furrowed at the smell of old gasoline plaguing John's latest reading material. Twisting a hand to reach for his coat, for his supply of matches, the doctor raises his head to ask, "What was the name of the street we found the mother on?" He pauses in order to watch his boyfriend, then clears his throat. "What are you doing?"
"I want to see how flammable this novel is, obviously."
"But—"
"It reeks of—"
"It was Harry's—"
"Do you think that's going to stop—?"
"Sherlock, please." John's face is tired. His eyes are dull, hands resting uncomfortably on the laptop. Sherlock registers guilt in his chest, but tries not to let it contaminate his facial features as he tosses the book onto the coffee table with a loud thud and a wince from John. "Thank you," he says, returning to the computer, no further inquiries directed to Sherlock. The detective stretches, his feet kicking the arms of the couch, his wrists poking through the sleeves of his dressing gown. The sensation to yawn hits like a sneeze, and he doesn't have the manners to smother it with a hand or elbow. John yawns with him, and while one would shake it off and continue working, John saves his work-in-progress and states, "Bed time, I think."
"It's only half seven," Sherlock counters, folding his legs into his chest, as he lies on his side, turned to the back of the piece of furniture. "You don't venture back to the bedroom until twenty to eleven."
"I'm drained, Sherlock." After shutting the device, he maneuvers into their room, his footsteps heavy and movements sluggish. Arms are hanging at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling, possibly blurred vision—drained (physically, mentally, emotionally, mentally), word choice is poor, suspicious.
Sherlock picks at the dry skin on his lips.
For the umpteenth night in a row, Sherlock wakes with John's hand secured to his throat.
The gesture isn't calm or possessive or consensual.
His nails dig into the pale column of the detective's neck with enough pressure to leave half-moon imprints that refuse to fade until the night time—but by then, John is against Sherlock again with his hand back in place.
He never says anything about it, as if the action is beyond his control.
If it were to happen once, it's an accident; occurred twice, a coincidence; came up every day for the next month or so, purely purposeful.
"Strange," Sherlock whispers to John's snores.
It's an ink spill on a finished essay, a black-out curtain on a sunny day, the choke of a plastic bag over a nose—inevitable and cumbersome. A dog's loud pant smacking concrete is more avoidable than the crushing weight of a charcoal fog upon one's shoulders—left shoulder, scar tissue, scar tissue, scar tissue.
"We're going out."
John's head barely turns as he continues to sit in his chair, hands grasping the morning paper. His eyebrows raise, and his throat makes the softest hum, but overall, the man remains silent.
Watching the doctor, Sherlock's gaze narrows. He steps toward the other, touching his hair, stroking the blond strands. "We're going out," he repeats, and John rattles the print and shifts around. With his hand still resting on John's head, Sherlock slides on the arm of the chair, his knees uncomfortably poking into John's chest. On an average evening, John would allow the sharp angles and cut-throat comments to penetrate his personal space (because he's a very good boyfriend); but on that evening, with Sherlock's demand to go out and his patellae tickling organs, John becomes uncharacteristically angry.
He tosses the newspaper off to the side (it rips in the process), forcefully takes hold of Sherlock's kneecaps (his hands are shaking), and hisses, "Shut up, Sherlock" (he always says this—this time is different).
Sherlock stares, straightening his spine and parting his lips. "I was merely suggesting—"
"The hell you were!" His nostrils flare, beholding the appearance of a dragon. He sighs and groans, and his hands squeeze Sherlock's bones, the pressure of a promised break very present. "Just get out—get out, Sherlock—"
"I want to go out with you."
"I can't deal with you right now!" John's anger is the smell of a burnt s'more as he stands from the chair and tips Sherlock onto the floor. After the detective's back connects to the wood, John shows remorse, but does not help Sherlock onto his feet. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. Getting his breath knocked out of him is common, so Sherlock isn't shocked by that impact—only slightly intrigued at the sudden jump to violence.
