The dark was warm. John could accept the dark, and he could accept the nothingness, as he couldn't bring himself to search for anything else. There was a far off call from the wind outside, and he suddenly woke from distant memories, the feeling of cold flesh in his hand, a wrist so smooth and weak that his stomach began to stir again, threatening to cover his bed sheets.
The change in his medication dosage was somewhat helping prevent the cold sensation, the memory of Sherlock's broken wrist; his broken and smooth hands. Blurred images flew past John's closed eyes, the images that he could not shake in any everyday activity, although they were what confirmed his loss, they were not what evoked his great depression. It was the draining emotions attached.
He supposed he could attempt to sleep once again, but an itch arose inside him; some pleasure should be his once in awhile - Sherlock could be here tonight if he wanted. Reaching downwards he held himself softly, and the image of Sherlock's smooth hands came to mind, delicately handling his violin; how he wished Sherlock had held him so preciously.
He use to feel self-conscious, masturbation reminding him of his teenage years that were filled with sexual frustration, but he could no longer care of what was acceptable for an adult man to feel or think, he was desperate and longing. He held himself firmly and felt the blood rush down quickly, as it had been awhile since his body had been touched.
The sudden urge to vomit erupted from within him, as did most nights, the thought of Sherlock falling… the sound of the crunch…
"No, not now"
"Sherlock." he whispered, "Sherlock hold me…" He would not think of those horrors tonight, he deserved some pleasure! He rubbed and let out a weak moan, and cold tears began to form behind his closed eyes.
"Stop it"
Suddenly he was reaching for more pills, he needed to stop the images, stop the sounds just for one night - just for once. Swallowing, he could no longer consider his actions as a doctor would; no longer a care for his own body. John felt the insides of his thighs, sweaty from nerves and frustration, he slowly brought his hand up his length and could feel himself relax. It was his time tonight.
The thought of Sherlock's thick dark hair, his eyes watching him from across the room, nerves keeping John from moving every single time. Sherlock could sense every emotion of his, John was most certain of this, even if the other man never let the words pass his lips, those dark eyes could judge every action he made. Had Sherlock ever wanted his attention truly?
"Yes…"
The thought of Sherlock's pale skin, as he walked out from a shower, those smooth hipbones. The way he would look at John every time he left the bedroom scantily dressed; John knew that Sherlock was craving his attention, although John could never dare make any comment, only rushing off into another room until the heat of emotion subsided.
Oh that man!
He could feel a build inside him, one that he had almost forgotten the feeling of. His member was pulsating and suddenly he came. Intense colours flashed before his eyes, his body convulsuing, muscles tensed and his breathing deepened, a hidden moan from within reaching outwards. The moment was long lasting, and suddenly in his rush he turned his head to view the interior of his small two room flat, shadows dancing upon the walls, with two distant eyes watching silently.
Sherlock!
Could it be real? Or did he just glimpse his own passionate imaginings for a moment? But as the orgasm subsided John blinked and could still see those small eyes watching him, analysing and thinking. A hint of longing flashed before them for a moment, and the light outside changed to reflect the cheekbones upon the figure.
John's breath once again quickly increased, a pathetic sense of pleasure escaping. He could feel the wetness of the come drying upon his bed sheets, and his head suddenly felt very faint.
Curiously, he turned and slowly sat up upon the side of the bed, the figure of Sherlock still watching. He felt his hand knock something over. John glanced down to see an empty pill bottle.
Suddenly, laughter erupted from within him.
The figure watched confused, as John's smiled, slightly manic.
"I've gone crazy," he whispered to himself, "I've started hallucinating."
He looked up once again to see Sherlock's face looking at him thoughtfully, even slightly worried.
"Look it's you!"
He stood up and the figure did not move.
"Oh my God, oh my God…" John began to sway.
"I've gone crazy!"
A quiet voice came from the darkness
"You're not crazy John…"
John's head snapped and he turned to face the figure of Sherlock, his own body shaking.
"What?"
The figure did not reply.
"WHAT!"
And without warning John was upon the man, upon Sherlock, slamming his body against the thin plaster walls in a sweat of fury.
"You're dead!" he said, unable to draw breathe between his words, "You're not suppose to be here!" Sherlock's figure watched him, his lips quivering. John could feel warmth from beneath the man's coat, a sense of the skin underneath…
In the dark room John fell back, moving away from the figure, not sure of what reality he was in any longer. His mouth moved furiously, attempting to gain some sense of actuality, air unable to escape his throat.
"You're my imagination…" he whispered, "You're my…"
And suddenly it clicked.
He'd needed pleasure, he'd needed hope, he'd needed to feel wonderful again… hallucinating was perhaps the only way he'd survive another night.
And he'd make sure it felt good.
He walked towards Sherlock, gently pinning him against the wall. Sherlock's breath had now also quickened, a shake in his deep voice.
"John, it's okay, I'm here." frightened by John's erratic behaviour. The other man smiled.
"No it's not." he sighed, "It's not okay." He could feel tears behind his eyes once more. "You're not real."
"John - "
"But I don't care, Sherlock"
His voice breaking in a desperate attempt for composure.
"I couldn't give a shit at the moment, because I need to fucking feel good for once"
Sherlock cocked his head, unable to anticipate what the other man would do next. John moved his face towards him, so that he could whisper in his ear.
"And the real Sherlock wouldn't let me do this…"
"John, I'm sor - "
John began to slowly kiss the side of Sherlock's neck and he suddenly fell silent. John indulged in the warmth, in the skin of the other man, Sherlock had become such a cold image in his mind, every memory had become dead, but this felt so alive.
His hands reached up to the other man's hair and he pulled ever so slightly, the figure was slowly moving against John's body, his breath very silent but no longer controlled, as though every feeling and sensation was unexpected.
"You are my imagination Sherlock…" John whispered, as he felt the other man's skin. "You can't be real."
Sherlock could not speak, shocked and in a sense of despair. John could no longer hold himself, and a passion took over.
"My Sherlock." Shaking hands clutched at the collar of the shirt before him. Sweat and tears fell down John's face, a quiver in his cries.
"Yes." Sherlock replied, as John kissed his neck, his hair still held by the other man, pulling him in closer, the distant between their mouths lessening.
"Please be alive tonight." John quivered as their noses touched. Sherlock raised his hand to touch John's chest.
"I'm alive, John" he replied, a guilt manifesting itself deep inside his chest. John shifted forward and kissed him, a moan escaping his mouth loudly as they fumbled together in the small room.
"Please Sherlock, please…" John said shallowly; his broken soul weeping. He could not kiss with control, and Sherlock grasped him as he fell forward. The medication he'd taken would now be taking effect, causing him immense drowsiness.
John fell upon Sherlock, his body weak with despair. Slowly, unable to talk, Sherlock carried John towards his bed. The other man was still in turmoil, convicted of his hallucination. Unable to support his body, John fell upon the bed weeping,
"You're not alive… you can't be alive…"
Sherlock watched him, attempting to calm John. Although he knew he could not break his belief in Sherlock's death, he could not give him hope; it was still too soon. Quickly though, John fell asleep, his eyes heavy and closed.
Sherlock remained for an hour longer, his clothes still dishevelled and eyes solidly fixed. John woke early afternoon, a pain in his chest.
He knew he would need to talk to his therapist about this.