A/N: Here is the second of the week lovelies :)
Thanks to Sendai and TheReturned for their wonderful reviews, it makes me happy to know readers have been looking forward to more and are actually still reading!
I realized I write a lot of depressing John… so I decided instead of writing something happier I'd just even the playing field and write depressing Sherlock! Blame Keaton Henson; I just started listening to him and while he is absolutely fabulous and an incredible artist, he's a bit depressing, in the most poetically beautiful of ways… go check him out anyways (Beekeeper is a perfect song guys; you won't regret it!)
As always, enjoy and please feel free to leave a review!
Home (eventually, probably, most-likely) Soon
His arms are bound above his head, his uncut hair falling in dirty ringlets of black and dripping dirty water onto the stained concrete floor. Tasting blood on his dry tongue, dust in his lungs, Sherlock Holmes weighed his options, and found them tipped heavily against him; that'd never stopped him before.
It was the deepest level of a sewer system in eastern Russia, evident from the excessively leaking drainage pipes lining the ceiling, the sound of rushing water overhead, the foul smell practically seeping from all four corners. His back ached like Atlas, blood dripping off the protruding spinal vertebrae. Sherlock wondered at how long he had been down here, a day or a week, he wasn't sure anymore. He'd get out though. He'd always get out.
Approximately three minutes later the interrogator/torturer/middle-aged-unmarried-twice divorced-two dogs-sadist-tobacco chewer walked in, belt in hand and manic grin on face.
Sherlock closes his eyes and focused his breathing, tried to conjure some kind of something to distract and detract from reality.
John has secret freckles. They hide under his checked shirts and cardigans, under his pectoral muscles and the space between his naval and his pubic bone. They taste like salted caramel.
John has eyes like a thunder storm above the Atlantic Ocean, weighty and full of expression, beautiful and dangerous and- oh fuck.
The pain roared through him, a tearing of his nerve cells to ragged, bloodied pieces shreds.
Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn… I'll be home soon
