AN: Hey everyone! This is the English version of a story I originally wrote in German and which can also be found on this site. It was inspired by the song "My Sweet Prince" by Placebo, from which the quote "me and the dragon" is.
Hope you enjoy!
Love, Rima
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. At least nothing related to this story. That pleasure goes to the respective owners.
Me and the Dragon - The Story of a Danger Night
They never should have done that.
Sherlock was sitting on the livingroom floor with his back against the sofa. He stared straight ahead stubbornly, not really noticing the opposite wall with the bookshelf.
He and John were climbing the stairs of 221b on unstable legs.
"Shhh!", Sherlock said when John treated on the creaking step.
The last case had been a trying one, even by Sherlock's standards. Which was why Lestrade and his colleagues decided to celebrate the - thanks to the genius - successful conclusion of the investigation at the nearest pub. Sherlock hadn't wanted to join them at all, why would he? He could do without a stuffy room full of loud, inebriated people, thank you very much. But John had insisted; they deserved it, he declared. And so he went with them and drank what they gave him like a good boy. Maybe that would make the situation at least somewhat more bearable. Plus he didn't want to disappoint John by upsetting everyone.
Which was why the detective and his blogger now stumbled through the door, completely drunk.
"I think I better stay here t'night", John suddenly muttered and threw a questioning glance at his friend. "That okay?"
"Hmmm", was all Sherlock could say to that, and nodded. It was obvious that John wouldn't go anywhere tonight, not with all the alcohol in his system. As soon as he sat down, he would probably fall asleep anyway. It was the logical thing to do to let him sleep here. Besides, he was always glad about any opportunity to have John over, using his old room. He never told him that, of course. Unthinkable.
Sherlock carefully withdrew the needle from his arm, laying his head back, when finally he began to feel his old friend. His breath came quicker and he was relieved to feel how everything that tormented him was lifted from his shoulders. He was inaccessible to the world and its interests here, where his mind was still for once and he was at peace with himself. What did it matter?
So he let himself float away.
John had found another bottle of wine that had been a present from a client. Now he and Sherlock were sitting next to each other on the sofa with their glasses before them. Sherlock watched the dark red liquid and the way the light was broken by the glass with fascination. Next to him John, who had almost dozed off once, took another sip. the detective turned to his friend to tell him about his observations, and stopped short.
He had often looked at John when he'd thought he could get away with it. Everything he could find was thouroughly memorized. Sometimes, he had found comfort in it in those lonely two years; to bring back to memory of how John made tea, what his hair looked like when he'd just woken up and hadn't brushed it yet, this particular smile only Sherlock ever seemed to get to see...
He'd always been sober before, though, when he had scrutinized John that way. And that made all the difference now.
John had noticed his staring and turned to him. They were sitting so close Sherlock could see every little detail, every expression on his friend's face.
"What?", John asked drunkenly and blinked owlishly.
Sherlock looked him in the eyes, deep oceanblue. Without answering, he leaned in...
Startled, Sherlock opened his eyes. His heart was racing, but it wasn't due to the drug anymore. Quite the opposite: Sherlock could feel the uneasy, hopeless Something that followed the high as it slowly got the better of him.
He knew this feeling all too well. The crash that came after the high like a hangover after a night out. But there was a way to counteract this depressive feeling.
Determined, Sherlock reached for the syringe again before the cold emptiness could seep into him too much and knock the breath out of him, like it had done so often.
John became rigid when Sherlock's lips first touched his.
What the Consulting Detective noticed first were the incredible softness and wonderful warmth of his friend's lips. Better than anything even he ever could have imagined. He could taste the beer and the wine the doctor had drunk, but there also was something else which he wasn't able to put a name on. Something that seemed to whisper home.
John started to relax after the initial shock and Sherlock felt, to his great astonishment, his kiss being reciprocated; just as his inebriated brain had come to the conclusion that he'd made a huge mistake.
Their kiss was gentle at first, as they carefully got to know each other. But soon enough it turned into something much less innocent. Sherlock suddenly found himself with his hands on John's waist, pulling him impossibly closer, while John had one hand buried in Sherlock's dark curls, the other one caressing his back.
Sherlock needed more. It had to be possible to erase those pictures. Against better knowledge, he injected another dose. He'd silence his memories, no matter how.
He didn't know for certain how they ended up in his bedroom. It only realised it himself when John pressed him onto the mattress. The detective suddenly became nervous; he didn't have any experience with these things, for once in his life he was clueless as to what to do. Yet he was way too drunk from alcohol and snogging to give his insecurities much attention.
