Sorry for the delay, I was super busy at school. I'm in middle of the exams now *dies of exhaustion*. Fortunately, in two weeks it will be over and I will be back to update sooner.

Patience, please! And review!

Chapter 7. Theories, Fantasies and Nightmares.

I hadn't lied. I told them I would make a bed appear; I said nothing about what I would do with the existing ones. That's not lying.

I never lie.

And I was not called Silvertongue and Liesmith for nothing, either. Yes, the Liesmith one certainly involved lies, but that's just for the stupid enough ones, who didn't appreciate my fine work with words and called them lies. Morons.

I had thought Sherlock wasn't that kind, and it was proved right the moment I exchanged one of the single sized beds for a double one and toss him onto it. His entertainment ended up rather magically on the other bed, the one that was originally in the room.

John was closer to that sort of men I despised. But maybe he was just acting that way out of jealousy. Anyway, I liked Sherlock better. Way better.

"Oi, what do you think you are doing?" John yelled, trying to get up from the bed. I tied him there with a light movement of my fingers.

"So annoying, so noisy. Haven't you ever thought of how beautiful the silence is?" Another movement and he was unable to speak. Oh yes. Much better.

I turned my back to the now immobile human and watched Sherlock carefully. It was truly difficult for me to know what he was thinking. Now that was an unusual thing. I am pretty good at reading people. It's part of my charm.

I had a theory, though. Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world, the freak. People —idiots— couldn't see how wonderful and superior he was, but only saw he was different. And as everything that is different to humans, they tossed it aside. They couldn't quite comprehend him, so he didn't deserve to be an equal. He was a freak. He would always be. And he would be treated as such.

And so Sherlock the freak learnt not to trust people or show any emotion. Because they would use that, something they understood and very much liked to manipulate, to hurt him. Once, twice, three times. Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Again and again, Sherlock the freak was hurt.

But then John came into his life. He was such a pain, but he had done so much. All the socializing Sherlock did, all the Sherlock, not good John said. As if he were a child. Because he was. He was a child who had been hurt way too many times before. But Sherlock was learning to open himself. Because he had found someone he could rely on. Someone he could trust. He had found a friend, a lover. John.

What exactly was John didn't really matter, as I had experienced myself through the centuries. But I wasn't John; I couldn't help him. I was too damaged myself. I was Sherlock the freak once, before I covered my heart in ice and sarcasm and indifference.

"Like what you see?" Sherlock snapped me out of my reverie. That was my phrase. He dared steal my phrase. I narrowed my eyes while I pierced with my gaze.

"Oh yes, what I see pleases me very much, thank you." I pointed at him and his clothes instantly vanished. He blushed. Sherlock Holmes actually blushed.

The detective covered himself with a pillow, but it was too late. I had already seen him.

"I suggest you got into bed instead of blushing like a little girl."

I turned my back and entered the bathroom, moving slightly my fingers to free John from my magic, who was still struggling against the invisible strains. I didn't make Sherlock's clothes reappear, though. It had been way too much fun to watch him trying to look composed when it was so ridiculously obvious he wasn't.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror for a moment. I had bags under my eyes after the last sleepless nights. Actually, the night before had been the first in over a week when I had been able to sleep properly, without nightmares.

I got undressed and entered the shower. I let the water pour over me for some minutes before I grabbed the gel bottle. The hot water had created a coat of steam that covered the tiles and mirror, making the room look like out of a dream.

I sighed heavily. Now that I was alone it was more difficult to keep the nonchalant façade I usually wore. It was too easy to remember and to feel. Neither of them was pleasant.

I started to rub the soap on my body, my fingers touching everywhere. This feeling was not unwelcome, though, and it was a nice distraction from the haunting memories.

My hands took over and my brain shut off, glad to not to have to work anymore. My palms traveled down my chest and belly, and further down, fingers playing and tugging.

I took my dick and started to move my hand, slowly at first, the pace quickening as my heart rate rose. I pressed my forearm to the tiled wall, and my head tilted backwards, the hand not stopping.

My mind had to fantasise, though. I imagined strong hands with stains of oil and grease holding me, like they had done so many times before. I thought I could feel them caressing my back, digging fingernails into my flesh, leaving marks that spoke of our battles.

Sex is war.

I came close to my climax, and I was panting lightly. I still could feel the ghosts of hands holding me, but they were nothing but phantoms that were no longer beside me.

They suddenly changed. They were no longer Stark's. Now cold hands ran through my body, long pale fingers exploring it. I knew those hands. They were the hands of a certain violinist.

With a loud moan, I came, closing my eyes and getting lost in the sensation for a moment. I pressed my forehead to the wall and let the water fall down my back and neck. It was almost boiling, but I could not care less. I liked that way.

I stayed immobile for a while, just listening to the sound of pouring water drumming in my ears. What had just happened? I hadn't fantasised with Sherlock, had I? By the Nine, I was way more desperate than I had thought.

I quickly finished the shower and got out. Grabbing a white towel from one of the hangers I rolled it around my waist, my hair dripping water upon the floor. I dried it with magic, but not completely, though. My power was diminished without the sceptre, and teleporting the two humans and myself from London to New York had drained me.

I could really use a little nightmare free sleep right now.

I was about to open the bathroom door when I heard the sound of a violin playing a beautiful tune. I stood there, doorknob in hand, mesmerised by the music, until it faded away. I could hear soft conversation in the other room, and a chuckle from Sherlock.

When the song finished, I exited the bathroom and found the two humans kissing. A betrayed jealousy stung me, for which I was actually surprised. Surely having fantasised about Sherlock back in the shower didn't have anything to do with it. Of course not. The couple hadn't noticed me, so I cleared my throat.

Sherlock pulled away straightaway, his high cheekbones flaring, like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't. What a lovely view. His lover just stood there, that amusing frustrated frown spreading in his forehead.

"As much as I would love to see you two hooking up forever, I am also in need of my beauty sleep."

I smiled wickedly and strode towards the closet. I made some clothes appear in the hangers and picked up a grey t-shirt and boxers. I unrolled the towel and tossed it to the floor, before putting on the clothes. I could feel Sherlock staring at me, which made me smirk. Then I walked to the bed and got in.

"Are you two going to sleep anytime soon or should I create myself earmuffs?" I arched an eyebrow. "I don't think I could bear any more of your public affection showing."

John rolled his eyes and crawled into his bed before throwing Sherlock a last warning glance. The other man came warily and not breaking eye contact with me, but he finally lied down on the bed beside me.

"I do not bite. At least not if you don't ask me to." John choked when he heard that, but Sherlock just looked away, turning his back to me.

"Goodnight John, Loki." He said, stretching his arm to switch off the lights. His lover mumbled an answer I suspected didn't contain the Loki part, but I wasn't paying attention; my mind was occupied with other matters.

What did Sherlock's attitude come from? Just a couple of hours ago he was responding to my remarks with equally sarcastic ones, and now? Now he blushed and avoided my eyes. Had John convinced him to stay away from me? Or he was just weary of our little game of flirting?

Was I so paranoid about him because of what had happened in the shower?

Did it really matter?

Eventually I fell asleep, the last thing I noticed was how close Sherlock was sleeping, almost on me.