Marks That We Left On Each Other
He was seething. No other word would cover it. All the rage he had been storing all week came bubbling up and was threatening to come out in the worst of ways. This was usually how things went between them, they both acted like complete idiots and angry words were exchanged until someone's feelings got hurt. This time, John didn't know whether he would be the one to start pouring out, or if it would be Sherlock. Rosie was already fourteen months old and even she had a better grip at emotions and human relationships than the both of them combined.
He tried breathing slowly, releasing all the frustration he felt inside. He would be lying if he said he didn't know the exact reason why this was happening to them. He didn't really have to be a genius to recognise when two people where just exteriorising their confusing and consuming feelings. However, what he didn't really understand was why the both of them felt it was necessary to make themselves suffer so much if they wanted the same thing. Punishing themselves for everything they had been through. But that was the thing, wasn't it? They had been through them together, and had come out on the other side safe and sound. Well, maybe not exactly sound of mind but safe, although they did have a few scars and scrapes. Actually no, they were both a mess, but they were fine, they had made it out, and they had each other, so why all the hurt and hesitation?
Sherlock entered the sitting room and slammed the door behind him. John's teeth clenched and he was sure if he closed his fists much harder he would have crimson rivulets flowing down his palms. Sherlock didn't look much calmer either, his raven locks were standing in every direction and his eyes portrayed a raw emotion that the doctor did not dare to identify. They were cowards, the both of them.
The detective was yelling, accusing him of some thing or other; but the blogger was not really listening. He felt neither of them cared what was said anymore, as long as it hurt and harmed and just bloody let them deal with all the other things that they didn't have the courage to express. Any other words that weren't what they really longed to say were inconsequential. The blonde watched Sherlock articulate with his hands but he didn't really knew what the problem was any more, he guessed both of them were just too tired of every big challenge life had thrown at them. Leaving them fragile and scraped raw. He saw his toddler crawling on the floor and tugging the hem of one of the younger man's pyjama legs, and he was not surprised at all.
Rosie never seemed very impressed with their screaming matches, maybe even she could detect that it was never about the spitting fire they did, neither was it actually about the flames or the ashes they left in their wake. It was about all the unquiet voices inside their heads. Whispers so loud that could only be drowned out by an even louder sound.
They were stuck, and they knew it. Going back and forth at placing blame and never really resolving all the non-existent issues that they created. Sometimes the blogger would catch a despaired look on his friend's face, one that reminded him of a hostage, scared to death but being made to repeat the words from his captor. As if the sentences he was streaming together were not actually his. Just a puppet on a very long, very lonely, and very strong string. Gottle o' gear.
John felt that horrible sensation too. Every time he spoke, every fucking time he opened his mouth, John just wanted to tell him. To yell at him how he wanted to love him. Love him and cherish him like he deserved. But whenever he tried it, the words always died on his tongue. Meaning turned to dust when his mind was pushing him to get it out already. Like poison from a wound. He guessed he just didn't really know how.
He didn't really need a therapist or psychiatrist to know that what they were doing what not healthy for anyone involved. Not even for Mrs. Hudson that had to put up with their domestics at least once a day. Their situation was bordering on critical, and John knew that if they didn't do something about it then, there would come a point where there could be no return. Where they wouldn't be able to go back to what they had. And John thought it would be a damn shame if he lost the most important relationship and person in his life to fear.
Even if Sherlock was the puzzle solver out of the two of them, he was clearly incapable of doing anything when it came to John. He had to figure out a way to solve it.
The blogger stood up, and ignored any and all attempts the other made to catch his attention, but he couldn't listen. If he wavered, all would be lost. He would lose his nerve and go back to their routine of shattering each other. It was already touch and go without the detective trying to break his determination.
He stepped in front of the younger man, grabbed him by the waist and kissed him. Just like that, he kissed him until he could feel Sherlock had caved, had surrendered his fight and had hoisted a white flag too. Slender hands came to grasp his shirt and he refused to let go of him now that he finally had him. He just hoped the detective had no objections against laying down the battle. He would always be a soldier, but the war was over and he wanted to come home.
After words were discarded and actions were all they used to communicate, they felt they were on new ground. A world full of possibilities were they didn't have to hurt anymore. The scars would remain, and he was sure that, in time, new lines would come to complete the blank canvases that once were their unmarred skins. But what they had both grown out of the ashes would forever prevail.
Author's note: And holding on, our dreams come true some day.
Inspired by Pinkish from Gerard Way.
If you liked it, go read my other stories.