A/N: Part Five (finale) of Screaming!Verse. This will be my last post for this series. I like where I left it at, however, if you wish to continue this story where it left off, feel free to do so, but with my permission, please! And with credit for the inspiration/original/what have you. I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it~
A space of two feet between them. A space that had been filled by both of them long before the demon came and housed itself in John.
A space that was riddled with holes and red and pain and fear and anger when the demon had come.
A space that was now filled with silence and hesitant moves and over-thinking and fear.
Sherlock couldn't stand it. But it was how things were.
It's been only a month since that night. One month, fourteen hours, thirty three minutes, eleven seconds.
Twelve seconds.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
"John, you can't—"
"No, Sherlock….No." John, really John, said. His firm tone immediately hushed Sherlock. If only because Sherlock didn't want to upset the man. "I know what you're going to say?"
"Oh, do you? I thought we agreed to leave the deductions to me and then you may blog about it later." Sherlock replied easily—because Sherlock didn't have trouble connecting back to John, he didn't have a problem with wanting to touch and be touched by John. Part of that was driven by the need to be claimed by John and to make the traces of the demon vanish. Another part was simply because everything that had happened to him with the demon there had been deleted from the dark, spider infested, storage space he kept it in. So, really, although Sherlock remembered scraps—how could he delete everything if he were to help John?—he didn't remember, didn't want to remember, all of it.
But it seemed that John remembered everything.
And that was a problem.
One that Sherlock was having an excruciatingly hard time solving.
"I'm not deducting, Sherlock. I'm just…" He shifted more towards the arm of the couch—no, no, that's the wrong way, John!—"…can we please not do this?"
"…John."
A moment of silence.
"John, look at me. Look, at me, John. Do it."
"Sherlock, just don't. Please…." John made to get up but then, suddenly, Sherlock was there, holding him down, the blue dressing robe falling back into place behind him as he forcefully straddled John's lap—wasn't the first time, warmth, muscle, John—with nothing but Sherlock's pants in the way of clothing. Smooth palms, long pale fingers, made a home on either side of John's face. He shuddered, shut his eyes too tightly to be comfortable, and pressed his fists against Sherlock's bare chest.
No, no, too thin, too scarred, scars that weren't there before. Oh, god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. So, so, terribly sorry, Sherlock….
"John! It's been a month, John…" He whispered softly. He'd done enough yelling in that time.
"I know, Sherlock….I know….just don't—get off me, Sherlock."
"No, John, listen to me, please." Begging.
John slowly opened his eyes but his breath kept coming out ragged.
"You cannot account for its actions, John. That night we came home, do you remember that night?"
"Y-Yes," John shuddered out.
No, John, stop this, it isn't right, you're not meant to be so frightened, so scared.
"It's no longer here. We got rid of it. I….I don't understand how, exactly, except that it worked. And you are here now. John, you. And you didn't do any of what you remember. It did."
"But, Sherlock, it was. You can't sit there and tell me that it's okay! I know what it did to you! I know how I tor-!" He pushed Sherlock off of him, making the younger man fall backwards onto the hard floor, and immediately stood and rushed to the open door.
Sherlock just lay there. His own eyes closing as he breathed in….out…in…out.
"John….please…."
John rubbed a shaky hand over his face as he turned back to Sherlock, not saying a word, not looking at Sherlock laying on the floor.
One breath. Two breaths.
"We need milk, John." Sherlock said as he turned to look at his soldier, his doctor, his blogger, his John.
It has been one month, fourteen hours, thirty seven minutes, seventeen seconds:
Eighteen…
Nineteen…
Twenty…
Since he's heard the man chuckle and roll his eyes in that endearing way that always gripped Sherlock's heart and tugged.
This was just the beginning, but… If John needed time, he'd give him time, but he really should hurry. Sherlock was an impatient man, after all.
"Yeah, alright, you git." Came the reply after a moment.
Sherlock rose and made his way slowly to John, just in case the tension came back and John flinched away.
"John….I've deleted everything already…."
"You may have, but I haven't, I can't, I'm not like you."
"I know…" Sherlock replied in that whispered baritone just as he came close enough to the other to breathe his air, to place his hands on either side of John's face. "…I'm not afraid of you, John, and you shouldn't be afraid of this…" He gripped John's wrist with a hand and brought them to Sherlock's stomach. "You shouldn't be afraid of getting close," he tugged John closer to him, their lips brushing. And, even after all this time, John's breath still hitched with arousal. "You shouldn't be afraid of what you might do to me because you. Are. Not. It."
John shuddered and collapsed into Sherlock's hold, his knees giving out. He breathed in Sherlock and wrapped his arms around the thin man, quiet sobs wracking his body.
He's cried so much and for so many hours the first few days that it doesn't matter now.
"Oh, John…." Sherlock mumbled into John's hair, running his hands along the man's back, rocking with him, holding him.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock….so so sorry…"
"You've nothing to be forgiven for."
It has been one month, fourteen hours, forty minutes, six seconds:
Seven…
Eight…since Sherlock has felt John's lips press against his pulse.