The Paper of His Skin 5/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:30:36 UTC
Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of liquid pumping down his arms and legs. Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of a bird beating its wings wildly in the cage in his chest. Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He moves his thumb, brushes it against John's lips, and shudders when something shocks his system, when a feeling vibrates through him. That one he doesn't know; that one he can't place.
Everything becomes John's skin, soft and warm under his hand.
John twists under the blanket with a groan. His eyes open, and he blinks up at the figure.
“You,” he whispers.
The figure opens his mouth. He inhales, then exhales. He pushes sound out from his throat.
“Yes,” he says. Then he says, “John.”
“You. You're. Sher-Sherlock?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips against John's.
₪₪₪
The next time, John pulls Sherlock down. He wraps his arms around him, tight. He pulls off his boxers, kicks them down to the end of the bed, and then he's as exposed as Sherlock is. John shivers and pulls the blanket up, but it slips back down again. Then everything becomes overheated.
Everything is hot, and smooth. Sherlock's lips are soft and wet and his tongue is like velvet and his hands are like magic and it feels real. He feels real. He is real, John thinks.
Everything is hot skin. Everything is hot breath. Everything is hot.
John is on his back with Sherlock moving between his thighs. He has no idea how he got there.
Then everything is the soft inhale-exhale of Sherlock's breath against his neck that quickens when he finds his rhythm. It matches perfectly with John's heartbeat pounding up from his chest. Everything is the hot, liquid, rolling waves of Sherlock's hips. Everything is his teeth, sharp and cool against John's neck as his rhythm begins to break.
John gasps, his hands grasping, white-knuckled, at the headboard.
₪₪₪
John wakes up, alone.
The storm is gone. The sun shines in through his window. A bird sings outside, its song getting lost amongst the noise of traffic.
Sherlock watches him from his page, his skin paper-white, his hair charcoal-black.
John rubs sleep from his eyes. When he opens them again, the paper is blank.
₪₪₪
Harry phones him one night, in tears.
“It's Clara,” she sobs. “She left me.”
John takes a train and stays with her. He sleeps, curled up, on her sofa. It's cold and stiff and uncomfortable.
For the two nights that he's there, Harry is never once sober.
₪₪₪
Four weeks later, and Sherlock still hasn't returned.
John's hand shakes worse than ever. He tries to draw, but the only thing that comes out is scribbles. He tears the pages from his sketchbook, crinkles them in his fist and throw them onto the floor. Then he gathers them up.
Finally, he throws his sketchbook into the rubbish. The covers gape open to reveal empty, crisp-white pages staring back at him. He ties closed the binliner and drags it downstairs, out the back, and tosses it into the skip. He climbs back upstairs, shoves his canvases and his artist kit into the cupboard, behind the broom, behind packages of paper towels. Before he closes the door on them, shuts them out for good, he notices: all the canvases are blank.
₪₪₪
Eventually, he finds a therapist. She's around his age. Gentle, soft-spoken. She suggests that he only imagined himself drawing, that he imagined himself painting portraits, but that in reality, he never put his hand to the canvas. John doesn’t know. He doesn't really believe her.
“Post-traumatic stress,” she says. She suggests that he start a blog to keep track of things. John doesn't know what to think of that. He thinks he's boring. He doesn't want to read about how boring he is.
She suggests he find a flatmate.
That, however, John thinks, might be an okay idea.
He moves his thumb, brushes it against John's lips, and shudders when something shocks his system, when a feeling vibrates through him. That one he doesn't know; that one he can't place.
Everything becomes John's skin, soft and warm under his hand.
John twists under the blanket with a groan. His eyes open, and he blinks up at the figure.
“You,” he whispers.
The figure opens his mouth. He inhales, then exhales. He pushes sound out from his throat.
“Yes,” he says. Then he says, “John.”
“You. You're. Sher-Sherlock?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips against John's.
₪₪₪
The next time, John pulls Sherlock down. He wraps his arms around him, tight. He pulls off his boxers, kicks them down to the end of the bed, and then he's as exposed as Sherlock is. John shivers and pulls the blanket up, but it slips back down again. Then everything becomes overheated.
Everything is hot, and smooth. Sherlock's lips are soft and wet and his tongue is like velvet and his hands are like magic and it feels real. He feels real. He is real, John thinks.
Everything is hot skin. Everything is hot breath. Everything is hot.
John is on his back with Sherlock moving between his thighs. He has no idea how he got there.
Then everything is the soft inhale-exhale of Sherlock's breath against his neck that quickens when he finds his rhythm. It matches perfectly with John's heartbeat pounding up from his chest. Everything is the hot, liquid, rolling waves of Sherlock's hips. Everything is his teeth, sharp and cool against John's neck as his rhythm begins to break.
John gasps, his hands grasping, white-knuckled, at the headboard.
₪₪₪
John wakes up, alone.
The storm is gone. The sun shines in through his window. A bird sings outside, its song getting lost amongst the noise of traffic.
Sherlock watches him from his page, his skin paper-white, his hair charcoal-black.
John rubs sleep from his eyes. When he opens them again, the paper is blank.
₪₪₪
Harry phones him one night, in tears.
“It's Clara,” she sobs. “She left me.”
John takes a train and stays with her. He sleeps, curled up, on her sofa. It's cold and stiff and uncomfortable.
For the two nights that he's there, Harry is never once sober.
₪₪₪
Four weeks later, and Sherlock still hasn't returned.
John's hand shakes worse than ever. He tries to draw, but the only thing that comes out is scribbles. He tears the pages from his sketchbook, crinkles them in his fist and throw them onto the floor. Then he gathers them up.
Finally, he throws his sketchbook into the rubbish. The covers gape open to reveal empty, crisp-white pages staring back at him. He ties closed the binliner and drags it downstairs, out the back, and tosses it into the skip. He climbs back upstairs, shoves his canvases and his artist kit into the cupboard, behind the broom, behind packages of paper towels. Before he closes the door on them, shuts them out for good, he notices: all the canvases are blank.
₪₪₪
Eventually, he finds a therapist. She's around his age. Gentle, soft-spoken. She suggests that he only imagined himself drawing, that he imagined himself painting portraits, but that in reality, he never put his hand to the canvas. John doesn’t know. He doesn't really believe her.
“Post-traumatic stress,” she says. She suggests that he start a blog to keep track of things. John doesn't know what to think of that. He thinks he's boring. He doesn't want to read about how boring he is.
She suggests he find a flatmate.
That, however, John thinks, might be an okay idea.
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