I studied Robert Browning's poetry in my seminar today, and had the twisted thought of linking it to Johnlock. I've no idea why my Johnlock pieces seem to end in death/misery – apologies. Almost all of this is Browning's work (from the poem Porphyria's Lover), so I deserve very little credit; I only replaced a few words and phrases here and there. The original is very good (I recommend reading it) and is equally as creepy/twisted, perhaps more so, since the speaker strangles his lover with her own hair (which I had to change because John doesn't have long hair). Enjoy.
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
A mighty thunder it did make:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When ambled in John Watson; straight
He shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all Baker Street warm;
Which done, he rose, and from his form
Withdrew the dripping coat and he
Laid his soaking gloves by, untied
His scarf and let the damp hair free,
And, last, he sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
He put my arm about his waist,
And made his smooth tan chest all bare,
And his short yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And ran his fingers through my hair,
Murmuring how he loved me—he
Too weak, for all his heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give himself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of him, and all in vain:
So, he came home through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at his eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
My John did worship me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment he was mine, mine, true,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A brainwave; a fine thing to do;
In one long dark blue string I wound
The scarf twice his strong throat around,
And strangled him. No pain felt he;
I am quite sure he felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped his lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I tightened it a little less
About his neck; his cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped his head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
His head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
John Watson's love: he guessed not how
His darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!