YAY! First uploaded story. This is from Sherlock's point of view, about John. I think that Sherlock is a little out of character, but this has been echoing around my head for ages now and I just needed to get it written.
Sometimes, when dreams tug at the edge of our reality, I think of what it would be to kiss you. To pull you close and inhale the scent of adrenaline and woollen sweaters. To hold you, solid and warm, against me and press my lips to yours and see you smile.
But we are contained, in this universe that overlaps with the rest of the world's trivial comings and goings. And I know, wrapped in wallpaper and furniture, inside the walls of our apartment, that to kiss you would be to watch our bubble, so thin, so beautiful, that seems to carry us above the rest, that distorts all who exist outside it, I know that to kiss you would be to watch it shatter.
Sometimes, when thoughts enter, unbidden, into the fabric of our existence, I think of what it would be to tell the women who watch you, who smile at you, that you are mine, that you belong to me. And I, to you.
But lies twist at my tongue, because you are so very true to me. And to contaminate your happiness with my thoughts is to watch you crumble.
Sometimes, when urges swirl behind my eyes, I think of what it would be to tell you, "I love you." And for you to blind me with your smile, and for you whisper the same against my skin.
But words so heavy, so loud. Might shatter the glass that holds us apart from everyone else. And to share my heat with you would be to watch you burn.