Part 7: Feel I apologize in advance for how late this is and any editing I missed. Have been super busy. And just so you know, I dont do smut. If it is, it can hardly be qualified as such and will be VERY fluffy.
If I could walk on water
If I could tell you what's next
I'd make you believe
I'd make you forget
So come on, get higher, loosen my lips
Faith and desire and the swing of your hips
Just pull me down hard
And drown me in love
~C'mon Get Higher- Matt Nathanson
Waiting. Waiting is all I do now. It's a good thing I have endless patience. But it won't be long now. No, it won't. Soon, I'll run that bastard down. Make him feel, make him understand. It's not like he doesn't already, him and his stupid brain would have figured that out ages ago, but there is no way that he has ever felt the burning pain of loss, he gets what he wants. And I could have, so easily, collected his heart, his inferior black heart, if I hadn't known our plan had gone astray. If I hadn't…
Sebastian Moran sat in a flat, one of dark and modern qualities, on a black leather sofa, looking blankly at the chair in which his lover used to sit, his thoughts wandering. It had been a month now since Jim Moriarty had occupied that chair. The night before they had sat smoothing over the details of their seemingly flawless plan, lost in kisses and schemes. Jim still had on that t-shirt and jeans he had on after leaving that worthless reporter's flat and made his way back to their home. They had spent days apart, their plan laying itself out without a hitch. It had been difficult, those few days, being absent of the man whom they both desired: each other. But it would all have been worth it, soon enough. They would no longer be apart, perhaps ever again, once Sherlock Holmes had been subsequently cut out of the equation.
But no, something went wrong, and Sebastian would never know why his finger pulled that trigger. It had to be Jim, because they had both known that Sherlock would never have the guts to pull the trigger and deliver death. He had heard that gun go as he settled himself on those stairs, positioned himself on that ledge while that sound cleaved his mind in two, sending every thought in his brain scrambling. He clamped down on his urge to run to the rooftop, but no, he had to stay there, had to; for Jim. He had to deliver the fatal blow to John, and in turn, Sherlock, as the good doctor was perhaps the one thing Sherlock had ever truly cared for, besides the other two worthless people with guns pointed at their heads. D.I. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moran couldn't understand how Sherlock could feel for those two, but nonetheless, they were part of the plan.
So he waited, every part of him squirming to go and find where that bullet had found its home. He watched what would have been a heart breaking scenario take place, between Watson and Holmes, moments before the detective jumped and the doctor screamed his name. Perhaps Sebastian would have waited and revelled in the victory of the plan, but he could not. Within seconds he had packed away his rifle and was bounding down the stairs, into the bleak, grey and depressing day. He was across the street, pushing past people and rushing into the hospital, using his skills at deception to make his way to the hospital stairwell. As soon as the door shut behind him he was running at top speed, up the stairs, ignoring the burn in his legs. Thoughts rushed through his head as he pressed his way to the top. Jim had not messaged him, as was promised, when the plan was commenced, and this only increased Moran's out of character, blatant and frenzied worrying. The door to the roof. Sebastian shoved it open, clambering out onto the roof, turned right and instantly froze. Blood, oh, there was so much blood. Sebastian was a highly trained killer, and blood was no new sight to him. Truthfully, it was a welcome one, for it meant he was successful, which he always was. But this, this was different. This was the blood of Jim Moriarty that painted the buildings roof, spreading onto the pavement, leaking out of his head.
Dropping his bag, clattering on the floor, he strode over to his lovers body, his heart in his throat. He was now there, standing above the man that lay on the ground, the whispers of hope that he lived were swept away as feebly as a branch being swept down stream as he looked into the dead mans blank eyes. A sob escaped Moran's lips as he fell to his knees, blood kissing his trousers, his hand reaching out to grasp the cold, hard hand that he had held only mere hours ago. An indescribable pain tore through him as the realization hit him in full time, so he turned his head to the sky, anger hissing through his lips. His only wish burned through him with great desire: that he could hold Jim again and feel his warmth and hear his voice, but he knew that would not happen. Oblivious to the tears that cascaded down his faces and blurred his sight; he stiffly got to his feet in a daze and walked to the ledge. He hadn't planned on doing anything; just simply look down on where his lover had made Sherlock fall. But nonetheless, dangerous thoughts coursed through his mind. It wasn't until he walked to the back ledge and looked over it that he realized something. That it was Sherlock walking out of the back of the hospital, and before Sebastian could react, got into a waiting black car, zipping away. Anger pumped through Moran's veins as he watched the car disappear around a corner.
That useless excuse of a man lived. Somehow, he had faked his death. He lived while Jim was lying on the cold hard ground, dead. In some sick turn of events, their positions had switched. A fury gripped his gut as the events came colliding down in horrible realization.
