So, this is an experiment: I was bored and since I don't own a gun with which shoot the wall, I decided to kill the tedium translating one of my stories instead. English is very much not my first language, so I'm fairly sure that this is full of mistakes, feel free to point them out, if you spot them!
Thanks for reading!
Untouchable
Sherlock never enjoyed being touched.
The sempiternal yearning of warmth and closeness tingling under the epidermis of the human race has always appeared to him as just another unnecessary confirmation of its inherent fragility. People are weak and unable to be enough for themselves; their hands and their bodies are ungainly, sweaty, dirty and repulsive; physical contact is antigenic, superfluous and unspeakably annoying.
Sherlock's never felt the need for alien fingertips to harass the tangle of nerve endings nested inside his skin, or for someone to wrap their arms around his torso, smothering his blood vessels, reducing his arterial pressure.
Sherlock never enjoyed being touched and it turned out to be a real blessing, because – for a fortunate coincidence – there have never been many people interested in touching him, at least not in ways that didn't include kicks, slaps, punches or a pair of hands firmly locked around his neck in an attempt to squeeze out of him every single drop of life and arrogance. If Sherlock had enjoyed being touched or if, apotheosis of ridicule, he had wanted to be- well, maybe that would have been a problem.
If Sherlock had enjoyed, or if he had wanted to be touched, then perhaps there would have been sleepless nights of youth, spent staring at the dark and listening to the mocking, miserable silence of solitude and wondering why and how and when exactly the mechanism of normality jammed inside him; nights that would have been poisonous, deplorable, irrational and secret, spent desiring to be a little less extraordinary and a little more like everyone else, only briefly and only for sheer scientific purpose, to find out what it feels like to be loved and to love in return- but, of course, these are just speculations, because Sherlock never enjoyed and never wanted to be touched: body's just a mere transport, the only thing that matters is the mind, and the mind can't be touched.
...
And then, one day of late January, Sherlock Holmes – who never enjoyed and never wanted to be touched – met John Watson and so many little things in his life changed and before his glorious brain could realize and warn him against the prospective toxicity hidden behind a sympathetic smile, or in the depths of a pair of blue eyes shining whit admiration, or in the solid heat of a shoulder pressed against his own in the icy darkness, Sherlock Holmes found himself miserably lowered to the level of every other soft and pathetic human being, trapped with no escape into a quagmire of addiction and forever corrupted, because solitude is a jealous lover – Sherlock learned it – and it's resentful and doesn't offer second chances: if you betray it for a little warmth, it will never forgive you completely, not even when you'll return with your head down and exhausted, imploring its mercy- on a whim it'll become knobby and you will no longer be allowed to feel comfortable in the embrace in which - in spite of everything – it will grant you to be wrapped again.
You should never stop being alone if you want to survive continuing to be so and it certainly wasn't Sherlock's intent to stop, but at first that little, limping, damaged man seemed so harmless to him and when he stopped seeming harmless and proved himself essential, it was already too late for Sherlock to be able to run for cover.
...
John's always been a concrete man - a doctor and a soldier - and he's never been afraid of touching him. His hands aren't big, but they're strong and steady and Sherlock likes them. They tell so many stories- if only it weren't so socially compromising for John's heterosexuality, he would pass hours holding them in his own, touching, reading, memorizing them.
...
Sherlock was never a particularly cautious person, but since John became a part of his life he's grown more reckless than necessary, because John's hands are delicate and careful when his brow is furrowed in a deep frown of disapproval and a steam of curses and reproaches pours from his mouth, and they are gentle – like his eyes – while they patch him up, disinfect him and inspect every inch of his body in search of new trophies of his thoughtlessness, and they're peremptory, when they grab him and hold him back and silently rebuke him for a moment of too blatant irreverence. They're the hands of good sense, preventing his mind from destroying his body. They're reassuring and discreet, between his shoulder blades, in the midst of the chaos of life, death and wickedness that surrounds them, and they're distracted when they linger on his shoulders while John leans over to grab this or that and when they brush against his side, or his arm, or his back, and in the idle evenings between cases, when Sherlock crouches beside John on the couch and leans over, pretending to be asleep and instead being wide awake and alert and waiting for John's fingers through his hair.
...
Sherlock never enjoyed being touched, but there are times when John is near, but not enough – never enough – and therefor there are stupid excuses and John, which snorts and gets up from his armchair and listlessly digs into Sherlock's pockets to retrieve his phone, while Sherlock pretends to be too absorbed in the contemplation of one of his slides to realize that John's hands are on his chest and his warmth is all around him.
...
There's been also a night – just one – in which Sherlock, survived to a close encounter with a mad psychopath and with the judgment still clouded by residues of a terror never experimented before, overwhelming and alien, crawled up the stairs, beyond the threshold of John's room and, without saying a word, climbed over the bed and in the darkness, guided only by the humid sounds of John's breathing, sought he's lips and when he found them he started devouring them and he crushed against John's body and clung to his strong shoulders, because a little more then an hour before John Watson was trapped inside a Semtex vest and now Sherlock needs to feel that John's here and fine and out of danger and is breathing and alive and blood is pumping through his veins and his heart's beating in his chest- Sherlock never enjoyed being touched, but John's always been an exception and there's not a single thing in the whole universe that he's ever needed more in his entire life, not nicotine nor cocaine, and there's no alkaloid which effects can be compared to that of the concert of endorphins and residual adrenaline swirling in his body while the John's hands run frantically on his skin and hold him and feel him and are desperate and hungry almost as much his own.