Shaking a wave of curls out of his vision, Sherlock coughs to clear his throat. "We're going out," he says for the fourth time that afternoon. This time, he doesn't wait on a response, for he is out the door with his coat and scarf in toll before a minute passes.
Head bowed, hands shoved into jacket pockets, lips stitched shut, John is the epitome of discomfort. He's walking as if he were trapped on a treadmill, only glancing up to check the endless doom ahead. Sherlock, strolling by his side, is alert and inhaling the fragrance of slowly-approaching night and the threat of rainfall. All are pleasant to the black-haired adult, but to the smaller other using the sidewalk as some sort of balance, it's only a remainder that he is not inside the flat.
A breeze flutters past, and John rolls his shoulders and pulls his jacket collar around his neck. "I would like to go home."
"Improbable. We're out." Sherlock snaps a look at the older man, who is frowning and tugging his outerwear closer to his body. Sighing, Sherlock asks, "Are you really that irritated? You leave to 'get fresh air' all the time."
"Yeah, but you're not there," John mumbles to a passing taxi.
"Is that one of those things?" Sherlock waves a hand before tucking it into his own pocket. "Humans need alone time?"
"You're a human," John says. "Don't pretend you don't like being alone."
"Not now," Sherlock admits.
John, eyes rolling and lips straining to hold a shape other than a frown, mumbles, "I just want to go home, Sherlock. Why can't you just, I don't know, be considerate for once? I didn't want to go out, you dragged me out, and now I'm out, and I fucking hate it." They've stopped walking at this point, and John's shoulders are slumped, and his eyes are focused on the ground—posture unlike his tone of voice (he is a soldier; he is strong; he is weak). Several cars pass in slow motion. John fights to keep a lid on his thoughts, but his lips are a roaring pride after gazelles. An average mind would not have the ability to remember the words slipping from the blogger's mouth, but Sherlock is different (he is a genius; he is clever; he is weak). As he eyes John's face, his own shoulders begin to descend, along with his confidence, which has now dropped to a dangerous level. John is contagious. "I don't want to do anything, Sherlock. I want to go back to the flat and sleep, and I—"
"Okay."
John raises his head. "What?"
Sherlock looks away. "Let's go home." He turns on his heel and walks down the street at a pace that leaves John breathless when they enter 221B.
This is not an accident.
John has never been known to talk in his sleep—only the occasional whimper or two, and those are few and far between. And if he were to adopt the habit of talking in deep slumber, the phrases he would utter would make little sense. They would be silly and (most likely) about Afghanistan.
They would (most likely) not be about killing Sherlock.
His hand is around the younger man's neck once more, fingers curling and uncurling, scratching and scraping the flesh as his lips press against Sherlock's ear. The first hints of facial hair rub the skin on his ear raw, and the devilish words slipping inside requires a whole room to itself in his mind palace.
"I would like to take an ice pick. And peel your eye lid back. And slide the instrument inside your head. I think it would be nice. To distort your brain to the point of your becoming a vegetable." Sherlock admires the ceiling. John pants in his ear. "I want to scramble your nerves and fill you with darkness." Dragging his nails down the length of Sherlock's neck, John twists around, tangling his legs with the blankets, hanging his head off the bed. "I love you too much, though."
Sherlock's neck is bleeding. John snores.
When Sherlock wakes, John is already at the surgery.
He spends the day perfecting his skill at concealing cuts, but that doesn't prevent John from removing the layers of powder and cream with his hand the suceeding night.
After having to reapply the makeup (and coat the area with antibiotics) for the next week, he decides to leave the marks available for the outside world to see.
Lestrade notices them with a furrowed brow, but doesn't comment.
Donovan pokes a scab.
Anderson makes a dubious homoerotic remark.
Molly merely blushes.
Mycroft doesn't attempt at hiding his annoyance.
And John.
Oh, John.
On a cold Wednesday night, while they're lying in bed, John asks Sherlock where the scratches came from; and when Sherlock informs him ("You did, of course."), instead of ruining Sherlock's neck with more lacerations, he ruins it with mucus and tears and cold sweats.