Maybe everything would've turned out differently otherwise. Maybe he would have said No. But he couldn't be too sure. The suppressed desire had been too great (on both sides, apparently). It probably had been inevitable, him losing control. But not yet.
John's hands roamed his body, touched, caressed him. Their lips seemed to be inseparable. Sherlock had never felt this alive before. Or this safe.
He should've known. It had been so obvious, right from the start. Stupid! An idiot would've observed it. And he was Sherlock Holmes, dammit!
Afterwards, John fell asleep immediately. But Sherlock stayed awake for a little while, head resting on his friend's chest, listening to his heartbeat. And for the first time in his life he felt himself calm down entirely. It wasn't like when he'd taken drugs, no, this was a peace from deep inside his core and it took him over completely. Sherlock fell asleep like that, in the arms of the man he had loved for so long. He smiled gently.
At some point Sherlock became aware of tears running down his face. How long had he been crying? He didn't know. How pitiful he must look to a bystander, sitting on the floor, sobbing, the needle readily beside him.
He knew he should stop right now. His hands were shaking, he was hot and his muscles cramped. Yet he couldn't.
When Sherlock woke up, he was alone. He didn't miss on that fact although his head was aching like hell. John had to have gotten up some while ago, for the empty half of the bed was cool to Sherlock's touch.
"John?", he called out. Or, more correctly, tried to call. He cleared his throat and swallowed heavily, trying again. "John?"
No answer. Sherlock's stomach felt rather unpleasant. He couldn't say for sure if it was due to the hangover or not.
The brunet stood up laboriously. He instantly felt dizzy and like he was going to be sick, but he ignored it. Where was John?
Just like back then Sherlock thought he might throw up. Very much so, in fact. His heart beat an erratic rhythm inside his chest.
The note was lying on the kitchen table. It seemed to stare at Sherlock from there when he entered the room from the hallway. You needn't be a genius to make this deduction. Though he knew what was to come next, had to come next, the detective could barely bring himself to reach for this innocent looking piece of paper and get it over with. He would've loved to pretend for a bit longer. Just a bit.
Sherlock retched, hovering over the toilet. He hadn't eaten anything in days, so there wasn't really anything he could throw up. His throat was burning terribly. The world became blurred before his eyes and suddenly, he was afraid. There was no one who could help him in this situation. He was alone. With uncoordinated hands, he tried to get a hold on something, only finding the cold lid of the toilet. He retched again.
He was sorry for what had happened. Terribly sorry, in fact. He didn't know why he'd let it come to this and it made him feel horrible. They'd both been out of it and had made a terrible mistake. He was so sorry, just in case he hadn't made that clear enough yet.
Sherlock didn't know what hurt more. That John had sneaked out at an ungodly hour to return to his wife and leave nothing but a note behind, not even saying it to his face, or that he was sorry, that he regretted what had happened between them so much. Not that any of this had been unpredictable. It wasn't even as if Sherlock didn't understand John. He had always been a man of duty, he always did what he thought to be the right thing. He felt betrayed nontheless. He'd opened up to the blond, and he let him down. His message made it all quiet clear. "I think it's probably for the best for all when we don't see each other for a while. I'm sorry."
There it was again.
Everything else had been unavoidable.
White hot rage was searing through Sherlock. How could John dare to treat him like this? Did he feel so indifferent towards him that he could just get out of this with a slip of paper and be done with it?
Damn, he needed more; was it his imagination or did the effect lessen?
Sherlock could feel how he was losing control without being able to prevent it anymore. It wasn't worth the trouble, anyway.
John's hands on his skin. His breath, warm on his face. The noises of them moving together...
For the umpteenth time, Sherlock inspected the flat for cameras. He could've sworn someone was watching him. But he wasn't able to control his limbs properly, constantly tripping and knocking things over, while his uncoordinated, shaking hands searched for the small devices which weren't there.
He felt safe in John's arms. As if nothing, no one, could hurt him as long as John was with him.
But John wasn't with him.
Sherlock was sitting on the livingroom floor once more.
And perhaps (probably) John wouldn't be with him ever again, to praise him for one of his deductions or to inspire him to crack a case, to tell him how to behave in order to not insult and scare away everyone around him. Never again would he remind Sherlock that he needed to eat or smile at him. God, that smile.
He hadn't been able to prevent it. He'd just... fallen, without his aid or consent. And this it had all led to.
Welcome on the losing side, Mr. Holmes.
He knew he should stop, but there was no one who could have made him. So why not?
And so Sherlock's hand reached out for the bottle with the solution.
THE END
So, what do you think? Good, bad, burn in hell? Tell me in a comment! ;)