Revenge. That was the word that ran through his mind, taking over the pain and emptiness. He could scream, he could kick, yell, punch, kill. But no, he couldn't. No, out of all the things he could do, none of those things were the ones suitable for situation. No, the demolition of a man, now that's what was made for this.
Jim had promised Sherlock that he would burn the heart out of him. As Sebastian turned towards the stairwell- stopping at his lover, kissing his forehead, tears marking his skin, and closing the dead mans eyes- he knew what he had to do. He would burn Sherlock Holmes; burn him to the ground and straight into hell. And he knew just how to go about it. But it would take time, he would have to wait.
It's a good thing I have endless patience.
"Mmm…" John stretched lazily as he woke up, the sheets slipping off his arms. He kept his eyes closed, savouring the feeling of early morning. He moaned into his pillow before shifting onto his side, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock, bliss painting his features. Except Sherlock wasn't there. His space on the bed was vacant, the mattress and sheets still holding the shape of the man's long, slender frame. John rolled his eyes as he should have known that Sherlock was not a stay in bed kind of person. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
John smiled briefly and rubbed sleep from his eyes before leaning over and laying face down in Sherlock's pillow. The sensation was delicious, as the fabric still held his scent: John's favourite smell in the universe and his personal safe house. He inhaled several times, contemplating just staying there, laying in bed with an imprint of Sherlock. But eventually, his desire for the real thing motivated him and he finally pulled away, snatching the covers off of his body. He sat on the edge of the bed, stretching towards the ceiling before bringing his hands down and resting them on his neck and sliding down to massage the knots from his bare shoulders. He took his time, taking in the room. It was dark as the blinds were closed, leaving a blue tinge to the space. He smiled wearily as he saw his usually clean room was a mess, clothes strewn about the place, his shirt was thrown across his dresser and his trousers on the floor, shoes in the open doorway. Slowly, he got up from the bed and made his way across the small room and yanked open the drawers, grabbing a fresh pair of trousers, pulling them over his pants and put on an old jumper. He straightened the room up, making his bed and throwing the discarded clothes in the laundry basket before he walked from the room, running his hands through his already mussed up hair.
"Morning Sherlock." He said sleepily as he entered the main room of the flat. Sherlock was lying on the couch in his usual position, hands steepled under his chin. He was wearing an odd t shirt John had never seen and night trousers. He did not move as John entered, except for his eyes, which followed him across the room, the ice blue colour piercing John as they locked eyes. Breathing in suddenly, Sherlock turned his head fully towards the smaller man.
"Have a good night?" he asked. His eyes twinkled mischievously, making John blush a pink shade and look away, a grin spreading across his lips.
"Uh, I don't know. Maybe." He replied sarcastically, sparing a glance at Sherlock. He still was there on the couch, but now he was looking up at John, a smirk on his perfectly shaped lips. Johns gut clenched as he took in Sherlock and refrained from joining the detective on the couch.
"Mine was rather satisfactory, I must say." Sherlock said happily, returning to his usual stance, staring up at the ceiling. John chuckled minutely before turning towards the kitchen.
"Do you want anything? Food wise I mean." John asked.
"Just tea for me, love." Sherlock muttered. John stopped abruptly and turned around to look at the man on the couch.
"Sorry. I missed that." John said, startled, even though he had heard it perfectly well. Sherlock lifted his chin up and spoke clearly, pronouncing each word.
"Just tea for me, John." John smiled and shook his head, knowing he had changed his words.
"Sure, whatever."
The night before; oh the night before. Well, John felt like that was a story all on its own. As he walked to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle, he played it back over in his mind.
Really, nothing substantial had happened, physically. But truly, a new person had been opened, a new file. John liked to think that they had melded together last night. They had been sitting around as usual, reading. They did much of this, as their preferred activities of experimenting and going to Bart's were out of the question, and they had kept their contact to the minimum, just general being near to one another. But last night, something shifted.
Sherlock had given off a deep and exasperated sigh, breaking the silence, and snapped his book shut, slamming it down on the floor. He fidgeted in his chair and groaned, muttering to himself silently. John looked up and closed his own book, hearing the pages meet softly. He gave a sympathetic smile as he looked at Sherlock, agitated and perfectly bored.
"I know." He stated, responding to Sherlock's silent outburst.
"I'm sick of my mind palace John! Jesus, I've gone through it six times now. Its enough that I know everything I have up there, but now I could recite it all to you!" he growled
John smirked at this; Sherlock's cussing making him laugh a bit.
"Care to give an example?" he teased. He should have known better. Sherlock opened his mouth again, parting those perfect lips and began to elaborate, as far as John could tell, alphabetically. He let Sherlock talk for a few moments until… an idea.
"How bored are you?" he quipped. This stopped Sherlock in his tracks.
"You really have to ask?" Sherlock retorted.