Sherlock is a blundering idiot.
Fifteen after eight reads his watch when he receives a wake-up call from Lestrade; fifteen minutes—nine hundred seconds until his significant other would have to leave the flat—fifteen minutes he could afford to miss, but he is a blundering idiot.
"I can fix you some eggs," John offers, watching Sherlock march about the bedroom in search of an article of clothing to throw over his dress shirt.
"No time, John!"
"But—"
"The dog, John," Sherlock presses, as he tosses a glare at the other, ignoring the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the arch in his back, the trembling of his knees.
"Stay, please," John says, watching Sherlock dig out a suit jacket. "I don't feel well," he tells the buttons, as they are done with nimble fingers. "I'd like some company right now," he pleads to the thick coat and blue scarf.
"The dog, John," Sherlock repeats.
"Oh, well, I'll just watch some telly, then, before I go to work." He nods, and Sherlock leaves, and John fixes a mug of tea and sits on the sofa and focuses all his energy on the television. Fatigue is the succubus teetering on the edge of his brow, and desolation is the incubus resting in his chest. The poor doctor forgets his beverage, allows it to fall to the floor and stain the wood. His mobile rings periodically, but he doesn't answer.
John appears unresponsive—still sitting on the couch, a vacant stare on his face, wrinkles profound—ten hours later, when Sherlock emerges from the hallway of 221 with a wild expression and unruly hair. "John!" he exclaims, ripping off each leather glove and stuffing them in his pockets. "John, there—have you left the flat at all today?"
Broken cup on the floor, feet pale, phalanges curled, lips parted, hair more grayed—a disaster zone. "John?" Sherlock's mind races. He bites his lip.
A clear of his throat, and John is struggling to regain his composure (back hurts, joints frozen). "Huh? Yeah, I need to get to the clinic."
Sherlock peels off his coat. "You haven't gone to work yet."
"No, not yet." Glancing to his wrist, John's eyes widen, and a sigh rolls from his lips. "I suppose I won't today."
"You lost time."
"Oh, don't worry about it, Sherlock. Do you want any dinner? I'll fix you anything you want." Despite this, he remains seated. However, he does lie on his side and pull his knees to his chest, mimicking a fetus. "I'm not hungry. Shouldn't stop you from eating, though."
Hungry?—no, not hungry—actually, yes—John is first.
Neglecting to hang his coat on the back of the door or drop it to the back of a chair, Sherlock joins John on the couch, who, after the applied weight, stretches out his legs and shoves his toes into the space between the cushion and Sherlock's left thigh. "How was the case?" he absently asks, gaze on the television, not processing the information. His right hand reaches out, making contact with Sherlock's arm, the Belstaff. The detective does nothing to prevent the doctor from using his coat as a make-shift shelter.
"I'll tell you about it in the morning," Sherlock says quietly, uncharacteristically, and touches his fingers to his lips.
John wiggles his toes.
The blond is moaning in his sleep. His hand is still on Sherlock's neck.
The detective trades in his hours of sleep to watch John during the night.
Throughout the eight hours of required rest, his boyfriend manages to disturb himself into waking several times.
Sherlock allows John's hand to snake around his throat for a moment or two before delicately picking it up by the wrist and setting it aside.
Regardless of his numerous attempts, the body part always finds its way back on the vulnerable area of flesh and bone.
Sherlock fabricates an experiment.
"We're going on a date tonight," announces Sherlock, sticking his hands in his pant pockets and turning his head to admire the thick patchwork of storm clouds ahead. "It's the perfect weather to go out."
John, an ivory throw around his shoulders, doesn't say anything—merely grunts and pulls up his socks when they dare to fall down.
"Do I have to beg?" Sherlock asks, eyebrow rising, and John grunts a few more times before standing and shuffling to the bedroom. The blanket is left on the couch. Sherlock folds it.
