A Pink Apron? - Part Three
Link to PART ONE here: http://kaseykcnew.livejournal.com/3003.html#cutid1
Link to PART TWO here: http://kaseykcnew.livejournal.com/3200.html#cutid1
Enjoy
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PART THREE
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(John’s POV)
I want him... oh dear God do I want him! And I’m getting closer and closer to amazing lips... that sprout out magic to wow fools and anger enemies... lips that are plush and red and bright against his pale and unmarred skin... lips that I really really want to kiss until they’re swollen and even brighter than they are now...
But... there’s a murderer around... he’s been trying to kill us for the last half-hour.... and we’re in a small tunnel trapped in each other’s arms and about to kiss... kiss.... oh I want to kiss him... I really do... but... it’s not safe here...
“Sherlock...” I’m panting from need, I really don’t want to have to say this I really don’t but, “We should get out of here...” oh God stop doing that Sherlock! Oh.... hands! Hands hands!
Okay... wanting to get to safety isn’t really a main priority anymore... nope... not one bit... Sherlock’s my priority... oh yes, definitely my priority... but he’s looking at me, he’s not kissing me... damn! Stupid bloody army-brain...
He seems to be fighting with himself as much as I am but I think he’s better at controlling himself than I am... in this respect at least because now I just want to take every bit of him I can reach...
“Alright John,” he says quietly, but his voice... oh God his voice... I can feel myself trembling and now I’m resolutely promising retribution for Sherlock’s voice... his voice Christ! How can his voice be so damn effective?
I want to say no, I want to tell him to keep going because I really don’t think I can wait, or stop now, but he’s Sherlock and now he’s made his mind up because he thinks I’ve made mine up... he thinks I’ve changed my mind... stupid bloody dense genius!
“It’s not...” I almost manage to say “it’s not you, it’s me because I’m a paranoid git” but I’m pretty sure the fact that Sherlock is lightly, at least I think it’s lightly, pushing me off of him is distracting me more than I’ll admit. He’s not looking at me anymore, and his hands aren’t on me now... he’s moving away. No!
No! No! No! Damnit! Stupid goddamn paranoia! Stupid idiot John! So bloody stupid! Beyond stupid! He thinks you’ve rejected him! I’m a Goddamn bloody fuc-
“I think it’s safe to leave now,” Sherlock kind of cuts off my internal berating of myself and I think I want to hit him for that; I need to berate myself because I’m such an idiot. I want to apologise, I want to clarify but he won’t look at me and I doubt he’ll listen to me now that I ‘rejected’ him...
God I want to shoot something.
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(Sherlock’s POV)
Well, this is different I must admit to you, the fact that I’m discussing this with you and not focusing entirely on those ever approaching lips is somewhat annoying; but slightly reassuring since at least I’m not talking to myself in a manner that much befits a psychologically-unstable being. Perhaps I could carry out an experiment on the general reactions of society by testing out people’s reactions to perceived insanity? It would certainly pass the time wouldn’t it now?
But back to the present, back to John, oh John... John Watson lying atop of me in a dimly lit and probably dirty tunnel after having been shot at and chased for the last half-hour... John Watson who has a light layer of perspiration veiling his face but I doubt it’s from running, just like I doubt my heavy breathing is from running around either... no I know indisputably what my heavy breathing is from; and its lying atop of me looking incredibly appealing. Insatiably so in fact.
My hand is still at the back of his neck, angling his head closer to mine and I can see the lust, the want and need in their gaze; oh that just makes me want him all the more. My eyes and mind are still analysing everything they see, my sense of smell is still breathing in his intoxicating scent which has for so long driven me almost insane, and my hands are tingling from prolonged contact with my own personal aphrodisiac...
I want to touch all of him, without the hindrance of these blasted clothes but even in my sexually-driven activity I know that it is a bad idea to shed clothing in such a dirty and unclean area; still doesn’t want me from wanting to strip him though I must admit. It would be so easy as well; the belt he’s wearing has one of those buckles that clips and means I can get it off him with one hand; the shirt he’s wearing is buttoned and that’s not at all a problem since buttons can always be sown back on; the jeans he’s got on are those lose-style ones that you sometimes see skateboarders wear meaning they’re only held on by the belt and we’ve already covered that haven’t we; the coat isn’t a problem since it’s already open and can slip from his shoulders easily; but I wonder if he’s wearing boxers?
He’s not a briefs man, I’ve already discovered that when I went through his things early on in his tenancy at Baker Street, but I do wonder if he always wears boxers; or does he go commando sometimes? Hmm... Oh that’s something I think I can spend a lot of time pondering...
