Soaring like a fish, diving like a bird: Promise
Warnings: Angst, swearing, sexual themes
Let us go! Though we know it's a hopeless endeavor
The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever
Though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning
There is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning
Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now
Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow
Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow, with
Hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow
-Emily, Joanna Newsom
I stand over plains of white sand
(Their clothes lie disregarded on the floor like leaves in Autumn. Sherlock stands at tbe foot of the bed with his hand beckoning and John's eyes sweep greedily over naked, ivory skin and long limbs Come to me)
The warm wind blows sand into my eyes, and I'm blind
(John takes the offering eagerly and closes the gap between them. He caresses smooth collarbones and dips his nose into the hollow in Sherlock's neck, brushing the skin there with his lips, inhaling the scent of pines and sandalwood. He kisses a trail down his chest, stopping to take a flushed nipple between his teeth. He bites down lightly and then flicks his tongue over the flesh, soothing. Sherlock squeezes John's hip and pants. It's the most arousing sound John's ever heard in his life. You are so beautiful to me
He rewards the reaction by moving onto another, hardened nipple, and teasingly, slowly suckling. Sherlock fists his hair and pulls John up to meet his awaiting mouth. They lock lips in a bruising kiss, and fall on the bed in a heap of tangled limbs, like pieces of a puzzle that fit For me there's only you, my love)
The sun glares so hot sweat drips down my back under my tunic. The cloth sticks to my skin and I tug at it
John's pulse is accelerating drum in his ears. There are gasps, like the wings of a moth Gentle. Hands wander, caress, claim.
(Sherlock's lips feel soft and he tastes like fire. John wraps his leg around Sherlock and grinds into him. He grinds back and they cry out in unison. John is so hard he can hardly stand it Want to feel you, have you, become one with you)
I kneel down and grab a handful of sand. It's light and soft like powder against the skin of my palm. I squeeze my hand into a fist and the sand slides back to the ground from between my fingers
(They rock back and forth, both thrusting for all they're worth. Groans.You are my sun, my conductor of light during night and day)
I dip both of my hands in, but the sand just keeps escaping from between my fingers. Evading me.
(I know you said it first but that doesn't make it any less true)
With urgency I dip my hands in again. For some reason there's nothing more important to me than my fruitless task and I persist, shoveling faster, gathering sand in my tunic, trying to trap it between my arms and body, but the powder sand just trickles, whirls away and laughs mirthfully at my attempts.
The laughter becomes a mocking caw when the sand transforms before my eyes and takes the form of a crow, and fear grabs at my heart.
Abruptly the sand dunes with the crow collapse and swirl to join a vortex of white that slowly darkens into a vortex of blue, until it condenses into a liquid and waterfalls down. It pools to form an edgeless, undulating lake ten feet below my feet.
(I can't believe you chose to stay with me)
A glow emanates from under the glittery surface and bathes me in the light.
(John looks him in the eye the whole time Can't look away, and Sherlock's eyes burn pale green – No, not just pale green. Light moss green, and blues and browns and flecks of gold. They smile up at John although his face is serene Tell me they smile like that just for me)
I've been under the sun so long I'm parched. Hungrily I eye the water below me and try to bend down to have a drink, but no matter how much I wave my arms, twist my body and kick my legs, I merely keep floating above the lake, like a ball in a string, a hangman in a noose with his toes just above the ground, inches away from extrication
(John settles himself between Sherlock's thighs and halts. He doesn't need to speak; Sherlock sees the question in John's John sees in Sherlock's eyes is consent. (Approval. Adoration. Longing. Lust.) He nods.
John inhales and holds his breath. You are the air I breath, my sweet
He pushes in and they are one.
Moans. Black eyelashes flutter Do you even know how much I need you? You are so beautiful)
Angered, I yell, but nothing comes out.
(Never leave me. Promise me you won't)
I struggle to inch closer to the remedy to my thirst and curse without a sound. I rejoice when I manage to tip my body forward after what feels like an eternity (Maybe it has been forever, who knows in this place), but it is only to fall into a horizontal position inches from the water.
(Sherlock slams his eyes shut and clings to John. His fingernails draw angry welts of red on John's skin as John speeds up Mine mine mineminemine)
Encouraged by my earlier success I wrench and tug and scream, to no effect.
(Without you I am nothing. You are my reason. My insanity)
Sweat drips down the arch of my nose into the water like a teasing maiden running amongst trees. I stare into the water and I'm so close I can feel the emanating coolness. I can imagine how it would feel like, to touch the water, have the liquid lubricating my hoarse throat, cooling and calming, healing, bringing me relief.
