This is dedicated to the wonderful ArthurDent2, to whom I promised some fluff, to prove to her that I could write it.
Well this is for you, ArthurDent2 (that rhymed, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it). Perhaps save reading it until after the next chapter is posted because I promised you fluff and it hasn't exactly happened yet. FLUFF IS SO DIFFICULT TO WRITE. But I promise, you asked for fluff and I shall deliver. At some point.
I mean, I was going to get it done with one chapter and then it sort of ended itself, you know how that happens. But I know what happen's next so don't be mad at me, it'll get done.
There's an occasional car the breaks the silence, rumbling past, the brief hum skating over the road outside. Sherlock stretches further across the fabric of the couch, tipping his quarrel of curls out over the carpet, long neck curving parallel to the floor. His eyes shine slightly in the darkness, reflecting the glow of the lamp in the corner that tints the night with a warm yellow. He draws in a sigh, back arching above the cushions, toes drumming light rhythms that are lost in the plush of the couch.
A drawn out exhale in the emptiness.
Sherlock tugs the loose cotton of his dressing gown around himself from where it had slipped off one pale shoulder. He rustles among the cushions, tossing and turning, the noise of each movement grating in the space, hanging in between his breaths. They catch the particles of the air and hold them like moments, gripping them even as they slip away.
The stillness is beginning to fray the edges of his mind.
He knows what he needs. He feels it in the vacant space between his arms, the shrill ringing of nothing but the city traffic ricocheting off the grid of buildings. He feels the absence of another's weight as keenly as if it already lay inside his chest. He needs John.
His bare feet hit the floor as soon as the thought if fully formed and he pads silently up the stairs. He pauses at the door to John's room, before spreading his fingers out over the wood and swinging the door open with as little pressure as possible. He doesn't breath for a few seconds, revelling in the emptiness of his chest and the way John's lethargic breaths weigh in the air. Then, his feet slide forward, he's captivated by the way the moonlight lies a soft hand across the steady rise and fall of John's shoulders. Sherlock moves towards him, hand extended over the sun-darkened skin and pauses just before the point of contact. The possibility of connection, of the warmth of John's skin hovers in the stillness and he aches for him. For his touch. He aches for the physical presence of John from his fingertips, to his throat, where it nestles there like something rough and choking, to his knees, which threaten to give out and thud against the chipped varnish of the floor, threaten to disturb the peace that surrounds this space like impossibly thin glass. Sherlock aches for John with all the particles of his being.
But touching him will pull this world apart, John's coarse inhales, the scent of tea, and wool, and sleep. So Sherlock folds himself close, huddling against the bed until he knees are pulled up against his chest and his back is pressed against the hard glint of the metal bedframe and he sits, unmoving. Watching the loose curl of John's hand that has slipped off the edge of the bed in his sleep, scarcely breathing as the callused palm wrinkles with rolling folds with each twitch, each clench of muscles. The fingers are slack, resting halfway open and in this moment, in this exact moment, where everything has stopped and perhaps the world keeps moving but for this eternity there is nothing but this room, Sherlock wants nothing more than to intertwine their fingers, to watch his own palm slip over John's and have them fit perfectly together. But that would be a violation, he is already pushing the limits just being here, close to John, because this room is so expressly John's, no taint of Sherlock's mess has reached beyond this door. This is John undisturbed, merged with none of Sherlock's inherent madness, his chaos. This is something that should belong purely to John. But it doesn't. It doesn't and Sherlock knows this, he knows that he is upsetting this as if vandalising something sacred. But he can't stop. He has to be close to John, to have as much of John's life as he can, and that is why John can never know about these thoughts, these feelings. Because Sherlock would take him over completely and utterly and never let him look back. And then John would leave. John would leave and Sherlock would be so very broken.
So Sherlock sits and lets the bed frame bruise his back, and he watches the trusting emptiness of John's hand relax and clench around nothing.
Yes, okay. That was slightly angsty. But there was no death or self harm or anything like that so I didn't reaaaally bend the rules too much. I promise THERE SHALL BE FLUFF!
Love you lots sweetie. x
