Warning: mentions of past self harm, failing to quit addictions (is that one?). Props to ArthurDent2 for dealing with me because I have trouble deciding things.
"So where do we go from here?" asks John Watson.
And a car goes by in the distance, white washed by the space between them.
The breath on John Watson's lips is stale from overuse and Sherlock Holmes' breath is stale from cigarette smoke, so they don't kiss.
Another car goes by, this time a little farther away in the distance. The noise still vibrates off the buildings, slack, vacant facades that they are.
Sherlock Holmes answers, after a bit. His lips are chapped from the cold and not enough liquid in his bones. So they don't kiss.
The little shallow slashes across Sherlock's forearms stretch wider as he stretches them in front of him. They sting. The bright kind of burn that keeps your skin on the perfect line of alive.
"There's never anywhere to go, is there really?" drips Sherlock. The words wet the air and add too much moisture. The wind, nonexistent but still quite helpful, carries it off. To somewhere more humid. Like East Africa or South America. Maybe a jungle.
And, "Oh," said John Watson. And his mouth didn't form the word properly because it was so tired of having to do things to make other people understand. It didn't quite open. Just parted, waited for something to be made of it.
But that was okay because Sherlock Holmes took another drag from his cigarette and tapped off the ash on the end and they still didn't kiss.
Which was okay because they were done waiting.
Hope thrummed lightly in their chests and it wasn't beaten down by darkness or swallowed by nothing. It was left there to burn.
To char their insides until the nerves were too singed to feel anymore. So there were no smiles.
So they didn't kiss.
John doesn't have ladders up his arms. Sherlock's bead blood like jewels sometimes. Like strings of ruby or faux pearls painted too bright over his arms.
John just has bite marks. Silly things in the flesh of his shoulder. He leans sometimes, when he's done, nothing specifically, and he scrapes teeth over the skin of his shoulder. Lets them sink to red. They've left scars because tasting blood gives a second and third and fourth dimension to the pain. Complete control over the pressure.
It leaves his lips stained. Like lipstick melted and smeared so hot it scars its color to the folded corners of his mouth.
Blood lone gone is on John Watson's lips.
So they don't kiss.
Wouldn't want to.
Breeze makes their fingers fumble, even though they're not trying hard enough to hold onto anything. Really they're slipping on the breeze and isn't that ridiculous.
Sherlock has quit smoking so he rubs the end of the cigarette into the grit of the pavement when he's done.
Like Sandy in Grease, except he's not wearing heels.
John Watson thinks that he might like a cigarette, if only to change the used taste of his mouth for a similar one.
A taxi pulls up when Sherlock waves a bare hand in the air. He doesn't wear gloves yet but he will and that's okay.
Sherlock Holmes holds the door open for John Watson. A car drives past in the near distance.
They leave the hospital with bright scars that sear the life into them.
They're not okay yet but too many breaths and maybe they'll cycle back around.
Maybe with fresh lungs and fresh lips and fresh hope - for they must allow the hope to simmer in them a little longer, wouldn't do to have empty insides rot - they can kiss.
So they don't kiss.
Wouldn't want to.
But one day they will and that's okay.
I wrote this last night and it was like ten minutes to midnight and I was so tired. I was having trouble typing and I didn't have any idea where this was going but I wrote the first few sentences in my head and I had to run to go write it down and I had to finish it before I fell asleep and it took like half an hour to find a title.
I hope I portrayed this right.