like i remember you 6a/?astudyinchuckJuly 14 2011, 21:55:59 UTC
Mycroft is half-asleep when he hears it. Like the ghost of an old friend, haunting rather than participating in the world.
He turns on his side. There's guilt rising inside of him, and this cold dread in his stomach. Mycroft can hear Sherlock smile as he dresses. Can hear the hidden enthusiasm, hidden adoration as he opens the window, and breathes in the night air. It's warm. The veil of glass between him and John has parted and they stare.
Something in John's eyes doesn't shine as brightly.
Mycroft goes to his room, and opens the door quickly. Halfway onto the drainpipe, Sherlock is flustered and excited and almost smiling. But his face turns hard to see Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't know and when he does it will kill him: ignite in his heart like a thousand suns and burn out of him.
They stare, locked, for a few seconds. John calls up.
"Sherlock?" The boy in question does not look away from Mycroft.
"A second," Fixes his eyes back on Mycroft like he's wrong and he should just dissapear, melt into the floorboards and get away from the stolen moments that John gets from Sherlock. Their relationship is so fragile and impressionable, like glass. And Mycroft doesn't want to put his fingerprints all over it. He merely says:
"Take your time coming home," But not unkindly. Softly, gently. He means it. The endless hours of the night are numbered, and Sherlock needs to get up and get on and get away to better things, to better people, to John, before dawn comes and the cold sunlight claims them both. "I'm sorry,"
like i remember you 6b/?astudyinchuckJuly 14 2011, 21:56:36 UTC
The night is silent. The grass is long. Sherlock hasn't felt so strange, so weightless and content and worried since being a child. They're running, for they always run, but never to anywhere or from anything. Perhaps the destination is simply away, and the starting point was them. The eyes that say, the whispers that cut.
They keep running, and John's ahead. He's leading, and in the night Sherlock watches with an empty chest, delighted by John. Just John, always John with the starlit hair and the eyes full of innocence and lust when they turn on him. Sherlock stops running because John's ahead.
Because John's running from something.
"What's wrong?" John asks, breathless, legs bent, hands on his knees to suck back precious air from the sulphurous air. There's worry behind the blue. The way John talks sounds nearly distorted to Sherlock, as if there's something else in his mouth. As if there's a secret in there, crossing it's legs, sitting down. Waiting to slip out.
"Nothing," Sherlock says, "Keep going,"
The grass turns to thistle that turns to daisies. It feels as if they've been running for miles. Sherlock's heart is in his throat, it feels as if it fall out onto the dark grass at any moment because he's going so fast and gone so far that it'll be dawn before he's back. they've never gone this far, and John's never seemed so motivated. He's running from something, something that will eat him up.
Sherlock knows he must spend their moments wisely. For time turns back for no man.
They come to a clearing of trees where the grass is at it's thinnest but a small stream runs into a lake. The stream appears to run uphill, and lillies grow all year round. It's dark, but light enough to see things clearly, see John clearly, who walks with a heavy heart.
"Wait for it," He goes being the trunk of a warm-looking birch and fiddles a little. Sherlock sweats in the night air, that swirls about him like the ghost of good will. He's caught off guard by the sudden illumination of the place. Strings of lights are wrapped about the trees, and hand taught across the water. They're reflected, and it looks perfect. Sherlock takes his time processing the moment,
When John reappears, he's wearing less, or, nothing at all. But he does not go to Sherlock. He looks up and smiles, tongue darting out to catch the upper lip. He's proud of his work, and surveys it, before he drifts into the cool green water, slowly, enjoying the feel of it. Once submerged, he swims out further.
"Towels are on the other bank," He warns Sherlock with a smile, and the secret threatens to fall out and ruin everything. But, since everything seems backwards anyway, Sherlock follows. He takes his time, too.
like i remember you 7/?astudyinchuckJuly 20 2011, 20:23:34 UTC
The reflection of the lights are disrupted by the ripples in the water. Sherlock wears the cold of it like a cloak, watching the stars stare back at him in the water. They twinkle and shine like John's eyes, but there's nothing hidden or sinister in the white flickers, like magnesium.
Sherlock is so caught up in the swirls and eddies of the waters that the flash of water on his face shocks him. He paws at his eyes and catches John's eyes with his deepest look. They're both so scared, and only John knows why. It's sat on his tongue, waiting to slip out and break Sherlock's heart. The heart that he'd never had.
