it's half past 4am and at this point i'm not sure how good this is...anyhow here's a letter/a blog entry our hedgehog obviously won't post, because i was in a johnlock mood. it might sound kinda ooc, (probably somewhat choppy as well) sorry about that but it's self-indulgent and i did my best for having not studied john's usual style of writing beforehand. also there might be grammar errors i don't know, i have no beta.
basically please forgive me for my sins, it's john pining for his boyfriend what more do you want? :) feel free to make suggestions ig, also if anybody has title ideas, i'd love to hear them...
Time comes and goes, I struggle to stay ahead of it, make sense of it, and I write. This morning I woke up from dreaming of war and terror and loss and I didn't know if there was ever going to be an end to it. I staggered down to the kitchen, all those explosions and cries echoing inside, and there I saw you. You, just sitting on the sofa, eyes closed, fingers steepled. Who knows if you slept (probably not). Your presence was a comfort that I cannot truly describe, though I will try. All that pain quieted at the sight of a rumpled, sleep-deprived man...how can it be?
I shouldn't tell you and I won't, not yet, but I don't think I can ignore what lies stagnant on my mind anymore. It was a matter of time, as always.
Time.
How much time do we have left together, wandering the streets of London, chasing criminals left and right?
Forever? I wonder (read: hope) some days. But no.
No...not forever.
I think, in the face of forever, everything that will be...no one can promise to care for another. It's such a very long time and this—we—are not made to outlast eternity. You alone are an explosion held in a single moment, boundless in that energy, though it backfires in your boredom. You hold it fast and sure, form theories rarely disproven (call them fact, most days), produce insight not one other person can hope to glimpse in its entirety, not for lack of trying, I'm sure you wouldn't agree.
That whirlwind that you are...a fit, a flurry, a long-coat sweeping round a corner, gone. As if you once stopped and saw a person for themselves, not their every intricacy, perhaps you may be mistaken for a mere human. A mortal man. I think you even fear this, don't you?
Who told you that you couldn't be both the Sherlock 'detective consultant, only one in the world' residing at 221B, Baker Street; the sociopathic genius, AND the Sherlock I know, the Sherlock whose eyes softened for only a millisecond (but they did you know, I saw) when you looked at me. When you realized how afraid I had become of dying (and yet I face death near every day, isn't it funny the life I choose...for you, only you, you blind fool), especially alone.
If this is how you wish to express yourself, in snatches of moments here and there, I won't stop you. We both know my trying to could destroy us; it's far too laughable to say aloud, honestly. I only wish you to know that you don't have to. You really don't, not around me. Somedays I wonder who or what made you hide this way, made you conceal yourself behind arrogance and genius. Believe me, if I knew I'd give them a right talking to. You didn't deserve that, and I would tell you so but you'd just pretend you never heard me. I doubt you would believe me at all.
But you do know, don't you, that if I was going to hold anything against you it wouldn't be those things. It'd be the two left-foot toes you left in the blue tupperware I specifically designated for my leftovers last week, or the old toupeé I don't even want to know where you found (on a dead man's head I suspect) that you left soaking in god-knows-what in the bathroom sink. Never did catch you aside for that, actually. Even if I tried, it'd be 'the sink basin wasn't an ideal laboratory condition, John, I'd have preferred St. Barts but Molly's locked me out for the weekend at least'. Yeah? Couldn't imagine it had anything to do with a newly-installed tank of flesh-eating snakes. And what about the dead chickadee in the oven? 'John! You're ruining my experiment, I need those calculations more than you need toast, eat something else and close the door!' Don't suppose you remember who set the toaster on fire 'in the name of science' three days ago during my hospital shift, do you? Honestly sometimes, fuck you Sherlock.
That aside, there is nothing more I would like than to continue, the confidant to your strangest, wildest thoughts. Have I understood them? Perhaps not always, not even a lot, but I begin to understand you as you are alone and that is all I ask.
If, by any chance, you wish for a...companion, in your madness—more than a mere skull, separate from your genius (not to be judged alongside it) and by your side for what's left of this lifetime—you know where to find me. I'm right across the room in fact, typing to you as if you'll ever read it (I wonder if you know, you haven't moved all morning). Really, as if I'd ever want you to.
Do I? I somehow don't think I'd have written it if I didn't, though I know such mundane things as reading long, soppy letters isn't at all your forte. You won't even take time to eat, for crying out loud.
I have no right to disturb your brilliance with my nonsense, have I? I am every bit the soldier and doctor I made myself to be; you are an entity of your own world, most days. Every instance I ask for clarity on a matter to which I see no connections whatsoever, your hands are frozen. Or worse, they flounder useless in the air, desperate to justify your wit. Your face falls to perplexed stillness too often. The genius you paint with your sweeping coat, body ever in motion, like a dancer, becomes a moment of silence—my interruption—just before man rages to great cyclone once more, as it should be.
How could your mind ever still, and yet it does, doesn't it? For me? I should not intrude upon your storm, your stinging fury. It is not such a tragedy, but a cruelty. Must it always seem this way?
I only wish to be more than an asset in your company, in your eyes, and while insult turns to injury (from you, insults of bitterness with a pH of 12 at least strike me many a day) you forget: I'm a doctor and I can patch better than most. I'm not most, don't you forget it. Most wouldn't fall for someone like you, I think.
This is why...if I have to conceal what truth I hold to value, I won't see you any the lesser for it. If you did see me as I do you, I'm afraid you may think yourself lesser, weaker just from trying to understand me.
Can't you see? For all your genius, don't you know?
In you I understand each moment only in itself; I finally see so plainly things for what they have always been telling me they are. Finally this far, I don't need to go any further. I know what your words don't tell, because I see the truth on your stupid, ridiculous face every day. I can live once more. You made me, that I am part of this. I am part of what this world is—your world that you let me see into, the here and now (not was and were) and what it could all become. Wouldn't that be overwhelming, if not for London, for those 243 types of tobacco ash, bees, mistaken left-handedness in 'clearly' right-handed crimes, smudged glass and missing busts, bullet holes and running, and most of all, you.
This is where I want to be, no, you are where I want to be. My heart, the traitorous bastard, no longer stands with me; it is with you. I can't help this and I know that the heart is only a muscle, if a strong one at that, but I don't give a damn.
It doesn't matter what I say I feel with. I feel and I know you do too, no matter your sociopathic tendencies. No matter what you say, I know what you mean, or I think I do. I wish you'd tell me if I was right. For once, Sherlock, for god's sake and my own, I wish you'd be 'weak' or whatever it is your idiot brother tells you. I wish you'd say what I think we have both known for a long while.
...But here you interrupt at last, leaping to your feet and throwing on coat & scarf; looks like we have a case. I'll write more later perhaps.
As it is, the game is always on. Neither time nor crime will be waiting on my account.
Signing off,
J.H.W.