Chapter 2: The Sounds We Make Together
The flames surround them: they are alive-clawing at them both with talons made of burning steel; cutting and burning them alive. Blood drips in thick rivers down severed arteries and veins, igniting when it comes into the least contact with the flames. John is reaching across a black chasm that has no end and no beginning, his fingers unable to reach Sherlock's. Sherlock's hair is a burning nest of raging orange, searing red, and bright, bright yellow, his crimson lips are open in an inaudible scream, there are tears, scarlet tears falling against the marred porcelain white of his skin. Slashes cross his cheeks pour red liquid so dark it is black in the light of the fiery prison that encircles them. John is reaching, forever reaching and he pushes himself farther but there is no stopping when the ground under their bare feet opens up and Sherlock is falling, tumbling ass over head, deeper and deeper until John loses sight of him and the flames reach out to grab at his legs and pull him backward into their beautiful and murderous embrace and he is screaming and screaming into the void of nothing but heat and light…
WHAM!
John hits the floor on his side, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. He rolls to his side and scrambles across the wooden floor of the bedroom, heart pounding and sweat dripping into his eyes, kicking at the tangled sheet around his legs that is attached to the side of the unfamiliar Queen-sized bed and threatens to hold him fast. It is all too much; there is a ripping sound as John rolls to a sitting position; the old T-shirt finally giving up the ghost. In his mind the sounds of automatic rifle fire mix with the sensory overload of wooden beams snapping, crashing to the ground, glass exploding, people bleeding and the sound of himself sobbing; he is dragged backward in time watching the person who embodies his heart, his reason taking a dive from the roof of a hospital and then he is trying to run to help him but he can't get there. As he struggles, his shirt catches on one hand and tears across his midsection. With sweat rolling off of his forehead and tattered rags hanging off of his trembling frame, the poor man actually looks like he's in the middle of a war zone.
John's heart is racing, depriving him of much-needed nitrogen and oxygen and now he is falling... Suddenly there is an iron grip on his shoulders and he tries to kick free but the hands are unrelenting, pinning him into place on the floor. This is it, the way it always ends; it's finally over. John's eyes slip closed as Sherlock drops to his knees next to him in the dark and drags the taunt, quivering body of his lover against his naked chest. Now that the other man has stopped flailing about and kicking, he can reach around John's quaking frame and he spread his hands across John's chest and stomach, quietly counting the other man's respirations and heartbeats as both slow to a more normal rhythm. After a time, he gently removes what is left of John's old shirt and drops in onto the floor next to them. The cotton of John's boxers is a cool sensation against Sherlock's naked groin.
The darkness of the room is the loving arms of a goddess as it envelopes them, the only sounds now are the drowsy whisks of the ceiling fan and the rain pounding against the roof. It is quiet in the aftermath of John's personal circles of hell. Sherlock doesn't need to see into John's mind to know exactly what is happening to the other man. He doesn't need to see the horrifying memories, some of which he put there. Six years is not so long a time that the images cannot still remain along with their full complement of sensations: the pain of being unable to touch, to help; the sounds of a strong man showing his only weakness; psychic pain of the seeker needing answers to questions he has always feared to ask. Sherlock knows well the feeling of a mind tearing itself apart at the seams; he has been on the other side of that curtain one too many times, enough to understand the pain his lover is in.
Sherlock gently tucks his lightly stubbled chin against John's shoulder, the one with the nasty, scrambled scar from the bullet that contained the intent but was missing the precision to take his life; the ridge of warm skin that he can feel beneath his jaw is like a "play" button for Sherlock's memories. Silently, Sherlock weeps for the pain that John has been put through both at Sherlock's own hand and for things that Sherlock could not control, whether in the past or the present. His tears roll down smooth cheeks and into midnight stubble to drop against John's bare skin, mixing with John's sweat to slowly evaporate into the air as John begins to come back to the present. Chemistry, the blending of molecules,is Sherlock's unbidden thought, even through the smoky haze of the night-awakened trauma.
