apophenic dreams.

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It’s because of the nightmares, you tell yourself. There is no other reason why you’re here. It’s simply because of the nightmares.

If you keep repeating that to yourself, you think hysterically, you might even fool yourself into believing it.

There is only about three and a half feet of distance between the both of you, and yet it feels like a gaping chasm, one that you dare not cross. You know that once you take even a single step forward… he is as good as dead.

And yet here you are, returning to his side, as you have done every night, tempting fate to snatch him away from you.

You don’t deserve him, a voice in your head reminds you blithely.

I don’t care, you snarl back. I want him. I need him.

I lo—

“Sherlock,” the man on the bed cries softly.

It doesn’t get better each time you return. In fact, it only gets progressively worse, listening to him, watching him like this.

He dreams of you every night. Every single fucking night. And it rips your heart out each time he moans your name — a helpless sound of unspeakable grief and longing — for it reminds you all too clearly, like an unforgiving slap to the face, that you are the one who has done this to him.

You broke him. You created this hell inside his head.

You have become the source of his nightmares.

“Please,” his breath hitches. He is crying in his sleep.

And it is taking all of your willpower not to rise from your seat in the shadows of his room and wrap him in your arms and just never let him go.

“Please… there’s just one more thing…”

You feel your chest constrict, and you close your eyes as you fight to keep your breathing even. This… this is the worst part every night.

“One more miracle… for me…”

And you’re not sure which of you is hurting more: he, in uttering it in the unforgiving landscape of his dreams; or you, in hearing it in the muted shadows of this cruel, merciless world.

“Just stop it… stop this…”

And in a sharp, searing pang of bittersweet affection, you realize how the two of are bound to share everything equally.

Even this pain.

“Please… will you do this for me?”

And that is why for him… you can do anything. You will do everything.

You lean forward and touch your steepled fingers to your lips, partly out of habit, partly to remind yourself not to speak out loud (for that will be a capital, potentially fatal, and utterly stupid mistake)… and partly to concentrate.

You can’t speak. But you know that he can hear you.

He always can. He always does.

John, you think desperately as you watch him thrashing, fighting the stifling prison of his sheets. John, listen to me. I will do this miracle for you. I will stop this. I will do anything for you, anything you ask me to.

Your lips begin to tremble against your fingers.

But I can’t do that yet, you try to channel the despair of your soul into his heart. Not yet, when I can’t risk losing you. The rest of the world can burn for all I care.

But I can’t let him burn you. I can’t let Moriarty — damn his soul in hell — I can’t let him burn my heart out.

His wild thrashing begins to still. His eyebrows furrow, as if he is straining to listen closely.

And you, John… Your gaze softens tenderly. You have always been my heart. Always.

Someday… you will know that.

Slowly, miraculously, he seems to have heard. His breathing evens out, and his features visibly relax.

You swallow against the lump that has formed in your throat. Your vision blurs, and the corners of your eyes begin to sting.

I will always come back for you, dear heart.

Here, in the darkness, where no one can see you, you let the tears fall freely.

So please… wait for me. Be here. Be safe and happy and alive. Be here when I return.

Be here… to welcome me home.

You watch him intensely for a long while, willing him to listen to the words you can’t say. And then curiously, you see his left hand reach over and wrap his fingers around his right wrist, circling it like a bracelet.

Like a handcuff.

You press your palm firmly against your mouth to keep yourself from sobbing.

I hear you, he seems to gently answer with that tender, intimate gesture of a promise. We are bound to each other. Nothing and no one can ever separate us. So please, Sherlock… Come home.

Come back to me.

I’ll be here… waiting.

(Source: behindtintedglass)

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I’m scared,” Sherlock said abruptly, then fell silent. John hugged him more tightly and nestled his nose against the back of Sherlock’s ear.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“What if you die,” Sherlock said flatly, his question falling into a statement.

“Of course I will die,” John said, not exactly in a light tone, but with something other than sorrow in his voice.

“What if you leave,” Sherlock said, in the same flat tone. “If you leave, John—” his chest heaved abruptly, causing John to pull him even more deeply into his embrace.

…”I will never leave you,” John said, “and you know that this is a promise that I can make, with all of my heart, and at the same time, it is a promise that I cannot keep.”

…”I cannot keep the promise,” John said softly, “because that kind of thing is out of my hands. And –” he took a deep breath, not knowing how to finish what he had started. You must say this, he thought. You must tell Sherlock this, because for all his brilliance and all his knowledge, he does not know this very simple human truth. And that is why he searches for it so desperately, among the dead. He thinks he’ll find it there, but he’s wrong. Death is what gives meaning to life, but it isn’t in death that we find that meaning: it’s here, in these fleeting, gorgeous moments, in the suppositionless now, where we forge our lives. And life is always, always lived in the shadow of death.