"Well, you see, I just got an idea." John began as he got up from his chair.
"Oh really? What kind of idea would make its home in that mind of yours?"
"A boredom buster of sorts, entertainment."
"Sounds tedious." Sherlock cut in, rolling his head back, leaving his porcelain neck exposed, and closed his eyes.
"Just humour me." John snapped softly, quietly approaching the man. For some reason, Sherlock had put on that damned purple shirt with the top two buttons open exposing a few inches of pale skin under his collar bones, and it drew John closer. "Perhaps," he said, nearing Sherlock, leaning in during the final few steps. "You'll like this idea." And with that, he was right up to Sherlock, the man still oblivious, his head tilted far back, eyes closed. He probably knew of John's proximity but showed no signs of discomfort. So John tested him. He leaned all the way forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's collarbone. He heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath and felt his body snap to attention under his touch.
"John…" he started, for once unable to finish. John pulled back and looked him the eyes, raising an eyebrow in amusement at Sherlock's expression: he was absolutely bewildered, stunned and intrigued.
"Are you bored now?" John pressed, leaning in again, kissing the space under Sherlock's right ear, lingering. He could hear Sherlock bring in a stuttering breath and suddenly the man's long fingered hand was clasped around John's neck.
"No." he breathed. They both pushed away and stared hungrily into the others eyes for several moments, silently deciding what they were doing, their breathing a bit heavier in anticipation. They stayed there until Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip. And then, with no notice, they launched at each other, lips locking, Johns hands in Sherlock's curly hair, Sherlock grabbing the doctors waist, clutching him closer. Their lips moved together in a perfect frenzy, tasting each other like they never had before, experiencing one another in different ways. Sherlock slipped his tongue between John's lips, testing his limits: for then, there was none. Sherlock slipped a hand up under John's jumper, resting on the space above his hip bone. John shuddered happily at the contact and took Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, holding it there tauntingly. Sherlock ran his tongue over John's upper lip, causing the doctor to gasp and reconnect the kiss. John's hands found the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and began undoing them until he had the expanse of Sherlock's chest open to the air. Quickly, he situated himself on Sherlock's lap, straddling his legs, closer. He then placed his one free hand- as the other was still clutching Sherlock's hair, bringing them closer- and put it over Sherlock's heart, feeling it beat, pump blood through his veins, harder and faster than was normal. Then, John pulled his face away though keeping his hands in place, and looked into Sherlock's eyes which were almost completely black, rimmed with a thin line of ice blue. Laughing, John bent down and pressed his lips softly on Sherlock's forehead, then nose, and finally his chin. At last, he rested his cheek on his chest, feeling the vibrations and proof that this man had a heart, shaking his very soul. He could feel Sherlock bend over as well, pressing his face against the top of Johns head, kissing it and breathing in deeply.
"Mmm, John... You're better than cocaine." Sherlock murmured.
"And you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock chuckled, the motion shaking Johns head, making his eyes flutter closed.
"Well, I definitely won't be needing it ever again." Sherlock stated into John's hair, his breath warm on his skull. John lowered the hand that had still been clutched in Sherlock's hair and slid in down to grasp his neck, giving it a small squeeze. He reluctantly lifted his head off of the detective's bare chest and rocked back a bit, his feet angled back and linking at the ankles with Sherlock's, looking the man in his eyes.
"And why would that be?" he asked cheekily.
"Because I can't imagine anything more potent than you. You intoxicate me and make my brain a big wibbly wobbly mess and, for once, I can't hear a thousand thoughts. Cocaine never spared me from myself before. It's amazing."
John grinned and angled forwards, keeping his hands where they were on Sherlock's chest and neck and relished the glorious feel of skin on skin; smooth, naked contact, vulnerable. He could feel the contentedness radiating off Sherlock and his heart begin to slow back to its regular beats per minute under John's hand. Well, that would have to change. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and instantly felt his heart start up again. Their closeness would have seemed odd in a time long past but now… it just felt right. So John ventured, seeing what the limits would be.
"I'd like to test that theory." he said slowly. Silently he pressed his lips to Sherlock's again, kissing him delicately and paused, pulling away an inch, listening to Sherlock's heart race, eyes closed. He could sense Sherlock smirk and he had a moment to wonder why when Sherlock stuck out his tongue and slowly, and most distractingly, ran it along the curves of John's lips, sending every nerve in John's body tingling and bursting as though he had been struck by lightning. But truly, he had been, for Sherlock's every touch was simply and intricately electric. John sat there, slumping forwards towards Sherlock as he sat on his lap, taking in as much as he could of this new found contact. But he didn't have the time he wished, for Sherlock suddenly pushed back, leaning away, leaving John sitting there, open and bewildered, blinking. Silence filled the few inches between them before John cocked his head and, like a gun shot, they began their frenzied perfection all over again, clutching the other as close as was humanly possible, leaving no space for air between them, their lips moving against the other as if they had been made for just that purpose and that purpose alone. John managed to finish unbuttoning the purple shirt and let it hang open as Sherlock subtly ran his hands down from Johns shoulders, sliding them down across his back over the fabric, feeling the bumps and waves and where it hugged Johns frame, feeling John shudder under his touch, and glided his hands across his hips, bringing them to a rest on Johns jean covered thighs, shuffling his fingers as he did so. Johns gut clenched, his body ceasing function at this, his heart in his throat.
