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.
like i remember you 9/?astudyinchuckJuly 26 2011, 22:09:15 UTC
[Very nearly finished this project, it will be up on A03. I'm on holiday from the 27th, so updates will be slow. If I can get anything to you sooner, I'll endeavour to do so. Thanks in advance! [:
It was practically morning by the time Sherlock was at his window once more.
The sky looks like a milky indigo, and the light is so queer in colour that all the leaves look silver. Beneath the pale brick of the house, the pale grass shudders, sick and pale, glossy with dew. Somewhere off in the distance, working-class life resumes itself in the mishmash of birdsong and cars. But with John, everything is silent and underwater, not just the painstaking speed of things, but also in Sherlock's utter breathlessness. He can't breath at all. The pain between his lungs had wrent the tissue there.
“John,” Sherlock manages, spinning in the grass, feet damp, clothes cold against his skin. When he turns, he gazes on John, and John is a million miles away, he's gone, and in his place a guilty phantom haunts his physical state. Who can't look him in the eyes, who wont. “John, where are you going?”
John looks up then, caught out, pale with grief. “Wha-”
“You needn't go anywhere, you can stay here. We can-...if this is about money-”
“Sherlock.” John sounds far too serous, far too hopeless, and Sherlock won't hear it. His lungs are filling up with smoke, and he'll end up wheezing, gasping out words but it will be too late.
John's eyes are as blue as mercy when he shakes his head, morose, and kisses Sherlock deep and true and tender. There's something to it, this richness to it that only happens once and it only happens the last time something happens. Like something in John has already been taken, like all of his strings are broken.
But for what it is, the feeling is limitless, boundless, the window to something new entirely. John tastes like ash and stolen apples, tastes like cool green water and night air. Like the glow of an anarchist and the lambency of a saint, and Sherlock's soaring, he's completely sold, and John's barely said anything.
The goodbye is dragged out longer than need be. It will only sting more, when the sun is higher and the indigo has faded to hessian. Sherlock slips through the window of his bedroom, and jumps to find John sat on the sill outside. His hair is thick and wet and it looks like feathers. Enchanted, bewitched, Sherlock goes to the open window. Before he can speak, though, John raises his face towards Sherlock and whispers,
“Shut the window.” So he does, fixing it shut with a great tearing in his chest. Sherlock thinks John will leave then, the thought tearing through him like a thunderbolt. A sliver of water from his sodden curls drops down his back. Instead, John sits, and watches him with this peculiar expression. Sherlock looks back, damn near smiles, but John's eyes seem fixed on something behind Sherlock, something macabre that has already drained the blood from his face, and the light from his eyes.
Sherlock remains still, to afraid to turn and see. He knows, of course, there is nothing there.
They stare at eachother from opposite sides of the glass. Just looking, which is more than words can speak or touches can feel. Sherlock isn't sure how it ends, he doesn't remember. Maybe John leaves first, or Sherlock goes to bed. No, in his memory, they just remain there, looking at eachother forever.
Re: like i remember you 9/?astudyinchuckJuly 30 2011, 02:25:44 UTC
I already loved this, and then you had to go and put in the Paper Towns reference with the window scene and I have fallen in whatever-emotion-is-beyond-love with it. You are amazing.
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,"
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Your writing is breathtaking. And your story is so, so very beautiful.
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“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.
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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.
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It was practically morning by the time Sherlock was at his window once more.
The sky looks like a milky indigo, and the light is so queer in colour that all the leaves look silver. Beneath the pale brick of the house, the pale grass shudders, sick and pale, glossy with dew. Somewhere off in the distance, working-class life resumes itself in the mishmash of birdsong and cars. But with John, everything is silent and underwater, not just the painstaking speed of things, but also in Sherlock's utter breathlessness. He can't breath at all. The pain between his lungs had wrent the tissue there.
“John,” Sherlock manages, spinning in the grass, feet damp, clothes cold against his skin. When he turns, he gazes on John, and John is a million miles away, he's gone, and in his place a guilty phantom haunts his physical state. Who can't look him in the eyes, who wont. “John, where are you going?”
John looks up then, caught out, pale with grief. “Wha-”
“You needn't go anywhere, you can stay here. We can-...if this is about money-”
“Sherlock.” John sounds far too serous, far too hopeless, and Sherlock won't hear it. His lungs are filling up with smoke, and he'll end up wheezing, gasping out words but it will be too late.
John's eyes are as blue as mercy when he shakes his head, morose, and kisses Sherlock deep and true and tender. There's something to it, this richness to it that only happens once and it only happens the last time something happens. Like something in John has already been taken, like all of his strings are broken.
But for what it is, the feeling is limitless, boundless, the window to something new entirely. John tastes like ash and stolen apples, tastes like cool green water and night air. Like the glow of an anarchist and the lambency of a saint, and Sherlock's soaring, he's completely sold, and John's barely said anything.
The goodbye is dragged out longer than need be. It will only sting more, when the sun is higher and the indigo has faded to hessian. Sherlock slips through the window of his bedroom, and jumps to find John sat on the sill outside. His hair is thick and wet and it looks like feathers. Enchanted, bewitched, Sherlock goes to the open window. Before he can speak, though, John raises his face towards Sherlock and whispers,
“Shut the window.” So he does, fixing it shut with a great tearing in his chest. Sherlock thinks John will leave then, the thought tearing through him like a thunderbolt. A sliver of water from his sodden curls drops down his back. Instead, John sits, and watches him with this peculiar expression. Sherlock looks back, damn near smiles, but John's eyes seem fixed on something behind Sherlock, something macabre that has already drained the blood from his face, and the light from his eyes.
Sherlock remains still, to afraid to turn and see. He knows, of course, there is nothing there.
They stare at eachother from opposite sides of the glass. Just looking, which is more than words can speak or touches can feel. Sherlock isn't sure how it ends, he doesn't remember. Maybe John leaves first, or Sherlock goes to bed. No, in his memory, they just remain there, looking at eachother forever.
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http://anarmydoctor.tumblr.com/post/8101845951/like-i-remember-you-has-been-updated
Your writing, your images, the beauty of the world you've created... is flawless.
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By which I mean I love it so very much!
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