Minutes pass. John doesn't resurface. Sherlock pulls on his coat. All is quiet—not even the sound of an inhale can be heard; could he have fallen asleep?—unable to get ready in an ample amount of time?
"Oh, for God's sake." He doesn't mean for it to come out at a volume higher than a whisper or with such a malice tint poisoned to the four words. His teeth had bared on their own; his facial muscles became a grimace, and his vocal chords shoved out a growl. Not accepting his actions and moving on would be a viable thing to do, but as he spins to face the bedroom, he hears a sniff and a cough and a heave and—John is crying.
Annoyance is the only emotion pumping through Sherlock's veins when he starts to their room. "Oh, for God's sake," he finds himself repeating, the fury and disgust still present in his tone. "John, John." Walking inside and pausing by the doorway, he notices the doctor sitting on the bed, head held in his shaking hands, his shoulders convulsing, one sock pulled up higher than the other. Sherlock's nose wrinkles. "What's the matter with you?"
John's fingers slip from his face, the skin around his eyes stretching and becoming loose and pink. "What is the matter with me?" he asks, biting the quake from his speech. His lips crack and bleed. "Nothing is wrong," he says, standing too fast and forcing dots to enter his vision. He struggles to finish pulling on clothes other than pajamas, and Sherlock doesn't help, keeping a considerable distance.
"Something's wrong," he states. "You're avoiding contractions, and you won't look at me."
"Sherlock, shut up." He refuses to glance at the detective, proving Sherlock's point. He smirks, but quickly diminishes it. "So, where are we going on such a day like this with perfect weather and—?" Swiftly, John falls into the dresser knocking his knees against the brass handles and scraping his palms on the wooden edges (low-blood pressure, most likely—pushed himself too far). "I'm fine," he says, waving Sherlock away upon hearing the other stepping forward. "Leave me alone," he mumbles, pushing off the piece of furniture and rolling his (still convulsing) shoulders. He coughs and bends down, lacing up his shoes and doing his best to hide the red in his face from Sherlock, who idly stands by the bed with his hands in his pockets and his eyes narrowed.
Quivering limbs, shaking of the head, eyes bloodshot—John isn't well (obvious); medical attention? Not necessary (yet).
Sherlock taps his foot. "Ready?"
John joins him by his side, back erect, arms by his sides, hands clenched in tight fists (absentmindedly?—of course not). "Where are we going?" His chin tilts up, gaze meeting Sherlock's, but not quite meeting Sherlock's.
The taller man smiles. "There's this bookstore I've been eyeing."
"A bloody bookstore," John muses, leading the way out of the flat. He tosses a grin that doesn't meet his eyes over his shoulder. "You're lucky I love you."
Observing John's limp, Sherlock slowly nods. "Mm."
The headboard shifts. Hands reach and grasp the object like undead monsters. Fingers are smashed when the headboard shifts again, more forcibly, with promises of bruises and possible fractures. "Oh, Sherlock," the owner of the sore fingers hisses, but does nothing to remove his wounded possessions from the threat of further damage. The black-haired man over top the injured individual groans and takes hold of shoulders, nails digging into skin. "Sherlock," John whimpers, pressing his face against pillows and yanking his hands off the piece of ebony wood to reach behind and grab Sherlock's thighs, pulling him in—closer, closer. "Sherlock."
"John," Sherlock sings into the good doctor's ear, as he shudders against John's back and falls still. The hint of sweat present on his brow, Sherlock drowsily peels away and lies next to his boyfriend, who is shivering from his own orgasm, his hands near his chest—fingers are bent, pink, knuckles swollen (no guilt).
For an hour, they pant and swear into the musty air, laughing at their silent argument to which one of them were to leave the comfort of the other to clean up. They make no progress and leave the problem for the morning, as they always do.
"Goodnight," John whispers into Sherlock's side while Sherlock plays with the hair at the nape of John's neck. Somehow, during the events of the night, their positions are reversed. Unable to become comfortable upon waking, Sherlock tries to pry himself from John's body. However, the man in question seizes Sherlock's neck and doesn't let go when he gasps for air or claws in desperation at John's fingers or drifts in and out of consciousness.