"John." Sherlock doesn't say anything more. After all this time he has learned that, as much as he loves them, sometimes words are just not enough. He holds John close, fighting the imagery that rides on the coattails of his dark desire to be able to crack open his ribcage and tuck John beneath the bones to protect him from anything that would ever hurt him again. John is now stirring in his arms, moving slowly as if just awakening to face his lover. He raises his hand to Sherlock's face, one finger reaching out to gather a tear which he then places on the end of his tongue. Chemistry.
Sherlock's heart seems to fill up his chest as John's lips are on his and together they are falling into a fresh melody, composing new lines to a much older composition, overwriting the discord and unbalanced strains from earlier. They will not complete the melody this night, however, instead they reach out for the reassurance that the other is still there. The floor is hard, unforgiving beneath them as a mind locked in a cage of its own making, and soon they find themselves back on the firm mattress with its cool silk sheets. In the scheme of it all, none of the luxuries matter to them, however; soon Somnus returns as one man lies with his head against the other man's chest, listening to the heartbeat that completes his own. The small hours of the night pass by in comfort and peace as the storm boils itself out across the city.
A new morning winks against the windows, rain-washed and devoid of ashes and soot. The newly-minted bullion rays of the sun filter through the pristine glass and slowly creep across two relaxed faces, all the lines of yesterday smoothed with midnight blue and silver colored promises of togetherness and rest; two pairs of eyes beginning to open to the fresh possibilities of another day. Yesterday's worries have been laid open and dissected in the night; today is for moving forward. There are still cases to break and criminals to apprehend; or not. It is their choice. There can be responsibilities or they can spend the day together, wrapped up in their own cocoon, hidden away from prying eyes and questioning journalists; as well as nosy siblings.
Sherlock arches his back off of the bed, a melanistic long-limbed, limber cheetah as he stretches and yawns, his jostling causing John to stir beside him as Sherlock untangles their legs. The top sheet has been pushed to who knows where and the duvet rolls away from John as Sherlock pulls it off of himself. John gives a little warning growl that means he is absolutely not ready to face the day at the same time Sherlock practically bounds out of the bed on his way to the toilet and shower. John opens one eye and admires the sauntering hips and pale bare ass of his lover as Sherlock prances past him. He reaches out a hand, thoroughly expecting the loud sound of a smack when his palm hits that posh flesh but is disappointed when Sherlock scrambles just out of reach with a smarmy little sound of his own.
That little retort is enough to push John into action. He swings his legs to the floor and sits up, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He scratches lazily at the light dusting of wheaten hair that grows across his still-muscular chest. Come hell or high water, they will not discuss last night, though both men will remember it vividly. They have no need to strip the scabs off of those particular cuts in the bright light of day where they may be ugly and red. The night tempers the pain, makes it bearable for both of them. Uncovering those wounds in the daylight would leave them open to infection.
John stands and pulls off his boxers, dropping them into the wicker hamper in the bathroom as he moves further into the bathroom. He relieves himself and flushes the toilet, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. To John's slight disappointment, Sherlock doesn't make any noise other than a sharp hiss as he sucks in a breath when the water gets colder for a second. In retaliation, Sherlock flings opens the opaque cream curtain and grabs John with both hands, somehow managing to yank the other man into the shower with him and not lose his balance at the same time. Even in his amusement, John can't help but be impressed with the feline-like reflexes of his favorite person in the whole-wide world.
Now John is howling like a madman, his eyes screwed shut as he laughs under the spray of the water that is already warming back up. When he opens his eyes, he is pinned to the cream and mint hued tiles by the severe scrutiny of a glaring consulting detective. He tries to quash the giggles that are being ripped out of his chest like air bubbles after drinking soda too fast as he attempts to glare back at his lover whose hair actually falls into his eyes when it is full of suds; it reminds John strongly of a powered sugar covered-chocolate doughnut. With a loud snort, he grasps Sherlock's shoulders and rubs their noses together a little roughly, causing some of Sherlock's shampoo to run into his eyes. Of course, the joke is on him now as he turns and looks up, letting the water rinse away the stinging concoction. Sherlock doesn't exactly laugh, but he does chuckle and presses himself against his lover's naked behind and rolls his hips. John can feel Sherlock's chuckle vibrate in the most intimate of places, causing John's mind to blank out for a second.
