Right. Don´t hate me.

ML

PS if slash is not your thing, read no more.


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Telling me to go
But hands beg me to stay

Your lips say that you love
Your eyes say that you hate

There's truth in your lies
Doubt in your faith
What you build you lay to waste

This truth in your lies
Doubt in your faith
All I've got is what you didn't take

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Linkin Park - In Pieces

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1 month

John woke up to the feeling that he was being observed. He turned his head to the right and saw the familiar pair of eyes staring at him, very close and very intense. Sherlock lay next to him, on his stomach, arms crossed in front of him and head resting on them, turned to John and face so close he was able to feel his breath on his skin. What he also felt was the warmth radiating from his what John now saw naked body; he resisted the urge to reach out and touch the pale skin.

"Good morning." John´s voice was raspy as it often in the morning was.

Sherlock stared at him, not blinking but his overall expression was relaxed. Soft, almost. "Morning, John." The early morning sun filtrating in through the curtains reflected in his eyes, giving them a glint. Or at least John thought it was the sun.

John turned his eyes to the ceiling. He laid still, waiting the light of the dawning day to wake him up properly. He felt a bit groggy, probably due to the fact that it was still a relatively early morning - at least judging by the height of the sun - after the countless mornings he had woken up in this bed he was able to roughly tell them time by the place of the sun spots on the wall - and he hadn´t gotten into sleep until very late at night thanks to a long night shift and unexpected emergency surgery at the clinic.

Of course he could have asked Sherlock to let him sleep. Of course he could have asked him to get out from his bed. And of course he didn´t. He never could.

Sherlock crossed his arms under his chest and lifted his torso. His face was now hovering over John´s, lips nonchalantly brushing his ear, his dark curls lightly tickling his cheek. John swallowed; he could already feel himself hardening - he just couldn´t help it, not with Sherlock. He was unarmed.

Sherlock lowered his lips on John´s, soft and light at first, teasing, and then harder, hungry and demanding, leaving him no other option than to succumb to his will. Every time Sherlock kissed him John felt it, the raw and pure energy transferring between them. It arose a need in him, stronger than he had ever felt with anyone and he allowed himself to be taken away by it, getting lost in his lips on his own, on his face, on his body, Sherlock´s hunger everywhere, and he wanted to do nothing more that to feed him, give him what he wanted, anything.

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2 months

John hadn´t seen Sherlock in three days. He hadn´t left a note, hadn´t sent a text, nothing; and yet somehow John knew that there was nothing wrong with him per se, he just chose to be somewhere else. Somewhere away from John, away from the domesticity of it all. It hurt, there was no denying of that; and yet at the same time he knew he had no place to be upset about it. After all, Sherlock had never promised anything.

They lay on the living room floor, side by side, both naked. It was the first time they had sex, a week after Sherlock was released from the hospital. John hadn´t thought it would have been a good idea earlier; he was afraid of Sherlock´s health as he was still in recovery. He also wasn´t quite sure if Sherlock had even wanted to. But on the night of the seventh day John had woken up in the middle of the night to a sound he couldn´t place the origin of and had gotten up to check what, if something, was amiss.

He had found Sherlok in the living room, sitting by the window wearing only in his robe. There was no light on in the room, thus the only source of it was the street lamp, the pale hue of which reflected on Sherlock´s face. John glanced at the watch; it was 3.30 am.

"Can´t sleep?" Sherlock hadn´t looked at him but of course he knew John was in the room.

Keeping his eyes fixed on something on the other side of the window Sherlock replied with a voice slightly thoughtful, "I´m thinking."

John resisted the urge to sneer. But of course he was. Instead he walked to him, slowly and a bit unsure - it was still so new, to look at Sherlock like this, to want to touch him and not quite knowing how to go about it - he scolded himself for being so insecure but couldn´t help it. Sherlock, in a way, imitated him. John stopped next to the chair Sherlock was sitting in and thought about putting his hand on his shoulder, but then decided against it and placed it on the back rest. "About what?"

Sherlock broke his stare away from whatever he had been gazing at and turned his eyes to meet John´s . His eyes were deep, so intense, so impossible to read; but his voice was soft. "You. Me. Us." There might have been a wry smile on his face but so faint one couldn´t be sure.

John felt his heartbeat speeding up a bit. "Is there an us?"

