He wakes me up with a .44 Magnum pressed against my temple. We both know it's loaded with three bullets. He pulls the trigger, grinning happily when the click of an empty chamber means I get to live for another day.
It's then he kisses me, the gun lying forgotten on the bedside table. The kiss is congratulatory - a celebration of the fact that he gets to keep me for a little bit longer - but it doesn't stay soft and sweet. It never does. He introduces teeth; the firm pressure of his fingers on my scarred back becomes a sharp pain that makes me hold him that much closer.
He pulls away, picking up the gun and wiping his mouth with the back of the same hand. "Come on, Sebby. It's time to play!" He bounces on the balls of his feet. I throw the blankets off and stand up, much less enthusiastic about the day's work.
"Coming, Boss."
"Darling, don't call me 'Boss' when we're naked. I don't like repeating myself."
~oOo~
I welcome him home with a knife to his throat.
"I'm home," he sings, and the action presses his skin against the blade, drawing blood.
Lacing our fingers together, I sheathe my knife and kiss him properly. His free hand clenches in my hair, pulling my head down at an uncomfortable angle. "Welcome home," I whisper against his lips.
~oOo~
I knew I was going to lose him the day he discovered that Sherlock Holmes. I've always been good at telling things like that. This morning, when he kissed me goodbye, I knew it would most likely be the last kiss I got from him. I didn't tell him I knew, though he may have figured it out.
So I'm not surprised when I don't see him on the roof after the Holmes boy jumps. Just saddened. Not even dissappointed. To feel that you'd need hope, something I forgot long before I met him.
On that day, I was not the only man who grieved.
John Watson lost the adventure that was life with Sherlock Holmes.
I lost the twisted perfection that was life with James Moriarty.