It hurts to talk.
I think you bruised my esophagus. SH
John is in the kitchen, an apple in hand, chewing. His mobile is on the counter, vibrating. Sherlock watches from his armchair, hiding behind bony knees, a red dressing gown, and the screen of his smart phone.
Finishing his breakfast, John picks up his phone and reads the message and stares at Sherlock.
Sherlock focuses on a fingerprint on the edge of his own device, choosing to become surprised if John were to say something about the message ("I'm right across the room!"). Instead, John replies to the text, and this surprises Sherlock, too.
You bruise my knuckles, I bruise your esophagus. JW
John leaves to go to work. Sherlock purchases a whiteboard and carries it around for the upcoming days until he gathers the ability to speak without pain.
"Date night," Sherlock informs John every Tuesday and Thursday.
"Okay," John says every Tuesday and Thursday.
They alternate walking the streets of London, sitting in the park, visiting shops, and eating at restaurants.
Sherlock always tries to make the experience pleasant, but he can only do so much with someone who barely raises their head from the floor for the duration of the time.
John has also become very irritable.
He bites and barks like an old dog, and the reoccurring theme of short-temperedness is melting into their daily lives.
"Goddamnit, Sherlock, why can't you do anything right?" John scolds when Sherlock knocks into the coffee table and sends a pen rolling off the surface.
"You make me feel so inadequate," he exclaims when Sherlock stays on his microscope for more than five minutes.
"Sod off," John grumbles when Sherlock asks for him to dry his hair.
They go to bed pissed at each other most nights. And Sherlock wakes to John handling his gun most nights. And John sighs and puts the weapon back in the bedside table most nights.
And they don't talk about it most mornings.
They stay in for Bonfire Night. Sherlock holds onto John's waist as they munch on toffee apples and sausage rolls and baked potatoes. It's sprinkling, but it doesn't stop the crowd outside from being any quieter. Despite the fire roaring in the hearth, John shivers, and Sherlock's not too sure he likes that.
Sherlock loses consciousness in his sleep again. John doesn't seem to know his own strength.
John swallows more paracetamol than necessary throughout the day. Sherlock turns a blind eye.
On their walk, the gray clouds overhead cry big tears, and it doesn't take long until John joins them. Between his constant state of freeze and the rainfall, Sherlock manages to drag him to a small store in order to purchase an umbrella. It's secondhand, and the handle is smudged with fingerprints—belonged to a male with a toddler; child was large for its age, possibly inflicted with a development problem—and the canopy has a hole in it, but it'll make do.
Sherlock hugs John until he's calmed down (chest accelerating at a not-so-alarming rate, hands shaking against Sherlock's back, left knee bent and pressed against Sherlock's thigh, throat screeching with loud excuses for sobs). It takes a while. They have an umbrella, though, and Sherlock's standing under the hole (because he's a very good boyfriend), and John is slowly settling, and they have all the time in the world as they trot back to the flat.
John reveals his desire to lobotomize Sherlock. He is staring at the detective while he says this, and he is very much awake.
Sherlock, his pupils no doubt dilated (John's are), carefully says, "Okay."
And John grabs hold of the sheets and rolls over in hopes of falling asleep. He is unable to, however.
The streetlights bleed into the bedroom. The wind knocks against the windows. Sherlock has three copies of the Bible on his bookshelf.
John turns over in bed. Accompanying the zephyr are Sherlock's snores. The man hasn't snored in a long time, and the sound can almost be level to the chorus of angels. He doesn't like to be reminded he makes noises in his sleep ("Shut up, John."), or he has a lisp when he wakes ("Thut up, John."), so John doesn't bring it up.
Although, they'd be fixing breakfast together one morning—Sherlock, humming and toasting bread; John, whistling and scrambling eggs—and John would say, "What'd you dream about last night?"
