Hi! I've been relatively a passive contributor to this fandom save for the fact that I do contribute some art at my insta: phantomsherlokid _ 221b

:D

Haha thanks for even clicking!


Breathe.

Breathe. And kick.

The surface breaks. Anew.

And the water washes over him again, the waves drowning him. Sinking. He drinks in the feeling of the drug in his veins, pumping, as his mind draws out the conclusion and links it, to a thousand other issues in the world, knowing, nitpicking each detail.

His blue eyes focus on the cracked paint on the ceiling, but he doesn't see the paint peel. Instead, he sees the lines, a bridging of all the ideas in his mind.

And he is drowning again, in the haze of the cursed blood coursing in his veins.

The room spins and he drowns, the world alienated in a haze of the black cloth of the night.

xXx

Awake.

The command is repetitive.

Humans. Normal humans. The psychology of humans, repetition and absorption of the power of three, before it is even ingrained into any of their minds.

He doesn't awake.

The blue of the waves still threaten to hold him, to drown him.

The voice. Familiar.

Catalogued.

The recesses, the deep depths of his mind, walking in the palace of his mind, he turns a corner and draws a blank.

Turning back, is the abyss, a void. The demons inside reach out, and he takes the leave of the palace, returning to the fire coursing in his blood.

xXx

Twenty bloody hours.

"Bugger it, Sherlock!" he almost shouts, shaking the languid form in front of him. The syringe, the evidence of what happened lies beside, along with a cryptic set of notes.

Numbers swim before his eyes, as he minimizes the Excel spreadsheet.

Endless tabs. A sea of unknowns.

He sighs, pulling the curly haired man close, placing a gentle kiss on his lifeless, pale lips.

xXx

He barely surfaces, crashing to the shore as he glimpses sight of a red jumper, over his shoulders. Stirring, it falls, like the autumn leaves, a splash of color in the dreary forest of their apartment.

Damn it.

He gently runs his hands through the rivers of blonde on his lap, carrying the stout form into his embrace.

New waves wash over him, a familiarity of sorts, a reach into his own recesses. The image, clear, sharp, a painful reminder like salt into a wound.

Savior.

xXx

The melody, the cadence of his gentle breath, a wind, as fragrant as coconut oil, the luxurious sensing of him under the pads of his fingers, the callouses, each bump, each crease, each wrinkle, the cataloguing of a body, worship of a living savior.

He had never believed in a God, he was never on the side of the angels anyway.

Nothing supernatural, just logic.

Without logic, the world would shatter.

He frowned, skimming his eyes over the skin of the form in his hands.

xXx

"John," he whispers, something he has never done in such a gentle voice, or with such emotion.

"John." Blue eyes wake into his own.

"John," he whispers with urgency, and the sea drowns him again.

"I love you," and he finally breaks.


I NEED TO STOP WRITING ANGST I'M SORRY HAHAHAHAHHAHA