John wonders how long the water will stay warm. He turns back around and wraps his fingers around Sherlock's erection, his own slowly taking interest in things. Sherlock's eyes slip closed and he rests his forehead against John's shoulder, his own hand wandering towards John's groin where he teases just above his lover's now fully interested arousal with the skimming touches of his violinist's fingers. His tongue makes tiny little laps against any skin he can reach. Goose bumps rush down John's spine and then he practically goes boneless against Sherlock; it is only pure physics that holds both men upright on the slippery floor of the modern style bathtub. A small sound that John refuses to consider a whimper forces its way between his teeth and he rolls his head against Sherlock's temple while he makes a short, shallow, wanton thrust with his pelvis. Sherlock finally stops teasing and takes John's length in his hand, stroking him with a firm touch; nipping gently against John's shoulder at the same time. They pull each other to orgasm under the water pulsing from the shower head, each man growling the other's name as they climax.
It is all over in a heated rush, both men standing calm and satiated in the bedroom when Sherlock's phone vibrates against the nightstand where he dropped it last night. Sherlock crosses the room, making no attempt to stop the mint green towel slung loosely around his hips from falling to the floor. On the other side of the bed he glares down at the device as if it insulted his John, at the same time petulant huffing sound escapes his lips to clue John in clearly to whom the text is from.
"Mycroft checking that we haven't destroyed his flat, yeah?"John asks as he zips his jeans. The sound of the metal teeth clicking together seems loud in this room that is not their own.
"Of course."Sherlock answers him with an eye roll, adding a lip pop to the end of each word. The obvious is inherent in his short statement, though it is left dangling to be pulled into the air by the whirling ceiling fan and broken into pieces like smoke from a burning building in a gust of wind. John just laughs and leaves Sherlock in the bedroom while he goes alone to scout out what kind of food is in the kitchen.
Naturally, John thinks to himself as he opens the polished stainless steel and black refrigerator. It would be completely natural that Mycroft would keep a fully-stocked kitchen in a flat he uses less than three times a year, according to him. John shakes his head at that, wondering if perhaps someone else lives here part of the time. It's certainly big enough, with the three bedrooms, sitting room, this huge kitchen, and a den.
John looks about the kitchen but it is the sitting room that catches his eye. Besides the massive plasma-screen television in the corner, there are three floor-to-ceiling windows covered by heavy cream-colored drapes that hang from massive gold rods. He remembers allowing Mycroft to take the little orange kitten from him, asking John's permission to take her to a vet. He has promised to bring her home, if she is healthy enough, later on in the day. John knows he has already gotten attached to the tiny thing and secretly hopes she will be okay. Enough canned and dry kitten food and milk stacked on one of the kitchen counters to feed three cats has been brought in by Mycroft's mysterious assistants at some point since their arrival; he wants to take it as a good sign.
As soon as he pushes back the drapes, memories of the ride in the elevator last night come to the surface and leave him wondering just what floor they are going to be on. Turns out to be the sweet motherfucking penthouse. He pushes on the window in the center; it is actually a door that swings out onto a fairly wide balcony, wide enough for a café table and a pair of matching chairs. In the center of the yellow metal table sits a black vase filled with white carnations and deep green ivy. The ivy cascades over the lip of the vase, not quite touching the artistically tiled table top. John turns his gaze out towards the city as it seems to open up under his feet. He recognizes buildings, streets…everything. Had he known this flat was right at the heart of the city, he would have begged to step out here last night, even in the rain. The air smells clean, the scent of autumn drifting on the air after a night of storms. His heart is glad when there is no smell of smoke in the vicinity. The sky is turquoise, the clouds white and wispy. In short, a beautiful day, perhaps he can pretend that the night has washed all the heartaches away. He knows, though, that they can be pulled back into their perspective boxes for a time, but sooner or later they will return. It is alright when they can battle them together.
John is lost in the beauty of the scene before him when there is movement beside him. His personal beauty appears like an apparition in the same, skin-tight jeans from last night and his pale chest bare. John seriously considers just having Sherlock for breakfast but the sound coming from Sherlock is surely the result of an omniscient smirk, so John turns his back on both of the breathtaking views and returns to the self-appointed task at hand.