My hands and feet run into an invisible barrier that I can't overcome, and sweat drops are joined by tears. I'm so close... So close...
(Hot, white light overwhelms John's vision and he can't think, he can only feel, and he feels raw and bare in a way that has nothing to do with the physical state of things You have my heart between your whimsical fingers. Through the white light penetrates an image of Sherlock's enraptured face and his eyes that aren't green and John locks the picture inside his heart next to images of his smirk and the smile he smiles at John when no one's looking So much, so much)
I stare into the water and to my horror the water stares back.
"You're not close at all," it sneers. My eyes blow wide and my stomach drops. Disbelief.
There's a pull at the bottom of my navel and I gasp for air as I'm hoiked up helplessly into the air. There's wind in my hair and wind in my eyes, and then I'm back ten feet above the water with the crow's sneering in my ears.
Did I ever get any further than this? Was it just a dream of the hopeful? Hopeless
(They lay their heads on their pillows and face each other. Sherlock's face looks blissful from the afterglow and John feels so happy he could burst. You're my everything. "I love you."
Sherlock never says it back, but he pulls John close to him and tucks his head under his chin, into the place next to his heart. Sherlock puts his nose in John's hair and his chest rises with his inhalations. Your heartbeat says that you love me back)
"John?" There's a hand on my shoulder and I snap awake in my recliner. Sun is streaming in and there's a book open in my lap. Lestrade looks down at me with worry.
"John", he swallows and starts again. He doesn't want to ask, but he's going to do it anyway.
I know what he wants to talk about, and it's really nothing new.
"Did you dream about him again?"
"Of course I dreamt about him," I huff jokingly. "The bloody git seems to have a way of pestering me even from the afterlife."
"John." Lestrade chides. Take this seriously.
"Don't wear my name out," I jest. Why are they all acting like I'm about to have a breakdown. Can't they see I'm fine?
"John, you need to talk about it. Him."
"I've talked about it. There's nothing left to talk about." I insist.
Lestrade clamps his eyes shut and squeezes the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"You've said that so many times but even I don't believe that anymore. You've refused to open up to anyone about what's really going on in your head. I get why you wouldn't want to talk to me, but at least shed some light on Harriet. As reluctant as she is to admit it, and being stubborn as a bloody goat seems to run in the family, she's worried to death about you. You're freaking her out by acting like everything's bloody rainbows and sunshine. You need. To talk. To someone. Anyone. But I suggest you start with your sister."
I'm about to insist that I'm fine, but I sound like a broken record even in my own head so I rephrase the words in my head.
"I know."
"Then talk to her. It'll do the both of you some good."
Lestrade sighs. "What happened was a tragic incident that none of us saw coming. Everyone's shaken about it. You, most of all even though you act you're not; I know you were best briends."
Such an understatement. If only you knew how important he...
But you need to come to grips with the fact that Sherlock's- that he's dead, John. He took his life. You need to admit it to yourself or you'll never be able to move on."
I look pointedly out of the window and try to look unaffected even though the knife in my chest is twisting. For two minutes Lestrade just stands there, waiting for me to say something. I don't.
He shakes his head, and turns to leave.
He halts at the door with his back to me. Either it's because he doesn't want me to see his face, or because he doesn't want to see mine. Maybe it's both.
"John. It's been four months since Sherlock died."
I know. There's no need to remind me. I've been counting every day that's passed without him.
(You promised me)
"Okay." It's not really giving in, it's letting go. "I'll go see her."
That night, John does talk about it.
He goes to Harry's place and the dam breaks for the first time since the day Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. Harry rocks him and smoothes his hair as he sobs against her shoulder. She's the strong one this time.
When John falls asleep again in the evening, he doesn't dream of laughing crows or white dunes of sand. Instead there is a hand that pulls him close, and dark curls, and soft lips, that brush kisses on his forehead, then on his eyelids, on the tip of his nose, and then finally on his mouth.
" I know you're not really here."
The lips curve up into a smile.
"Good. Took you long enough to come around."
"I'm still mad at you, though." Bastard.
"I know."
"You promised you would never leave me." You took my heart with you and you still have it, you thief.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"'Sorry' doesn't cut it. Doesn't come even close to cutting it."
"I know it doesn't."
"I hate you."
"No you don't, John."
"I miss you. I miss you so much."
"I know."
"Come back to me."
"You know I can't."
"I love you."
I will always love you.
He's being kissed again (softly like rose petals and powder snow) and John fills in the blank.
I love you too.