ITS FREAKING CHRISTMAS BREAK WHICH MEANS HAPPINESS AND WONDER AND SLEEP AND... WRITING!
What's up everybody?
Yeah so I love you all for the attention you've given this story and so this chapter is dedicated to... everyone who reviewed!
Because you're awesome, and I'm sure that your life revolves wholly around updates of this story and my author's notes because you worship me.
Yeah so thanks guys. This one goes out to you.
He could pass it off as sleep, as a dream. But he knows that John will know, will understand. There's not time to pull away, nowhere to escape to because the entirety of himself is John's and he doesn't know quite when it happened, this melding, but he knows that he will never be able to reverse it, and so there's nothing to be done but steal a little bit more of John. He presses a just barely harder towards the give of lips, eyes screwed tight shut against whatever John's expression will tell him.
And then, John is there, completely there, bringing a hand - dragged through the twists of their duvet - to rest, entwining Sherlock's curls with callused fingertips. The hand eases him back, away from the pull of skin and heat. "Sherlock, why are you-" The rough-asphalt drag of his voice is cut off by Sherlock's own. "Please John. Just-" his eyes are still a sealed as possible, cutting out everything around him but the smooth exhales of morning stillness and the radiation of heat from their bodies and the scent of him and John sparking, reacting over and over again in the space behind his eyes.
The idea of what he is asking for is abstract and darting and, "I'm sorry."
His skin is crawling - he's never felt something so literally - shivering over his bones and he needs to get away from the demolition of everything he's built up between them. His elbows leave craters, smoking, in the mattress as he struggles from the wrap of sheets, and, it would seem, a heavy arm heating his stomach. It tightens.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm sorry. There's a trust between friends, to stay friends, and I have broken it."
"Sherlock," the pliant grasp of a palm traces the angle of his jaw and a smile brushes laughter, light, along his words, "You're not going anywhere. We're stuck here until midday, remember?"
An inhale gets latched against the inside of his lungs until he has to remind himself to breathe. "Right. Yes."
He turns, and the ache is lessening with every second that slips from his grasp, and he lets searching lips find his in the dark. "Yes, of course."
The weight still hangs in the bottom of his chest, but it seems almost lighter now.
So there's some hapiness just before what's to come.
And, on a completely unrelated note...
I JUST SAW DESOLATION OF SMAUG. YES I DID. I JUST GOT BACK FROM THE MOVIE THEATER TEN MINUTES AGO AND I SAW IT WITH MY EYES AND IT WAS MAGICAL.
So watch it, I beg of you.
That is all. xxx