True, they had kissed; there had been visible signs on both of them that a physical interaction of more fundamental type was desirable - something John had decided against before things escalated too far because of Sherlock´s physical health - but there really hadn´t been much out of the ordinary afterwards. A few touches which one could have categorized as beyond the friendship they shared before; certain types of looks every now and then; double meanings in some of the things they had said - but nothing solid, nothing sure, nothing that could have convinced John once and for all that what had taken place in the kitchen a week ago hadn´t just been a dream.

Sherlock adjusted his position so that his face was now properly turned to John, hovering on the level of his abdomen. "I told you. It´s your call."

It took John a few heartbeats for his words to sink in and to interpret them together with the look on Sherlock´s face. His call, his decision, his responsibility, his risk - and yet, even if Sherlock so simply shed himself of all the possible weight the future may place on them, the choice wasn´t a difficult one to make.

John, not even completely acknowledging what he was doing, took his face between his hands - very much like Sherlock had done a week ago to him - and kissed him. What started out as a soft, almost caressing touch turned in seconds into something entirely different as the hunger woken up by the promise given seven days ago, kept bottled up for days, broke loose in both of them.

Sherlock stood up from the chair, never letting the kiss break, his hands all over John and John´s on Sherlock. The sheer amount of pure lust and passion was beyond either one´s realm of previous experiences; so strong and honest, impossible to contain or control - useless to even try.

Sherlock tore John´s t-shirt off on him; John untied his robe, slipped his hands under it and on one movement of his hands Sherlock was naked, his lithe body bathing in the white light of the street lamp. He was beautiful to look at, the wound still visible on his chest only accentuating the marvel of the rest of him; the small crack in an otherwise perfect surface that makes the whole unique.

Tangled in each other they quickly found themselves on the floor, Sherlock on top of John, releasing him from his pants as fast as he could, his long fingers working close to the area John was yearning for him to touch. John felt his weight on him, pinning him against the floor, Sherlock´s erection more than noticeable against his abdomen. Never in his life had John wanted another human being so badly; he needed to have Sherlock, completely, as much as he wanted Sherlock to have him in return. It was intoxicating and empowering; getting lost in a moment like that, not thinking about anything or anyone but the man whose hands were now stroking your hardness, reaching out to him in return, not getting enough of his lips on yours, devouring and demanding.

Sherlock´s breathing was as heavy as John´s heartbeat was fast. He pressed his body against Sherlock´s as hard as he could, craving for its heat, the feel of their skins touching. His hands were full of him, a fistful of dark hair, a shoulder blade´s angle fitting perfectly in the cup of his palm, John´s hands on his narrow hips, feeling the muscle and the bone dancing underneath the warm skin. It was a continuous flow of sensations and touches, lips and hands everywhere, and all both of them wanted and could possibly ever imagine wanting was to feel the other, a bit closer, deeper, more full, completely.

Sherlock bit his ear lobe when he entered him, and for a short moment John´t heart and breathing stopped, the pure power of the sensation was almost too much for him; his body tensed for a second and then, feeling Sherlock slowly moving in him and his strong grip working on his own erection, taking him towards the already quickly approaching climax, John let the pureness of the moment wash over him, getting lost in it completely. They were laying on the floor, on their side, Sherlock was fucking him and it was just that amazing, like nothing ever before; this kind of desire, this kind of pleasure, Sherlock´s other hand holding him around his chest and the other one giving him such raw satisfaction, sweat on their skins, Sherlock´s hungry mouth on his neck, oh god yes-

They came almost simultaneously as you only do when the sex is just right, honest and raw, with an exploding force, high voltage of extreme pleasure overtaking both of their bodies. John felt it coming some seconds before it did, and yet the power and depth of his orgasm made him almost black out for a second; a blink of an eye later as Sherlock´s grip on him tightened with a force pushing the air out of John´s lungs and his face buried itself in John´s neck John knew that Sherlock had not been left far from the pleasure that was currently washing over him.

Afterwards, laying on the floor, Sherlock had suddenly spoken with a voice very quiet, almost sad. "I can´t know."

John nodded in the dark room, even if he knew Sherlock wasn´t able to see it. He understood what he meant; he had understood the complexity of it all, the complexity of him, long before Sherlock had uttered the words out loud.

John´s voice was equally quiet, but the tone of it told Sherlock that he was willing to take the risk. "Nobody can."

And he really was willing. So was Sherlock. But there never were any guarantees.

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3 months

"You´re using again." John tried not to sound accusing.

