John
I thought of Sherlock and tried to put into words how I felt about him. In all my days, of all the men I have met, not one could touch his presence, how he strides like a mad man when he walks and how he could fight every criminal in London but refuses to tangle with the messy nest of black curls on his head. How suddenly soap is no longer a personal belonging and every time I touch Sherlock's hand or arm my fingers come away burned by the scent of my usual brand I had bought last week. And to sum up every part of Sherlock that I love, to find words deep enough to hold every drop of his essence is usually impossible, but tonight it was easy- fucking idiot.
Sherlock had left me at the scene of the crime again to go into his head crack palace or whatever. I came home, breezed wordlessly past Ms. Hudson, and made my way to my arm chair, brooding the entire time. I thought about every way I would make Sherlock pay for this, and I had to loosen my collar a bit. I sat and waited for the satisfying slam of the door that would signal Sherlock's return. But when he did arrive, all I heard was the door softly shutting and heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I stood up as Sherlock came in, and my heart stopped in its angry tracks. His pale face was now closer to snow than human flesh, and thick black blood pooled on his temple. Under his eyes were deep blue dents, followed by split lips.
Fucking hell
I cautiously walked to Sherlock's side and grasped his chin, bending his face this way and that. He flinched, and an unexplainable anger rose in my chest. I wasn't even certain towards whom. All I knew was that this beautiful skin was broken and someone out there was to blame.
What happened?
He shook his head gingerly
Long story.
I grasped the back of Sherlock's neck and led him to his chair by the fire. He slumped down and leaned his head back into the seat, in a daze.
After making him tea and taking care of his injuries, we sat together on my bed. Sherlock slumped against me, eyes closed and breathing slowly. I ran my hand down his chest, trying to comfort him, when he let out a soft gasp. Pulling his shirt up revealed a thick patch of bruises flowering over his ribs, and after a quick prod and a curt slap from Sherlock, I knew they were broken. I pressed a kiss to his forehead and tried to move him into a more comfortable position. He settled with his head pressed into my neck and wrapped his arm around my stomach. His gangly legs wound between mine as he sighed. I decided not to fish for anymore answers that night.
Sherlock
My body and I struggled against each other. I said sleep and it said pain and I fought my own mind and tried not to think of the people who might be dead now because I let Moriarty's men get away. John, as always, was solid and strong beneath me. He smelled like the Old Spice I told him was for old men but I breathed it in like an addict. His hand rubbed my back in swirls like he was patterning water or sculpting clay. Lost little goose bumps followed his fingers in tandem as I tried to sleep. But my mind was destroying me from the inside and for a moment I swear I heard the crack of Moriarty breaking my bones or ripping my hair out or something like that, even though he was dead. But John's hand pressed into my spine and I returned from the room in my head, the one I hate to visit. I involuntarily shivered and he drew me up closer against his chest and I couldn't help but feel like a child.
You should rest
Echoing off my skull were his words, like soft leaves falling on my head. His fingers brushed over my cheeks and then my lips, and his followed and my head buzzed. His lips were magnificent, magnificent were those lips. I wanted to take them apart and study what gave them the power to pull me out of my patterns and fog up the windows in my mind palace. He brushed them over every bruise on my face and every cut and all I could think was, God I love this man. I wondered if I could ever acclimatize to him. We had only kissed once before this, and I was never sure he really meant it. One can only deduce so far. I mean, the dilated pupils and rushing blood and the hastened breathing could've told me something, but I know humans. They are utterly reliant on physical pleasure and rarely listen to anything but. But here John was, and I was lost. He ended his trek on my mouth, nipping my bottom lip and then running his tongue over it as if apologizing. I looked up at his face, and he smiled at me with those dark night eyes and told me for the second time ever that he loved me and I didn't think any arrangement of letters had ever meant more to me than those he'd strung together and handed to me. I pulled him back down to kiss him as fiercely as I could manage before my bones waged war with my muscles and the blood rushed to my head to warn me. He was quiet for a few minutes and I focused on his warm skin and his traveling hands and his steady heartbeat.
There once was a prince
His silken voice broke through the silence. My mind reeled in confusion. Was John telling me a bedtime story? I opened my eyes and stared at him questioningly. He smiled as always
He had a great quest ahead of him and he needed to embark on his journey.
John continued, weaving a tapestry of fantasy characters and adventures and I almost laughed at the ridiculousness but something sincere was present in his voice and I couldn't help but listen. He wrapped this world around me and I was trapped like a child. He continued to trace his patterns, and it didn't take me long to realize he was drawing the story on my skin. After a while, as he was about to end the tale, I tried to sit up but only made it halfway before he gently pushed me down again.
What are you doing
Experiment, John
And with that I grabbed his neck and pulled his lips to mine and the dragons in his story danced with my veins as his mouth danced with mine and air was suddenly an option I did not want as he ran his tongue over mine and the ice queen that had doomed the prince threw shivers across my skin and my broken ribs had the strength of giants when I forced him onto his back. He looked up at me with wide eyes and those damn dilated pupils and I had to drink more of this potionbeforeidiedandthiswasnotacceptablebecausehehasbewitchedme and John's mouth ran down my neck and I almost collapsed into his chest. I heard him snicker
I thought you were injured
You thought wrong
I pulled his chin up and bit his neck like the deranged beasts in his story and
Oh
His story involved him turning the skin over my collar bones the color of my favorite shirt. Him carefully pinning my arms by my side and ravishing my bicep muscles into artwork of purple but unlike the purple on my ribs and under my eyes. This purple was the color of fresh picked forget-me-nots and I instead forgot everything except his name.
His hands pulled through my hair and mine through his because fatigue only allowed me to mirror him. I could only fight the pain so much. I groaned as it fashioned me into a human disaster and all I could do was slump once again on John's chest.
John
This damn son of a bitch had me ensnared and I could not think of anything but him. He ran like sweet poison through my blood and I swear he would cause my unraveling. I told him a story like my mother used to and he had turned it into a weapon against my sanity. I was actually grateful that he was injured. I got up and turned the lights off and followed the trail of moonlight back to him. Sherlock was lying there and looked dead with both old and new bruises covering him. I shivered and remembered a time I fought for three years to forget. Rummaging in my bedside drawer, I found one of my bottles of pain killers that I used to take to knock myself out for the night when his body was still burned onto the backs of my eyelids. I got him some water and helped him swallow the pill, then climbed in beside him. He looped his arm around my waist and I wrapped mine around his shoulders to avoid hurting his side. This was the first time in my life I'd been so happy to hear another person's heartbeat. As the drugs started to kick in, Sherlock's words were slurred
I almost had you there
I laughed quietly and kissed him slowly, searing his lips once more.
Just wait until you're not hurt
A low chuckle resonated in my ear, and then his breathing slowed to sleep. Only then did I stop fighting my fall into my nightly abyss where it was all dragons and they had killed Sherlock and his body was dead in my arms and no magic could save him. I woke up the next morning with the packet of pain killers empty and found the only company I had was a headache. Today was the three year anniversary, and I was once more surrounded by darkness.