I was alone, Falling free,
Trying my best not to forget
Johns heels dig franticly into the sheets as he gasps for air, he was one of two sweating bodies submerged in the heated dark, interrupted by a few rare streaks of orange street lamp light streaming through the slit in the curtains, casting a faint pool of light on a pale glistening back, the droplets of sweat coursing its way down Sherlock's flesh as he whispered huskily into his partners ear. A trace of sadism flashed across his half lidded eyes as he places a small silver key onto the surface of Johns bedside table after restraining his doctor. John was panicking. Amidst a smooth flurry of bed sheets being viciously taken from him, Sherlock had abused the fact he was half asleep and venerable, and utterly dominated him, everything being sleepy, blurry and half conscious for John made it worse. The detective cuffed him mercilessly to the head board of the bed showing no remorse or care for Johns situation. Not a word came out of Holmes mouth, but from what minimal light there was showed John the blank and almost expressionless face of his lover as the dark haired man kneeled over him, gazing down through dilated pupils with deep and dense intensity. John felt objectified. Sherlock remained still for a moment in his kneeling position, he was wearing nothing but his silk black pyjama bottoms, the light bouncing of it and haloing his upper body with an eerie golden outline as it rose and fell in sync with his heavy laboured breathing. This wasn't meant to be arousing for him, nor a surprise sexual encounter to enjoy, the doctor could tell that much from the detectives face. Whatever this was, it was going to be selfish, rough and unpredictable.
What happened to us,
What happened to me,
What happened as I let it slip.
He wanted to protest, to call out his detective's name and ask him to stop, plea or beg. But his voice wasn't heard. His looks were ignored and his pathetic growls and struggles were halted. Whatever this was, it was scaring him. This wasn't his Sherlock. It wasn't his Sherlock that reached down to tug harshly on his soft blonde hair, pushing him roughly to expose his neck while the detective ravaged his flesh with bites and forceful kisses. A pale stray hand was soon snaking down John's waist, fiddling mindlessly with John's waist band to then move up slightly to pull at the fabric of his night shirt. Sherlock sat upright into the orange light, looming over his unwilling partner with a look of possessiveness in his eyes, using both hands to slowly, dauntingly, rip John's shirt apart. He made eye contact with John for a moment that lasted much longer than it felt, exchanging far more in a few moments than words could in hours, yet Sherlock continued to ignore his Doctors look of fear, and began to slowly rip apart the shirt, buttons being torn from thread as the detective watched John's skin being revealed with dark fascination.
I was confused by the powers that be,
Forgetting names and faces.
Passers by were looking at me
As if they could erase it
For the first time in his life, John felt fully and truly helpless to the events conspiring around him. His mind was searching every far corner of his memory to pull out an explanation to all of this, yet he found nothing. What did he do for this to happen? Why was Sherlock acting like this? What is he going to do? How the bloody hell should he handle this..?
There were rarely times when John thought he didn't know his partner. They had been living together for over a year now, in a relationship for over a month, and he worked, laughed and shouted at Sherlock on a daily basis. Yet there were times where he knew he had barely scratched the surface of the tormented geniuses mind, he was aware of the dark places within Sherlock's labyrinth of thought that John knew he would never discover. John had accepted he would never fully know Sherlock but if the detective were to hold any dark secrets, John felt he had the right to know. If not him, who else? Thoughts like those truly did scare John, he wanted to know everything about his lover, he felt he knew a great deal, and that Sherlock trusted him with anything and everything. He wanted that anyway. John wanted to be the person Sherlock relied on.
And as Sherlock's mouth began to suck and bite thoughtlessly on John's abdomen, it hit him hard.
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
"…Sherlock.." softly now with less urgency. But still that panicked tone lingered faintly in the Doctors voice as an occupied mouth began trailing its way up his chest at an excruciatingly slow pace, Eliciting pained gasps from John lips at every scrape and bite. Anyone could have told you about Sherlock's personality, but unfortunately the psychological fissure went to deeper and darker depths than anyone had ever known. John had known. Of course he had. He was the only one who treated it.
"Sherlock please.."
"…did you forget to take your meds?..."