"Not much further," John insists, and turns to swim on his back. Sherlock watches him, fondly, desperately, but makes no attempt to speed up. The weight of anticipation, of foreshadowing, slows him down immensely like a dead-weight. Makes him feel like drowning.
"John, why-" They both stop, and stare across the sky-lit waters. Everything is silent, save for breathing. "Why all of this? Tonight, it seems so...unnecessary." And John looks like he's been struck by lightning, as if Sherlock's question hits him ,like a bullet in the back.
"I thought it'd be nice." Blinking, John bobs in the water, and he's really beautiful, really fine. But there's something inaccessible to him. If Sherlock were to reach, he wouldn't find John.
Then it clicks. Something had got John. He's going somewhere.
No. He's leaving Sherlock behind.
They reach the other bank in moderate silence. Sherlock can't think what to say, he can't speak because he thinks he knows and he'll say it, accuse Jon, his John, his perfect John Watson of something awful and then the night will end. Sherlock is so breathless, and his mind is heavy with so many thoughts, that he fails to notice the warmth behind him. They're both dripping with clear green water from the Lake, but John is warm.
"What's wrong?" John asks, running his lips gently over the curve of Sherlock's bare shoulder. It's painted gold in the electric candlelight and in that moment they're infinite.
"Nothing," Sherlock lies, and groans in approval when John begins nipping at the base of his neck. "Nothing's wrong,"
like i remember you 8a/?astudyinchuckJuly 23 2011, 21:03:36 UTC
Everything and Nothing collapses and expands in the night sky as Sherlock sits, silent, together with John by the cool green water. They kiss once, twice, tender, under the electric candlelight, golden in the lambency, in eachother's eyes. Things always look beautiful when they're so new. John's eyes shine, bright as silver, as he glances over the expanse of Sherlock's body. The boy is perfect, for even though he's snowy on the outside, guarded like a fortress, his eyes betray the warmth of his insides, the warmth of his heart.
“I want you,” John says, tasting the words. They both know it, both see it in the heated lances, but he's not sure if he's ever said it. Sherlock needs to know that he's wanted. That he's needed, that he's perfect, and that John would follow him into the dark.
“You have me,” Sherlock looks at him. Confirms what it's superficial, isn't fake. Their souls sit next to eachother, and their lips meet. While the rest of the world sleeps, cried and remains in darkness Sherlock is content to remain in the light, infinite with John.
“Can I-” John crawls over Sherlock's body, stark and glowing against their shadows. But he's warm to touch, and soft, and exquisite. John doesn't want the moment to end. But the seconds will always tick past, and it's like watching liquid sunshine trickle through his fingers. “Can I make love to you?” Because he doesn't want to fuck Sherlock. It needs to be more intimate. Needs to linger there in memories.
like i remember you 8b/?astudyinchuckJuly 23 2011, 21:04:08 UTC
Sherlock looks scared, just a bit, but he does not protest. Instead, he nods slowly, and surrenders to John's soft kiss. His lips travel, and leave warmth along his jawline, and then down his neck. The white of the skin becomes pink, and Sherlock Holmes becomes human in the solace of the moment. As if he'd not felt anything until that kiss.
John breathes him in, trace down his neck and to his collar, seeing the green water evaporate into the sulfurous atmosphere. Fear is the heart of love, and John has never been more scared to be alone with his lover until the first cry of pleasure pierces the veil of silence. For a fleeting second, he looks up, and smiles.
He knows that Sherlock wants it, he can feel it. For now, his blood stirs and his cheeks blush. He wants John fully and properly.
Bold, John slides a hand down to Sherlock's prick and gave it a gentle tug, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. His lover cries out again, sinful and wanton, and his hips twitches, sending tremors through his entire body.
“John, I want...” The want is clearly written in sherlock's eyes, in the bitten lip. His high cheeks are flushed and rosy, and John could keep him like this forever, remember him forever in this way.
“You're beautiful,” John says, he confirms, and gives another flick of his wrist before moving his hand again. The anticipation is mounting in the noises Sherlock is making. Besotted, John says “Eyes on me,” . He only need say it once, for Sherlock can't seem to look away.
“Christ-” Sherlock shudders as he feels the first finger. It's coarse and perfect too, and the contrast makes it real, makes it special, but most of all it's John, and that's the best part. The pleasure fills him, ignites his eyes, and John keeps his eyes wide and lovely when he adds another, watching Sherlock squirm and pant.