But it's been a night – just one – and the next morning Sherlock vanished before John woke up and things went on as if nothing has happened.
...
Then Sherlock died- not really, it was just a magic trick, but John didn't know that.
There are so many things that John didn't know and there are even more that he doesn't know now. Sherlock would like to tell him all of them, but he doesn't know where to start, because they are so many and the sharp edges of words scratch at the walls of his throat every time he tries to open his mouth to spit them out- they are words of tricky things, of feelings that have no shape and no rules and Sherlock was never good with this kind of matters, he never understood them and he really doesn't know how to say them, so he looks at John and remains silent and he feels like suffocating.
John should know that Sherlock never enjoyed being touched, but nonetheless every inch of his skin has spent the last three years longing for the warmth of his hands. He should know that they were the worst three years of his life, and his life has known peaks of lowness truly remarkable before, but it was never so dark and desolate and bleak like it was in the last three years, like it was away from John. He should know that the only thing that gave him the strength to go on, that prevented him from slipping back into the destructive abyss of his old habits, was the promise of John, at the end of everything, by his side again and under his fingers; the promise of his arms wrapped around him and of his eyes and his scent and of all the woefully boring things that they will still do together.
John should know that, but it's been a month since Sherlock's re-emerged from the grave and he hasn't managed to find the right words yet and he's beginning to think that perhaps they don't exist at all, the right words, and this huge fathomless thing pawing in his chest, that's threatening to blow him up at any moment now, because it's too big to be wholly contained within him, cannot be said in any way.
...
John has been understanding when Sherlock reappeared. He got mad and yelled at him, but didn't punch him. He listened to his explanations in silence, then got up and went out to get some fresh air.
He was away for fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes and a unquantifiable bunch of seconds.
When he came back he nodded dryly, with tight lips and eyes pointed straight into those of Sherlock then, as if nothing was happened, he said: "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like some tea?"
Sherlock struggled against the coils of the couch and followed him into the kitchen.
"John...", he began hesitantly and John forced his mouth to curl into a smile.
"Two sugars, right?" he asked him, pulling out the cups.
"John..." Sherlock said again, reaching dubiously for the back of his hand, but John escaped from the contact with a sharp start and his elbow hit one of the cups, and it yelled indignantly, in the silence of the kitchen, while shattering against the floor.
John closed his eyes, swallowed and cleared his throat: "Two sugars, right?" he asked again, avoiding Sherlock's eyes, reaching for another cup.
...
That's not how Sherlock had imagined his return and their reunion.
He had imagined more rage and maybe a punch and he had imagined a hug- Sherlock would have done anything for John to hug him.
...
It's been a month since Sherlock's re-emerged from the grave and John is keeping himself as far away as possible from him and he's making sure to avoid any direct physical contact and Sherlock never enjoyed being touched, but John's always been an exception and there's not a single thing in the whole universe that he's ever needed more in his entire life, yet John still doesn't understand and Sherlock doesn't know how to tell him and the phantom grip constricting his ribcage becomes every day more unbearable.
...
It's in a night of particular desperation that Sherlock throws to the ground the bow of his violin and decides to do something completely instinctive and nonsensical and quickly, without giving himself time to think about it, he climbs the stairs to John's room, opens the door and slips inside.
John's perception are slow, because he's half asleep, so it takes some seconds for him to register the intrusion, but eventually the instinct of the soldier takes over and he blinks a few times, props up on one elbow and scans the darkness that unfold in front of him, stopping his gaze in the center of the room, in the point where the obscurity coagulates around Sherlock's motionless body.
"Sherlock?" he mumbles, disoriented, and the name, heavy with sleep, falls from his lips like a stone in a pound and for just one moment, it ripples the static surface of silence.
Sherlock swallows and doesn't answer.
After the briefest hesitation his feet start to move forward and four steps later he found himself near the edge of the bed, and even if he doesn't know exactly what he's doing while he climbs onto the mattress and crouches with his head on John's chest and his hands that clutch the fabric of John's t-shirt, he has the impression that it's something of very brave, because he perceives and ignores the cold claws of fear that sink into his lungs, cutting his breath, and he feels his brain and his pride and the small crumbs of rationality still left inside him, all whispering to him to flee rapid and far, but he does not and he clings harder to John.
"Sherlock?" he asks, surprised, trying feebly to free himself.
Sherlock doesn't let go and closes his eyes and inhales John's scent and feels his heart racing fast to run away or toward him, Sherlock doesn't know and he's afraid, because he's never enjoyed being touched, but John's always been an exception and there's not a single thing in the whole universe that he's ever needed more in his entire life, and so he confesses and whispers softly: "Please"
John, beneath him, stops fussing and stiffens and the seconds slip away with cruel slowness, while Sherlock feels a bit like a man condemned to death that awaits the decision of the court over his grace motion.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Four seconds of immobility, then a sigh and John's arms are wrapped around his shoulder and he talks with his mouth pressed into his hair: "God", he says "I missed you so much"
Sherlock breathes, as if he's doing it for the first time after three years of apnea and there are so many things he wants to tell him that he doesn't know where to start, and then he press himself more against John's body and says only the most important one: "John"