"Sherlock, oh God, please stop. Please." And I'm kneeling in front of him, with him, on the rough carpet. It scratches through the thin fabric of my pyjama pants. I reach out for him, his wrists. Rub the skin, smooth and warm against the pads of my thumbs and I can't look him in the eyes because please, if I don't look, it doesn't have to be there. So I look at his collar bones, protruding sharp, skin stretched tight and thin and tinged grey. And his ribs, and I can almost feel the hollowness of his bones, and his stomach. Because there is a hole. An emptiness inside me, too. Doesn't he know? He should. It is so obvious. He sees everything. And maybe he'll listen and I can stop feeling like the space inside my chest is full of bile.
"Please Sherlock, please."
Please.
"God, Sherlock just stop."
No more. You're dragging me with you, Sherlock. I can't help but follow you into that abyss.
Please.
And we're so young, so very young. And you are brilliant. A blazing, burning mass of light. You spit and you consume and you burn. But you burn so very brightly. All the light of a dying sun.
If I don't look, it doesn't have to be there.
Please. Please.
"Please."
But it is there, and I meet your eyes, and your fantastic blue is all consuming, apart from two pricks of pupil.
And all the breath I have ever inhaled is trapped in my chest, aching and I'm choking on nothing at all. And the word loses all meaning. Begins to contort on my tongue because I am useless. You are too far gone. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
"Please Sherlock."
Please.
But your eyes continue to stare straight ahead, nothing but white and blue and dots of black. And now the skin that I have to tighten my grip on, is sliding against my fingers and I can feel the track marks against my palm, my fingers. Everywhere.
"Sherlock." I say it like a curse, like a prayer. I rip it from my throat like it can mean something. It tears along the flesh. It leaves my throat rough and aching with the blinding grey swirl of tears.
Please.
A.N. I don't own Sherlock.
Well, that was depressing. And there's more (oh joy). Sorry
I should really be working on Knowing Sherlock Holmes right now. But this was writing itself in my head and it was getting distracting, so it got written. *sigh*
