There you lay, sleeping. So innocent, so unaware of the storm you have unleashed inside of me.
The first time you touched me with those tenderly rugged fingers of yours, I wanted to slap your hand away, I wanted to deny the softness of your eyes, the worry.
You were different from the others, different from anyone else. And I denied myself the knowledge.
Like a child I pretended not to see.
I pushed you away, with mirth and the most annoying traits I could come up with. I wanted to think you were like the others that have tried to change me. Like Mycroft, mother, like Mrs. Hudson.
But you weren't.
You would never be like them.
You were unique.
The dog is a torture, as much as a relief. I must admit the most illogical feelings of jealousy emerge within me when you embrace the mutt, when you scowl so adorably at me and reprimand me every single time I try to experiment with it.
And yet it is not your dog, but ours.
A link that binds us together.
This creature is ours.
Yours and mine.
Stupid, am I not?
You would do anything for the mutt, as much as you would do for me. And I hate to feel myself in the same category as that beast, yet I respect its solemn eyes and tranquil vigil over you as you fall, once more, to deep slumber.
Gladstone know what I have done. He feels it.
He sits by your side, staring. Just like I do.
The likeness is uncanny, I would guess.
They say you are my loyal dog, yet it is me who stares and protects your rest, your innocence.
You came to me today, smiling that beautiful smile of yours, holding a package from your wife. I couldn't help it, I was melting. You asked me what I had done the last few weeks we haven't seen eachother, I compiled a neat report over my last cases, nothing important, nothing as earth shattering as what had really happened.
I met a man, I wanted to tell you, I met a man who was like me, who just had to stare into my eyes and knew all that I was hiding.
I was scared.
He told me his name was Oscar, and of course, I knew it already, his face was too famous, his name too tainted. He was in prison, and he was sick, and yet, it was a reflection of my eyes I saw on his face.
"You love with the love that dare not speak its name," he said simply, sipping a glass of water. I stared dumbly, unaware so much was laid baren for him to see. "It is a dangerous road you chose for yourself, one of danger and hatred."
I shook my head.
"Surely you are mistaken," I croaked. "I am here to accompany Inspector Lestrade."
He laughed, a choked, sad sound.
"I loved like that, once, and it brought me here faster than I could realize, my love was a dark one, a tainted one," without even looking at me, Oscar handed me a stack of paper. "You can read it, it is something I plan to publish as soon as I am free."
I returned to my room and read and felt the sinking realization hit me deep inside. His love, the one that dare not speak its name.
It was the same passion I felt for you, my dearest doctor. The same longing, the same burning.
Yet, despite its pain and its darkness.
His love was reciprocal and mine wasn't.
His foolish demon loved him while my rugged angel didn't.
I grew depressed. I worried them all.
I know Mrs. Hudson called you here today because of that worry, and I, like a fool, did nothing to appease your sorrow.
I grinned like a drugged fool and promised I would throw away my bottles should you sit with me and share a cup of tea. You, sweet, innocent fool, agreed. Oscar's words rang in my ears in his eloquent and educated voice as your eyes started to drop. My violin drowned the sound of the china hitting the wooden floor as you slumped, deep in sleep. Gladstone stood from his pillow and sat by your side.
And I stare.
I stare even now that I know I only have some more minutes of your beauty for myself. I stare and study and dream of tasting the forbidden fruit of your lips.
You lovable fool, you precious friend. For a few moments in time, you are mine.
I imagine myself kissing your unresponsive lips, letting my hungry hands roam your skin, memorizing each and every scar that lines your body. Licking the ones I know have been my fault and begging forgiveness at the same time as I relish in the fact that those scars will forever be my brand upon you.
They make you mine in ways sweet Mrs. Watson cannot have you.
I long to remove your clothing, to drink in the sight of you and sink myself in you, fuse my skin with yours so our scents become one, so I carry you in my skin for days to come. I want to give you pleasure, to watch your face flush and twist in agonized ecstasy. I want you whole and to never let go.
My dreams are broken by the fluttering of your glorious eyes, my time is up.
"Holmes?" you whisper tiredly, rubbing your eyes with a hand, so cute.
"It seems you were much more tired than you thought," I say, resuming my position by your side, cup in hand. You blink once, twice, then your eyes stray to the clock and an undignified curse falls from your luscious lips.
"I have to go! Mary will kill me!" you cry, standing quickly and taking your coat. I stand as well, eyes neutral.
"Will you come back for tea next month?" I inquire softly. "And bring Mrs. Watson with you?"
You stare at me in confusion before nodded, the glint in your eyes reveals your pleasure. You really think I want to see her.
Poor adorable fool.
"I will, old friend," you grin, giving me a quick hug.
I close my eyes, breathing in your scent, drawing onto your warmth.
In seconds you are gone and I drop the tainted teaset into the garbage, not really sure I want to drug myself this time. I pick up the abused stack of paper on my desk and put on my coat, it is cold outside.
"And where do you think you are going, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asks from the hallway, her eyes full of concern.
I grin at her.
"I must go to the prison this afternoon, dear Mrs. Hudson," I answer. "There is someone I need to talk to."
She nods, imagining the sort of criminal I want to interview. She has no idea.
I need Oscar's understanding words and short sickly smiles. He will know what I'm going through. He will not judge my deviant obsession.
He will tell me what to do with sweet Mrs. Watson in a month, as I lay her husband to sleep once more.
End