One of my hands, the one that’s currently free to roam John’s body is currently doing just that. It runs along the length of John’s back lighter than a feather and I can feel him shaking from it; so much desire, so much hesitance, so much emotion from him and it’s so intoxicating to me. I feel like I’m giving into my drug-habit at long last except this drug breathes and has a scar on his left shoulder where he was shot.
“Sherlock,” I hear him pant and I run my hand along his back again, from the base of his neck all the way down; down to the base of his coccyx, and now he moans a low and needy groan. He’s panting and I’m sure that if my hand was lingering on his coccyx then he’d be glaring at me for being so evil... maybe he would want to get revenge for such an act? I hope so...
“We should get out of here...” he pants, his voice so low and deep, that for a moment I don’t actually comprehend what he’s actually said; his voice is far too distracting in itself. But I do realise what he’s just said and I analyse it; I analyse everything but my feelings, these bloody emotions of mine, cloud my conclusions. They’re bending my mind and making me assume and I don’t do that... but I am and I’m inclined to believe these tainted assumptions more than ever.
My hands still and I stop bringing his face closer to mine, even though there’s less than a centimetre between us both, and I feel his body calm slightly as his breathing comes under control; he’s regaining his reasoning and I’ve almost taken advantage of him. I shouldn’t have done this; I shouldn’t have assumed that he wanted me. Who would want me? I’m a freak. He’s not, he’s normal and he’s safe and he’s desirable; why would he want such an oddity as me?
I’m a freak and now I’m a molester of friends... maybe I should be shot... maybe he should shoot me... I think I deserve it...
“Alright John,” I manage to get out, it’s all I can get out because I’m so close to him and I don’t want to look at him in the eye, so I don’t; I look away and I begin to carefully and lightly push him to the side so I can stand and run and hide away from him; away from my shame. I’m a monster... I should be shot.
“It’s not-” he starts to say but I don’t want to hear him, I don’t want to listen to him now because he’s going to say “It’s not what I wanted... it was an accident I fell on you and you began to sexually-molest me you freak!” I’m sure he will. I don’t think I could handle hearing that from him, from my John... no! He’s his own, he’s not mine... he’s not a possession; he doesn’t want me and he doesn’t belong to me! I don’t belong to him either... but my heart’s breaking at that conclusion. I want to be his, I want to be owned, I want to belong to someone, I want to be loved... but I’m the freak... I’m the one who can tell you who you’ve shagged in the morning... I’m the one who tears people apart because I see right through them... I’m the monster that hides under the bed of children and nips at them when they dare leave the safety and confines of their bed that’s high up and safe... I’m worse than any serial killer... because my victims still have to live after I’ve broken them beyond repair.
I stand up, my legs feel weak but I ignore that and try to solidify them as best I can whilst my heart breaks. John’s still on the ground but he’s sitting up and he looks like he’s getting himself under control; I won’t be surprised if he hits me or worse when he’s completely calm. I wouldn’t hold it against him, no not at all.
I need to get my own control back quickly, before I give in and do everything to him that I think about all the time; but he’ll hate me, he’ll be afraid of me if I do so I need to stop these emotions from controlling me. I need to get my level-head back. I move away from him, even though I feel like I want to be closer to him, and I move over to the door; breathing heavily and hands shaking as I constantly tell myself, “control yourself, control yourself, control yourself, control yourself,” and after a long, long moment that seems to me to have been a millennia my hands stop their shaking and my breathing returns to normal; my emotions, my feelings are thrown back in that compartment in my mind which lies next to the box containing my childhood. I am me again, but the lock on that box of emotions isn’t as good as it was before I met John and little drips and drabs of feelings sneak out; but I can handle the drips and drabs better than the whole package.
“I think it’s safe to leave now,” I murmur as I poke my head out of the door and look to my left and see nothing so I turn to the right and spy nothing that would constitute as a threat; if you exclude one of those mutant rats that the council deny exist. A part of my mind briefly entertains the idea of capturing one and sending it to the home of the city’s Mayor; it would certainly put the point to him directly wouldn’t it now? But I’ve got a resentful man who I believe has just stood up, who is fuming mad and probably wants to hit me as well as shower, waiting for me to actually do something so I veto the rat-package plan and focus on the main focus of my current nosing about; the shooter is nowhere to be seen, which is quite a good thing since I think John would have no qualms about taking the gun off the shooter and probably shooting me.
I move through the door out into the main tunnel and began to head in the direction of the exit, not looking behind me since I can clearly hear John’s footsteps behind me; though his footfalls are almost silent which I put down to him having been in the army. I don’t hear anything else and I don’t see or sense anything that is of any immediate danger to either of us as we reach the service staircase which we used to come down here in the first place. I turn around and see John standing about two steps away from me; much closer than I thought he’d stand since I’m a freak and such but I dismiss the idea that there’s any hidden reason for the closeness, as I pull open the door, which I had to tug hard on since it seemed stuck for some reason, and allow John to go first.
