Trompe l'Oeil
By BlueJayJazz
Cold air tore at Sherlock's coat, to which he turned his collar up at. But still, the icy winds seemed to pierce right through him, freezing him from the inside out. His breath puffed out in clouds, and his eyes drew closed as his eyesight became hazed and unfocused.
Had to get out of the cold, had to get out of the cold. Where did he live again? No, he didn't have a house, he'd been kicked out… living on the streets… no place to come home to…
Wrong, he had 221B. What was he thinking? Of course he wasn't homeless, shite he was becoming delirious, had to get back.
But his mind kept drawing him back to his uni days, sitting in an alleyway watching life pass him by with only the needle and his depression to keep him company.
Home, get home, get warm.
What home? I'm alone, on the streets. No one cares, no one wants me…
What was scaring him, once he remembered all was in the past, was these were his own thoughts, present thoughts, assuming his current situation was that of the past.
Did he really use to think like that? Had he really been that pathetic a wretch?
Alone… completely and utterly alone…
No, he thought to himself, taking a rest by a lamppost, leaning heavily on it as his legs shook from the strain of keeping him upright, anyone that sad and abandon deserves to think that way. It's their right. It's not right, but it's a right.
Now, he had to stop hallucinating and get back to John. John who cared and wanted him home. John who cared and missed him and wanted him back in the warmth.
Get back to the warmth.
"Sherlock?" A call from far away, but oh so close. 'Sherlock, you ungrateful fucking poof. Get your bags and get the fuck out of my house!' I'm sorry dad, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…
"Sherlock? Sherlock! Jesus Christ what are you doing out in this weather? How long've you been out here?"
No, that was the past. Stop thinking about father. Stop thinking about loneliness, about the alleyways, the drugs, the cold.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John pulled Sherlock's crumpled body up, wrapping his strong military man arms around his miserably skinny waist.
"John… John kiss me…" Sherlock mumbled, flinging his arms around John's shoulders in a wild almost drunken fashion.
"Wh- what?"
"…gotta… get back at dad… cant throw me out… for nothing…" Sherlock lunged forward, trying to capture John's lips.
"Sherlock- Sherlock are you drunk? What's gotten into you!" John gasped, pulling away, trying to keep Sherlock still.
"…the fucking douchebag thinks I don't deserve a home… fuck him… I'll give him something to blather about…" Sherlock raggedly gasped, mind swirling with imaged of his father's twisted face, rage and hatred and disgust pulled in one foul sneer. "Kiss me John… kiss me…"
"Sherlock-" There, lips crashing together, two bodies sagging against the lamppost, curled up and twisted in each other's arm.
Finally John managed to push Sherlock away, though the flush in his cheeks showed how much he wished not to.
"Sherlock, are you ok? You must be hypothermic, delierious, you don't actually want to kiss me-"
"John, I've always wanted to kiss you. Always." His voice was husky and demanding, and oh so sincere, John's face seemed to soften like clay under his words.
"Sherlock, let's get you inside so we can talk."
"No talking, just kissing."
"Talk. Then we see." John whispered, almost sadly.
Sherlock couldn't grasp reality the whole way home, it was like a silk thread that kept slipping from between his fingers, trapped between the lands of delirium and the real world.
He felt like he was in so many places at once; kissing that cute boy in uni then- dad's house while being flung out the door then- curled up in the cold, sobbing, hurting, feeling like he was dying then- John, John, always, always John.
"John…" The warmth flooded him as they burst through the door. Heat and love and John please kiss me…
Suddenly snap, the world crashed into place, everything spinning and whirling and crisp and real and Sherlock's head ached. He was here, 221B, alive, with John, and the past was the past and what the fuck had he said to John?
"Sherlock? Sherlock are you ok? Let me get you a blanket-"
"No! John, what happened, what did I-?" Sherlock blinked blearily around, feeling his stomach hollow out, and his throat constrict. "I feel like shit…"
"You were half frozen out on the sidewalk. The fuck were you doing out there? You're lucky to be alive…" John glanced into Sherlock's eyes and swallowed nervously. "…you told me to kiss you. You said you had to get back at your father… did you mean it?"
"Mean what?"
"That you wanted to? To… kiss me?"
Sherlock paused. "My dad threw me out for being gay, when I was nineteen."
John nodded uncertainly, stepping back. "I'll go get you that blanket…"
"John… kiss me?"
His flat mate blinked, frowning. "Are you still delirious?"
