Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC or otherwise).
A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated!
The sheets were white and smelled of detergent. John was cold. He was constantly cold, despite being in the vice-like embrace of a man who lives only because he does.
In a small corner in his heart, it will always be freezing
Because John knows what it means to be in love with a sociopath.
"What do you think?"
John did a modest twirl to showcase his new jumper, purple and warm and deep.
Sherlock peered at him from the top of his book. "Can I kiss you?"
In three swift strides, he kissed the yes from John's lips.
(Sherlock wanted to devour him; kiss the doctor until the love screams from his lips and cries from his pores.)
Sherlock tried to deduce what John was thinking from the soft angles of his cheeks, the light dust of freckles on his nose, the blond transparency of his eyelashes, and the strong aroma of whiskey fingers.
"Tell me"
"It's private, Sherlock. You can't know everything that goes on in my head, alright?"
But he has to.
"Of course, John"
(He wanted to peel the skin off John's body –callous riddled with scars, tan lines, memories – and wrap it around himself, sew himself shut tight in it, so he can feel what it is like to be inside John.)
"How are you, John? What happened to you after med school?"
She is expensive make-up, recent divorce, and jasmine perfume.
"I've been doing well. Thanks"
"Fancy a drink then?"
"No no. It's quite alright" John is slightly chuffed. His smile is shy, and his eyes are cerulean.
"Shame. See you around then"
(Sherlock could easily take John's heart – red and beating and warm - place it in a jar filled with boyhood nostalgia, hide it in his coat of designer wool and possessive grey, wrap it with his scarf embroidered with Holmes; so it will only be his.)
That's Engineer Rainer. He's dead as stone.
"Yes, thank you, Anderson. Your powers of observation are simply to die for" Sherlock rolled his eyes, so beautiful and not quite green. "John. Care to take the stage?"
"Anything, Sherlock"
John took two pulses, checked three lacerations, and whispered four adjectives.
"Brilliant, Sherlock." Amazing
"You are fantastic." Exquisite
(Sherlock dreams of embalming him, hiding his organs in freezers labeled 'Sherlock's', sliding his Watson under a microscope, studying what makes him stay.)
"You did it too. At university, I suspect."
The needle mark was barely there, the most insignificant blemish, but everything about John is titanic.
"You have one night before you get shot at for Queen and country. Wouldn't you have done the same?"
"I did"
–because he was lonely, and just a little afraid, but Sherlock didn't tell him that.
(Sherlock longs to bathe himself with John's blood, watch the scarlet red stain alabaster forever; to know what it is to run through the captain's veins.)
It happens infrequently. Sometimes when the Browning is bored, most of the time when 221B feels so small and insignificant. There's sweating and crying and kicking and screaming.
"Shhh. John, you're here. I'm here."
John's tears are unbelieving; his eyes are crinkled in the way the scarred are.
"I love you"
He is still gasping.
(Maybe it would be better if Sherlock picked John apart, like grains of rice, mincing and grating and loving until there is nothing left, not even the nightmares.)
"Don't, please"
"Relax, love."
"Belfast is too far for you to be from me" The glass slide slips from his fingers, so delicate and trembling.
"Oh, and where is the maximum distance line?"
"There is none"
(Sherlock once thought of killing John himself; transforming him into a gorgeous crime scene, use his blood to paint the walls because he can't bear the thought of anyone, even Death, taking his heart away from him.)
And John Watson is breathing, waking, and might be crying.
It was deathly arctic.
Sherlock wants to caress and kiss and embrace him until he asphyxiates.
Sometimes, this utterly rips John's heart.
(He's my sun. I would burn for him, but he wouldn't let me.)
Because Sherlock will never be completely happy.