He disappears into the small space and begins to ascend the staircase, quickly and efficiently, and I’m about to follow when my mind notices something that I should have noticed before; a scuff-mark by the door. I look at the other side of the open door and see the faint imprint of a foot and I realise that the reason the door was harder to open this time around was because someone wanted it to be harder to open.
John! He’s up on the staircase and he doesn’t know! No! He could be hurt because of my ignorance! No! No! JOHN! I quickly move into the small space and I’m about to shout out to him when something hits me hard on the back of my head; and does that hurt! I crumple and my mind goes blank and dark as I slip away from consciousness but the only think I can think as darkness takes hold is that at least John wasn’t the target this time. At least John’s safe since he’s still running up the stairs and he won’t be back down until he realises I’m not following; and by then I’ll be gone with whoever’s just given the hardest wallop of my life.
But at least John’s safe...
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(John’s POV)Sherlock’s avoiding looking at me, I would too if I’d just been rejected; actually I think I’d want to hit whoever rejected me. But Sherlock’s Sherlock and he won’t do that; he’ll go back to being his emotionally-reticent self and I’ll end up being guilt-ridden for days, and I mean days since I’m not going to dare going near him since I think he might just devise an experiment to blow me up.
He’s looking out of the door now and I avoid looking at him since he’s sort of partially twisted so half of his body’s out of the door and is bent down slightly; it makes for quite the look but I can’t look at him now, not when he thinks I’ve rejected him. He’d probably freak more than he already is; but I can’t be entirely sure of that since he’s so damn good at hiding what he’s feeling. Oh he’s moving now; out of the door get your head out the gutter!
I follow behind him quickly and quietly, the lack of heavy boots and army-training means I’m far quieter than your average person when it comes to walking; and it probably helps that my psychosomatic limp doesn’t exist at this present moment in time. Small mercies I suppose. He’s moving along the tunnel, quietly too but his steps are louder than mine though not by much, and I know he knows I’m behind him since he’s obviously listening for any sound out of the ordinary; and he’s grown accustomed to the sound of my light steps over the weeks. Still I feel bad and guilty and I don’t think trailing behind him like I’m stalking prey is all that reassuring for a recently rejected man; I don’t even know if he’s ever had a real relationship and I might have just been chucked in the pile of rejecters that have rejected him throughout his whole life. Oh man... I actually hate my brain and the fact that I’m over-thinking this right now you know? Of course you do, you know everything I’m thinking; stupid rhetorical question.
At long last we reach the service stairs and I notice that the door seems to be wedged; I move closer just encase Sherlock needs any help but he stops and looks back at me and I can tell that he’s wondering about the fact that I’m what, two steps away from him. He looks away too quickly for me to see what’s in his eyes and as he does I take a completely silent step back; I don’t want to upset him or hurt him anymore than I’ve already done by being the stupid pratt even Harry calls me.
I watch as Sherlock tugs the door open and I can just see in my mind’s eye the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing their strength as the door bends to the mighty power of Sherlock Holmes, and then I can see him slamming me against a wall and holding me there as he ravages me and- STOP IT JOHN! God damnit... I need to stop doing this... he thinks I’ve rejected him; he’s not going to let me near him now so just stop!
Sherlock opens the door fully and steps back so I can go through just as I stop my mind from joining you in the gutter, he’s letting me go first, why? Maybe he doesn’t want me behind him anymore? Maybe he’s nervous when he can’t see my every move? Maybe he’s afraid I’ll try something? Maybe... I don’t know but I’m not going to do anything to question him or worry him further, so I dart through the door and begin to ascend the staircase up to the surface of London City.
My footfalls are louder on these stairs since they’re metallic and I doubt even the quietist of soldiers could manage to get up these without making some sort of sound. I don’t stop as I run up the steps, I don’t stop and look back, I don’t wait a moment to make sure I can hear Sherlock on the stairs as well. I just run and I keep running all the way up to the top where the door is closed and that’s when I stop and turn around; fully expecting to see a still emotionally-reticent Sherlock behind me. But he’s not there. And it’s silent now that I’m not running on metallic steps.
I frown and walk to the edge of the staircase; looking down the centre of them right down to the base and I don’t see Sherlock. No sight, no sign, absolutely nothing. It’s like he’s vanished and now I panic.
“Sherlock?” I call out my voice catching slightly as I wait for a response that I know deep down won’t be coming. Oh God... Sherlock...
“SHERLOCK!”
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TBC.... (I'm writing PART FOUR now, don't worry)