And Sherlock's expression would drop, and his ears would turn bright pink, and he would whisper, "What did you hear?"
And then, they would bicker and have sex on the Food and Experiments Table to the smell of their first meal of the day burning.
John doesn't think he'll report to Sherlock he's been snoring. He can be saved from the embarrassment, can be ready for another breakdown John is probably going to encounter—not that he plans when they'll pop up or anything. Just that he hasn't had one in a few days; he's due for one.
Sherlock licks his lips. He grinds his teeth and mumbles, "Sternocleidomastoid."
John stares at him, comfortably lies on Sherlock's chest—sternum to sternum—and wraps his left hand around the taller adult's neck, his fingers bending to mold to the curve of the structure the best it can. When he begins to press down on Sherlock's Adam's apple, John cries. And when he begins to lose consciousness, Sherlock cries, too.
The ex-army doctor does have a breakdown that evening. Strangely, it's when he's napping on the sofa, Sherlock beside him on his laptop. The disaster involves kicking and scratching and screaming, and he breaks the laptop and punches Sherlock in the face, and Sherlock pulls him in a bone-crushing clutch and rocks them and strokes the back of John's head and whispers, "You're in Baker Street, John. I'm here, I'm here. Sherlock is here. You are safe. Nothing is hurting you."
They manage to lie on the couch (a bit of a tight squeeze), and Sherlock remains oscillating them, and John doesn't remember what had happened upon waking.
John goes back to work. Sherlock accepts cases.
Crashing a child's birthday party. SH
Why? JW
Child of said party has been kidnapped. SH
Bring back some cake. JW
Instead of a slice of confetti cake greeting him home from work, it's a red balloon. The object is tied to Sherlock's wrist, who looks extremely disgruntled as he sits on his chair in the sitting room. His eyes are narrowed, his hair is tangled, and he's pouting when he says, "I think I made a mistake."
John laughs (Sherlock hasn't heard that in a while) and rushes to find the scissors. He frees Sherlock, and the detective throws his arms around John's neck and paints him with kisses and showers him with bare skin and plasters him with love and love and love.
The scissors drop to the floor. The balloon bounces against the wallpaper.
The balloon deflates the next day. John can't hide his disappointment that well, so Sherlock buys a package of the items and fills their bedroom with balloon animals. It is a forest of pastel yellows and pinks and blues with deep purples and greens, and it takes a little more than an hour, but Sherlock's able to form something other than a snake.
John forgets how to not laugh.
He doesn't cry as often—only when Sherlock makes rude comments at bad telly.
He isn't irritable after their dates, which brings relief to Sherlock. He doesn't particularly enjoy getting yelled at for walking the wrong way or breathing through his mouth.
It occurs monthly now—the choking. Sometimes it's when John's asleep, and sometimes it's when he's awake. Nine times out of ten, he's sleeping and dreaming of terrors Sherlock can never acquire the capability of knowing.
John tells Sherlock he wants to dissect his brain on more than occasion. Sherlock tells John he fancies hearing what demented acts go on in the good doctor's mind.
It's not a surprise they have kinky sex.
"Sherlock," John calls from under their bed. "I think I'm stuck."
The younger adult (older in this situation) sighs from his position on top the piece of furniture. He scratches his head and scrolls through his mobile. Lestrade has promised a new interesting case. "Then get unstuck."
Squirming, John grunts. "There's a balloon animal under here."
Sherlock glances over the edge. The bed creaks. "Which is it?"
John slides out with ease. He is lying on his back, his head resting on the floor. The boyfriends meet eyes, and John pulls out the orange thing in question, a grin spreading across his face with a promise to stay for the rest of the world. "A snake."
The noiret returns to his mobile, his lips a smirk. If anyone were to see, they'd call him outrageous for smiling at murder. "Do you want me to buy some more balloons?"
The blond pops the rubber piece—they become momentarily deaf. "If you don't mind."
Sherlock is shit at making balloon animals, but John will be happy, and that's all that matters.