All at once, Sherlock stood up, hooking his arms up under John's legs and bringing them around his slim waist where John instantly clamped them around his body, making sure their lips never parting, make for a small squeak as John felt Sherlock's lap disappear out from under him. They stood there a few seconds and Sherlock smiled against Johns lips, clutching him around his body. He moved leisurely towards the bedroom, their lips never parting and eyes never opening, and there was no need to, for Sherlock had the place mapped to the very last millimetre. They arrived at John's room, the door cracked open, so Sherlock simply swung his hip out, letting Johns leg hit the door, making it fall open. They proceeded to back into the room and John worked the purple shirt off Sherlock's shoulders so that it would fall off when he put the doctor down.
John had not been paying much attention to anything except the beauty of feeling Sherlock all around him, so it was very much a surprise when Sherlock's arms disappeared out from under his legs, their faces drew apart and he was falling towards the ground. Thankfully, Sherlock had backed him up onto the bed, so mattress groaned under the sudden weight. He let out a grunt as he hit it, but being of quick reflexes, he was not stalled for long and was soon rearranging himself into a sitting position. As predicted, the shirt fell silently off Sherlock's body, puddling around his feet to reveal his upper body, an expanse of lean, pale torso. Lithely, he stepped forward and crouched onto the bed, placing his hands on either side of John's body and rested a knee on the bed, bringing them ever so closer, stopping just inches before they would meet again.
"Are you bored right now, Dr. Watson?" he breathed in John's ear.
"Oh God no."
Sherlock smiled again, his elation so evident in his every move that it painted the air a brilliant and invisible shade. He gently cradled Johns head in his hands, pressing his lips to the doctors slowly and passionately, over and over. John's hands moved off of the bed, grasping at Sherlock's bare back, his fingers tracing the map of his back. It made him hunger to do the same to the rest of Sherlock's body. At last, the detective backed away and looked the smaller man dead in his eyes.
"And to thin k we could have been doing this the whole time." He murmured regretfully. John chuckled and straightened up, moving forward the get closer to Sherlock again, bringing them just as close as they had been before, but not quite.
"What a pity." he said on Sherlock's curvy lips "But I guess we should get started again, make up for lost time, otherwise you might get bored again, and just how terrible would that be?"
"I could never be bored with you." Sherlock whispered deliciously. Suddenly, John pulled away, leaving Sherlock feeling blank and somewhat exposed, and seemed to scan the room.
"You mean me?" he teased, pretending to be confused. Sherlock growled and advanced even closer on John.
"Of course I mean you, you idiot. Now take off that jumper, I want to see you." As he said that he moved his hand further up under John's jumper so that it now rested on his ribcage, and the electrifying shivers spread through his body again like a tidal wave.
"Will you help me then?" John gasped.
"Why of course."
He softly tugged the shirt off of Johns body, the smaller man raising his arms to let it slide over his head, revealing a beautiful torso- if not a bit skinny- that had obviously not fallen out of disuse after his time Afghanistan. And Sherlock revelled in it.
"You are… amazing." Sherlock breathed.
"Now that's not fair, I use that word to describe you." John protested weakly.
"If you had been listening, you would know that you are a part of me, and in turn, you have been calling yourself amazing. This should not be a surprise."
"Well, I'm an idiot, aren't I?" John mocked.
"Why yes you are." He growled, leaning in.
The embraced each other again, loosing themselves in each other for the hundredth time, as it was such and easy thing to do. Eventually the found themselves lying in bed, their trousers discarded, tracing each other, learning the opposite man in ways they had never dreamed of. By the end of the night, they had memorized perhaps every line and scar they bore on their skin, a token of the times long past that still haunted them. But right then, they didn't seem to matter so much any more, because it wasn't the times long past anymore, it was right then and there, the future with every passing second, and they didn't live in the past anymore. No, they lived there, with each other, in the moment.
"I feel like we should talk." John muttered at some point in the night. Sherlock breathed deeply and repositioned himself to face John better, looking at him through the dark of the room.
"I don't think words would say enough." There were no more words after that, their bodies speaking through silence, and the silence spoke for them; spoke speeches and ballads so long and lovely that it would take hundreds of pieces of paper to hold the words. And they never said a thing, because there was no need to.