When they're at thee fingers, Sherlock's eyes are closed. And then, when it's John, and he's crying out, too, the starry night sky appears behind Sherlock's eyelids, and there is simply blue, blue like mercy and love and blue like he's flying when he opens his eyes. It's John, and the more he looks, the deeper he seems to fall, and drown. It's the most breathtaking view from there, and he never wants to move or speak. Or exist with anyone else.
The pleasure is immense as John's rhythm builds and the stars become brighter, the blue becomes darker. The orgasm builds inside of him, the intense pressure that makes the moment human, and before he realizes it, the stars are back in the sky and it's over. He's hot and breathless and John's fantastic, he's infinite and glorious and everything.
They both remain for a second, there in the heat, watching the stars fade and the indigo of the night sky bleach. The dark of the water fades with it, clearing at the mention of light, and of morning. But time is irrelevant, hours do not have a place amongst Sherlock or john in that moment. They've not the hearts to be brief, nor the need.
He turns on his side. There's guilt rising inside of him, and this cold dread in his stomach. Mycroft can hear Sherlock smile as he dresses. Can hear the hidden enthusiasm, hidden adoration as he opens the window, and breathes in the night air. It's warm. The veil of glass between him and John has parted and they stare.
Something in John's eyes doesn't shine as brightly.
Mycroft goes to his room, and opens the door quickly. Halfway onto the drainpipe, Sherlock is flustered and excited and almost smiling. But his face turns hard to see Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't know and when he does it will kill him: ignite in his heart like a thousand suns and burn out of him.
They stare, locked, for a few seconds. John calls up.
"Sherlock?" The boy in question does not look away from Mycroft.
"A second," Fixes his eyes back on Mycroft like he's wrong and he should just dissapear, melt into the floorboards and get away from the stolen moments that John gets from Sherlock. Their relationship is so fragile and impressionable, like glass. And Mycroft doesn't want to put his fingerprints all over it. He merely says:
"Take your time coming home," But not unkindly. Softly, gently. He means it. The endless hours of the night are numbered, and Sherlock needs to get up and get on and get away to better things, to better people, to John, before dawn comes and the cold sunlight claims them both. "I'm sorry,"
Sherlock nods like he knows, but he has no idea.
Reply
They keep running, and John's ahead. He's leading, and in the night Sherlock watches with an empty chest, delighted by John. Just John, always John with the starlit hair and the eyes full of innocence and lust when they turn on him. Sherlock stops running because John's ahead.
Because John's running from something.
"What's wrong?" John asks, breathless, legs bent, hands on his knees to suck back precious air from the sulphurous air. There's worry behind the blue. The way John talks sounds nearly distorted to Sherlock, as if there's something else in his mouth. As if there's a secret in there, crossing it's legs, sitting down. Waiting to slip out.
"Nothing," Sherlock says, "Keep going,"
The grass turns to thistle that turns to daisies. It feels as if they've been running for miles. Sherlock's heart is in his throat, it feels as if it fall out onto the dark grass at any moment because he's going so fast and gone so far that it'll be dawn before he's back. they've never gone this far, and John's never seemed so motivated. He's running from something, something that will eat him up.
Sherlock knows he must spend their moments wisely. For time turns back for no man.
They come to a clearing of trees where the grass is at it's thinnest but a small stream runs into a lake. The stream appears to run uphill, and lillies grow all year round. It's dark, but light enough to see things clearly, see John clearly, who walks with a heavy heart.
"Wait for it," He goes being the trunk of a warm-looking birch and fiddles a little. Sherlock sweats in the night air, that swirls about him like the ghost of good will. He's caught off guard by the sudden illumination of the place. Strings of lights are wrapped about the trees, and hand taught across the water. They're reflected, and it looks perfect. Sherlock takes his time processing the moment,
When John reappears, he's wearing less, or, nothing at all. But he does not go to Sherlock. He looks up and smiles, tongue darting out to catch the upper lip. He's proud of his work, and surveys it, before he drifts into the cool green water, slowly, enjoying the feel of it. Once submerged, he swims out further.
"Towels are on the other bank," He warns Sherlock with a smile, and the secret threatens to fall out and ruin everything. But, since everything seems backwards anyway, Sherlock follows. He takes his time, too.
Reply
I never want their time to end.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Beautiful writing <3
Reply
Reply
Sherlock is so caught up in the swirls and eddies of the waters that the flash of water on his face shocks him. He paws at his eyes and catches John's eyes with his deepest look. They're both so scared, and only John knows why. It's sat on his tongue, waiting to slip out and break Sherlock's heart. The heart that he'd never had.