"By the state of your shoes, you spent about an hour searching for me this evening. By the colour of the mud, you even looked in the back alleyways and in the playground. Your hair is smells like shampoo, and I smell cologne on your shirt, so you were about to go out, probably with Jeanette. You left your wallet and phone on the counter, so you went outside specifically to look for me, thus ditching your date. No John, I'm not delirious, and if you care so much to leave your girlfriend hanging to look for me for an hour in the freezing cold, then goddammit, kiss me."
And so John did.
And did.
And did…
Until they couldn't breathe and John had to stop, gasping for air.
"Ever heard of breathing through your nose?" Sherlock croaked, pulling John closer, dragging them both out of the kitchen and farther into the flat.
"I've never snogged a guy before." John rumbled, chest vibrating as he growled in Sherlock's ear, pushing him onto the couch.
"And that has to do with breathing out your nose, how? Is that a crack at how I smell?" Sherlock frowned, biting John's ear.
He winced and moaned, "no… I was just stating the fact. You smell quite nice actually…"
"Shut up." Sherlock shut him up. Quite successfully. With his tongue.
"You're dad was an arse." John mumbled into Sherlock's mouth, hands fisting his hair in lust.
"mm." Sherlock arched against him, eyes fluttering.
"You're beautiful Sherlock." John whispered, lips moving down from his mouth to draw a line down his jaw, licking at the smooth salty skin, venturing down to his throat to nip gently at the tender flesh there.
The sounds Sherlock made were wanton and needy, bodies pressing together, friction just not enough.
The cold was gone by now, long gone. All that was left was heat, hot fiery beautiful heat that needed something to feed on.
John fed that fire, oh hell yes he did.
Sherlock blinked, glancing at the clock. When had he fallen asleep? He had such strange dreams sometimes, but rarely of memories.
He smiled, basking the glow of that time months ago, the feeling of utter joy of having your deepest feelings returned. It was lovely, and heavenly, and hot and needy.
But dreaming of it… worried him. Why would he dream of memories?
"Sherlock? Finally you're awake! We need to head over to Scotland Yard!" John poked his head into the sitting room, eyes wide as always, adorable wrinkles crinkled with years of smiling and frowning.
"Er, yes. Right. John- do you love me?" Sherlock stretched, standing up with creaking legs from laying in such an awkward position for so long.
"Of course I do, what brought this on?" John frowned, stepping into the room.
"Nothing, nothing. Just a strange dream. I keep getting things… mixed up. Pasts I mean. Like, one second of here, one I'm there, while I'm actually here." Sherlock bit his lip, feeling his pulse thud under his skin. It was disconcerting and worrisome. Was he finally going properly mad?
"You're probably just tired. You haven't slept in days. That case has gotten you in such a state…" John sighed in exasperation. "Good thing you solved it, I-
Suddenly the world seemed to dip and swirl like looking through a fisheye lens, and Sherlock blinked, tipped, and promptly vomited on the floor. What was that- was that real? Or was it a dream, a hallucination… but it was… it was real…
He was sitting on the couch, right where he had been. But John- where was John? What… where… how…
"Sherlock? Jesus, love are you alright?" John knelt beside him, using his sleeve to carelessly wipe the vomit and spittle off Sherlock's sharp chin.
"That case- the one with Joan Sanders- when did I solved it." He choked out, eyes wide. "When?"
"What? Sherlock, that was like, three weeks ago. Are you ok?" John worriedly checked his eyes, searching for any signs of drug use.
"Fine… I'm fine…" Right, yes. Things were clicking back together, the weeks since that memory slowly emerging from his shaken mind. What was happening?
What was going on?
"Sherlock, is something wrong?"
"Fucking bum- get a job!" A voice was penetrating his world, drowning out John's concerned words. Shut up, I'm trying to listen to him! Sherlock though angrily, but for some reason couldn't verbalize these thoughts, as much as he tried.
Suddenly, his eyes were opening.
What- but his eyes were open just a second ago!
They opened from one world with John, to another, grey, cold, lonely world.
Sherlock sucked in a shaky, freezing, burning breath and glanced around, cehst and stomach aching.
The chill was all around him, in his joints, in his heart, in the air. His clothes were tattered and worn. Old.
He was sitting in an alleyway, wrapped up in a flimsy fleece blanket that smelt like cat piss.
In his hands was a needle, on his forearm was a red prick mark, and in his head he was sobbing.
The year was 1999, and Sherlock realized then and there, the past… was not at all the past.
The future was the delusion.
He was alone.