A/N: Here is another drabble series!
I felt it deserved to stand alone from Fluffy Clouds because these will be written in my more stream-of-consciousness style. I was completely inspired by posts on tumblr, but unfortunately you aren't allowed to just write 6 letters in a chapter for a story here... oh well, I've made do!
All are titled with a 6-Letter Johnlock quote, of my own making, and the stories correspond with them. Please, do feel free to leave your own and I may very well use it!
I hope everyone enjoys and, as is my forte, we will start with some angst and feels. Reviews welcome and loved!
Disclaimer: This will serve as disclaimer for all future chapters. I do not own, nor do I make profit from these writings; I do not claim to own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, or the television show Sherlock. those honors go to the late-great Doyle and the just-great duo of Moffat and Gatiss.
Chapter Warnings: Nightmares, mentions of trauma.
I. "Your Fingerprints are Tickling my Wrist"
He was having a nightmare.
It always began the same, with dust in his nostrils and blood coating his fingertips. He thought he heard someone laughing at him, behind him, but in the end it was just the snip-snap-crack of firearms ringing in his ears. Everything felt heavy and he felt like a new hole had been ripped through his body and as he looked up to the burning sun the dream morphed into something far more tragic, though perhaps with better scenery.
He was wearing his favorite black jacket. The sky was blue. His nostrils were full of London air, but his still felt just as out of breath as he watched those dark curls dance in the wind, as he watched his best friend fall from a ledge far too high, and far too far away.
He knew he couldn't have caught him. But he would have tried.
Right before he is hit by the bicycler, right before he is knocked unconscious, John is pulled from his nightmare by fingers grasping hard into his shoulders, by the noise of some deep voice bidding him to wake. His eyes open slowly and the only illumination in the room is the trickle of light from the hallway, no doubt turned on by the very man whose grip still isn't lessening, whose breathing is almost as heavy as his own, whose eyes are electric silver and look so alive John wants to take their pulse.
Instead he lifts his own hands and, despite the trembling of his wrist and the anxiety still bubbling in his chest, wraps his fingers around they pale, thin wrists of his friend.
John lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding as Sherlock's heartbeat pounds roughly into his palms, as his fingerprints almost brand or bruise the thin skin there. He feels the shallow puffs of breath above him, can feel the erratic rhythm, mirroring his own. It's a comfort and a curse. Why does he need this?
They both know why.
But neither says anything as Sherlock leans to the side and lets his grip on Johns shoulders go slack, as he lays down to his side in Johns bed, with Johns hands still tightly around his wrists, with their eyes still holding something foreign between them. Neither says anything as both fall asleep, their hands resting on the pillows between them, pale ones almost holding tanned as the beating of their throbbing hearts created a Tchaikovskyan lullaby between them.