Sherlock glanced at him, the look in his eyes impossible to interpret. He sniffed a few times and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He was pushing it, of course John knew that much. Had Sherlock wanted to he could have been able to pull out a sober act, or at least dodge John so that confrontation wouldn´t have been necessary. Instead, he had chosen to expose himself to him, to get a reaction, make John angry; feed on his disappointment on him and attempt to contain his frustration.

Sherlock´s eyes were in a constant movement, as if looking something to focus on but never finding it. He tapped his left thigh with his fingers; small, constant movement all over him. Like something inside him struggling to get out.

"What if I am?" His voice was dry and defiant at the same time. He sniffed again and John wondered how far he was from a nosebleed.

"You´re being childish." He needed something, something to make Sherlock realize how stupid he was acting. And, even if he didn´t admit it to himself, something that would give him the upper hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered. "You´re being boring." It was an easy reply to throw and John had been expecting it; even so, it stung.

John lifted his hand in a sign of resignation. "Maybe I am. At least I´m not high. I´m going to bed."

Not long ago Sherlock would have followed him, undressed him, claimed him as his own. Now he just stared at John with cold, narrowed eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine."

The sound of the door closing behind him had an echo of finality in it.

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4 months

Sometimes, just as it can be too cold to snow, you can be too tired to give up.

So John tried. He did everything he could think of to make things work between them - pulling back, being there, loving him, hating him. Giving him space, holding him down, anything he could think of. It seemed that nothing was ever quite right, that something always triggered a tension or a fight. Made him anxious. The good moments they shared slowly became contaminated by the bad.

In truth it must be said that Sherlock probably tried, too. But he couldn´t pull it through, couldn´t overcome his own obstacles and resentment and incapability for meaningful human relationships; couldn´t control his too fast a mind and contain the anxiety caused by the situation he had placed himself in; an emotional connection, something expected of him on a level beyond professional field. He tried, for he needed John, really; but the restlessness grew, and even if he tried to tackle it, suffocate it, be better - he wanted to care, he needed to care, but it suffocated him. He withered. And John watched him as he did, went through it all, and he didn´t know which would be more painful - never to have Sherlock or watch him suffer like he did.

So as hard as they may have both tried, eventually it became evident that it just wasn´t enough. Their efforts wasted away like water runs through cupped fingers until only little bit is left. So little that it is not enough to drench your thirst.

What they had, what they were - it was beyond categorization as well as it was beyond possible.

So they parted.

It wasn´t after a fight. On the contrary, things have been more or less fine for a while, at least on the surface. Instead it was after a question, seemingly innocent, presented by John on a cold and dark January evening. It was that question, and how he saw Sherlock´s back tighten, his whole being flinching by the mundane, everyday thing that people - couple - ask each other because it is what you do. To see him react like that crystallized everything in a one, single sharp second.

What would you like to eat?

In that moment, through the involuntary and probably unconscious reaction of Sherlock´s mind and body, it became so very painfully apparent to John that this would never work, not with Sherlock. He simply was not capable of this, no matter how much he may have even wanted to be. No matter how much they both wanted. It was too domestic, too ordinary, too restricting, too much. Too out of his area; brilliant as he may have been, in this quest he failed miserably. There are some things you cannot know with your brain because you need to know them by heart; Sherlock didn´t.

What tore John was that he knew they would go on, Sherlock would not break it off. He needed John as much as John needed him, and his admittance to failure was not something to be considered to take place. So what was required of John in that moment, after seeing what he just had seen and understanding what it meant, was to be the stronger out of the two of them and do what had to be done.

If he would stay, if they would continue - it would kill Sherlock. Not physically, perhaps, but that was not what was at stake here.

He remembered how what now seemed like a so long time ago he had asked for Sherlock´s life. Give me this and I´ll never ask for anything more - and yet here he was. Asking for his love, his presence, something that wasn´t even his to ask or him to give.

John looked at him, one last time, the dark man with wild hair sitting in his chair, quiet and somehow resigned. Trying to preserve that moment, that image of the man he so desperately loved and needed and wanted and yet never could have. To capture that one last moment so that it would be enough for him for a lifetime; and at the same time knowing he would fail in this, that nothing would ever be enough.

John closed his eyes, just for a second, making that last second count. Then, with the aura of a man who has fought a battle and lost, he took his jacket from the wardrobe and stepped out from the door.

It had started to snow.


The story _is_ still on progress, but... I don´t know. Thoughts? Thanks for reading, bow for reviewing.