Forgive. Forgive me.
He repeats it again and again, goodness knows how many times since that moment as they again.
Forgive me, John. And the voice is more silent as if the timbre changes, and inside everything is pulled together in hardly twisted lash from memories, pain and loneliness which you can not untangle, can't break off.
Forgive…
And they are, as before, long ago, standing in the middle of the flat on the Baker Street, and each step is taken with special effort.
But John isn't angry. He only doesn't understand why he was deceived. Sincerely and too childly he shows the emotions, confirming them with blows leaving bruises and the nose injured in blood. It didn't suffice so catastrophically. And now there, outside this apartment, everyone already has the other life, but here everything changes, and excess circumstances leave: whether it is Mary or separation for some years. There are only untold words, pain and pressing, aching feeling in a breast.
Forgive me, John.
And it seems they move forward at the same time as the impulse which has reached synchronously. Fingers are floundered in black curly hair randomly wandering, attracting closer as if he want to learn each movement, each blow of his heart. Sherlock wants it too much and chokes in the gushed feelings, sinks, and kneels nestling by the temple on John's stomach.
Forgive, forgive me, John.
And from these words pain only become stronger, breaks off everything and torns outside with deaf groans and rattles.
Oh, as I wanted to see, see you …
And it seems impossible to stop. Everything that pined locked up is spoken aloud, inattentively in breaks between kisses. The detective only catches weak aroma of the forgotten body, and the head already goes around, and thoughts leave away.
And I, I…you…
John can't stand any more, and someone's lips kissing a stomach, the tongue outlining a cavity of a navel as hot iron leaves scars and gaps. He's already on his knees and squeezes Sherlock's face in palms, looks in the face and sinks from an innuendo.
He's here alive and sincere. Even in dreams that were interwoven by often illusive spider webs into consciousness he wasn't such damn alive, such explicit. These dreams tormenting, as if depths enter in the consciousness, forced to thrash about on a bed and to wake up in delirious when his name flied out of lips.
John Watson hated these dreams, and in the same time he was eager to see each of them again to plunge into illusions and catch someone's movement, divide others pain.
And now Sherlock himself, as the tired-out animal, greedy tears shirt buttons and seems he begs for each kiss. He nestles closer pressing John down to a chair back without stopping kissing his neck as if he is afraid that it all is a dream.
Forgive me, John.
And Watson groans of each "forgive", feels it by skin, dreams to hear it again.
There, outside this apartment, each of them has own life, but here all remained the same. And the hands shivering and also illusory cold create a resonance with touches to the heated skin. John would like these cold palms touch his heart, calm the ocean storming inside. But Sherlock only breathes confusedly and whispers arrant nonsense.
Watson closes his eyes, reclines back his head and at once is pity about it, he absolutely forgot about furniture and heading slightly distracts from weightless as waves of a butterfly wing, the kisses which are covering his neck.
Oh, have you already forgiven... forgiven me?
The coat slips away, the shirt flows away under a chair. Night creeps to the house on Baker Street, laps in modulations of the fiery red sun. And through dusty glasses, through a suspension curling in air, it gets deeply into soul, fills in the heavy muddy ocean of the innuendo, the forgotten promises. And even if there, behind a threshold, each of them has the other life, today they may allow more.
A little more.