"Not much further," John insists, and turns to swim on his back. Sherlock watches him, fondly, desperately, but makes no attempt to speed up. The weight of anticipation, of foreshadowing, slows him down immensely like a dead-weight. Makes him feel like drowning.
"John, why-" They both stop, and stare across the sky-lit waters. Everything is silent, save for breathing. "Why all of this? Tonight, it seems so...unnecessary." And John looks like he's been struck by lightning, as if Sherlock's question hits him ,like a bullet in the back.
"I thought it'd be nice." Blinking, John bobs in the water, and he's really beautiful, really fine. But there's something inaccessible to him. If Sherlock were to reach, he wouldn't find John.
Then it clicks. Something had got John. He's going somewhere.
No. He's leaving Sherlock behind.
They reach the other bank in moderate silence. Sherlock can't think what to say, he can't speak because he thinks he knows and he'll say it, accuse Jon, his John, his perfect John Watson of something awful and then the night will end. Sherlock is so breathless, and his mind is heavy with so many thoughts, that he fails to notice the warmth behind him. They're both dripping with clear green water from the Lake, but John is warm.
"What's wrong?" John asks, running his lips gently over the curve of Sherlock's bare shoulder. It's painted gold in the electric candlelight and in that moment they're infinite.
"Nothing," Sherlock lies, and groans in approval when John begins nipping at the base of his neck. "Nothing's wrong,"
Reply
Your writing is breathtaking. And your story is so, so very beautiful.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
“I want you,” John says, tasting the words. They both know it, both see it in the heated lances, but he's not sure if he's ever said it. Sherlock needs to know that he's wanted. That he's needed, that he's perfect, and that John would follow him into the dark.
“You have me,” Sherlock looks at him. Confirms what it's superficial, isn't fake. Their souls sit next to eachother, and their lips meet. While the rest of the world sleeps, cried and remains in darkness Sherlock is content to remain in the light, infinite with John.
“Can I-” John crawls over Sherlock's body, stark and glowing against their shadows. But he's warm to touch, and soft, and exquisite. John doesn't want the moment to end. But the seconds will always tick past, and it's like watching liquid sunshine trickle through his fingers. “Can I make love to you?” Because he doesn't want to fuck Sherlock. It needs to be more intimate. Needs to linger there in memories.
Reply
John breathes him in, trace down his neck and to his collar, seeing the green water evaporate into the sulfurous atmosphere. Fear is the heart of love, and John has never been more scared to be alone with his lover until the first cry of pleasure pierces the veil of silence. For a fleeting second, he looks up, and smiles.
He knows that Sherlock wants it, he can feel it. For now, his blood stirs and his cheeks blush. He wants John fully and properly.
Bold, John slides a hand down to Sherlock's prick and gave it a gentle tug, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. His lover cries out again, sinful and wanton, and his hips twitches, sending tremors through his entire body.
“John, I want...” The want is clearly written in sherlock's eyes, in the bitten lip. His high cheeks are flushed and rosy, and John could keep him like this forever, remember him forever in this way.
“You're beautiful,” John says, he confirms, and gives another flick of his wrist before moving his hand again. The anticipation is mounting in the noises Sherlock is making. Besotted, John says “Eyes on me,” . He only need say it once, for Sherlock can't seem to look away.
“Christ-” Sherlock shudders as he feels the first finger. It's coarse and perfect too, and the contrast makes it real, makes it special, but most of all it's John, and that's the best part. The pleasure fills him, ignites his eyes, and John keeps his eyes wide and lovely when he adds another, watching Sherlock squirm and pant.
When they're at thee fingers, Sherlock's eyes are closed. And then, when it's John, and he's crying out, too, the starry night sky appears behind Sherlock's eyelids, and there is simply blue, blue like mercy and love and blue like he's flying when he opens his eyes. It's John, and the more he looks, the deeper he seems to fall, and drown. It's the most breathtaking view from there, and he never wants to move or speak. Or exist with anyone else.
The pleasure is immense as John's rhythm builds and the stars become brighter, the blue becomes darker. The orgasm builds inside of him, the intense pressure that makes the moment human, and before he realizes it, the stars are back in the sky and it's over. He's hot and breathless and John's fantastic, he's infinite and glorious and everything.
They both remain for a second, there in the heat, watching the stars fade and the indigo of the night sky bleach. The dark of the water fades with it, clearing at the mention of light, and of morning. But time is irrelevant, hours do not have a place amongst Sherlock or john in that moment. They've not the hearts to be brief, nor the need.
For they are eternal.
Reply
Leave a comment