“This is the price we pay,” John began again. “This is the price we pay, for living and for loving and for finding each other.”

“I don’t want this then,” Sherlock said, and his voice was wretched, so sad that John could barely stand to hear it. “I don’t want this. It hurts, John. Knowing I am going to lose you.” He sniffed against the wall, his body still shaking with the sobs.

“Yes, Sherlock. It hurts… It hurts, Sherlock. …It hurts, and yet…You still want this, you still want me.”

“Yes,” he blurted, “and that’s what is so painful. How can I want you so badly? How do people live with this kind of pain?”

John laughed, his face moving into a smile, reassuring Sherlock with the everydayness of his expression.

“You know what happens to the worst of us,” John reminded him. “Murder and mayhem and all the rest.” He took a deep breath, then looked down reverently at Sherlock’s penis. “But others—the majority of us—take what we can get. We love now, because we don’t know what will happen tomorrow. All we know is that it will be over, someday. And we want to love before it is all gone.”

—

excerpts from Pax americana by emmadelosnardos

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paperlings:

post-reichenbach; sherlock’s reappearance.

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‘I love you,’ John says, on impulse.

Sherlock doesn’t give any sign of having heard, save the corners of his mouth pinching a little tighter.

‘I said I fucking love you, Sherlock, are you listening to me?’

This time one side of Sherlock’s mouth twists up into an attempt at a half-smile, but he still doesn’t open his eyes.

‘I know you do,’ he says, gentle fingers toying with the hair at the back of John’s head. ‘Much more than I deserve.’

Now he opens his eyes, and meets John’s gaze. He doesn’t repeat the sentiment back but he doesn’t need to – John can see it in the way Sherlock looks at him.

‘No.’ John shakes his head vehemently. If anything, his trepidation has grown now that Sherlock is looking at him. ‘That’s not true, Sherlock. You deserve to be loved.’

‘Oh John.’ The hand at the back of his head holds him still as Sherlock strokes the backs of his fingers down John’s cheek. ‘What would I do without you?’

It’s unnerving enough to hear Sherlock admitting anything less than complete self-sufficiency, even without the betraying flicker at the back of his eyes. It flashes and is gone so quickly that it could have been merely a trick of the light, but it inspires John to say: ‘It doesn’t matter, since you’ll never have to find out.’

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but his eyes slide away from John.

John grabs Sherlock’s shoulder, shakes him a little. His stomach is in nervous knots for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, and he insists roughly, ‘You listen to me. I’ve killed for you. I would die for you. More than that, I would live for you. So don’t pretend that I’m going to get tired of you, or leave, or–’

‘What if I left you?’ Sherlock interrupts, and John doesn’t hesitate.

‘You wouldn’t. I know you, Sherlock Holmes, and you need me just as much as I need you.’

Sherlock’s eyes close again, his mouth twisting, and John continues, ‘And if anyone takes you or forces you away then I’ll come after you. Do you hear me? I swear to God, I will track you as far as it takes and I will fucking findyou and–’

Sherlock is silent, his breathing as shallow and fast as a frightened animal’s, and John’s throat dries up as a new and dreadful thought occurs to him of how Sherlock might leave him.

‘Don’t you dare,’ he hisses, furious but unable to bring himself to articulate his fear. ‘Don’t you fucking dare, you bastard. You can leave me and disappear if you have to, for a while or for always, and I can’t say I’ll understand but I’ll accept it. I’ll even help you, if you need it: I’ll lie for you, and cheat, and steal, to send you safely on your way. But don’t do that.’ He chokes as he speaks, his eyes stinging. ‘Don’t you dare go where I can’t follow you.’

‘John.’ Sherlock has opened his eyes and is looking at him, brow furrowed with concern. He reaches for John’s face, but John jerks his head away, refusing to allow the touch.

‘Promise me,’ he says fiercely. ‘Give me some fucking sign that you understand what I’m telling you.’

‘I do,’ Sherlock whispers. He cups John’s face in his hand, wiping a long thumb under first one eye, then the other. He seems to be on the verge of saying more and John holds his breath, waiting, but then Sherlock’s gaze flicks away and the moment passes. Perhaps if John had done something else: used more words, or fewer words, or just different words, then Sherlock would have–

‘My middle name,’ Sherlock says suddenly, ‘is Sigerson.’

John can’t help it: he laughs through his tight throat.

‘Why are you telling me this now, you lunatic?’

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tilt upwards, tentative but growing more certain, and he touches John’s face again gently. ‘I just thought it would make you smile.’

John rubs a hand over his face, draws a deep, shaking breath.

‘I’m not sure I believe that,’ he says, starting to return Sherlock’s smile.

‘True,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘John, come here.’

John allows Sherlock to pull him down to lie on his (rather bony) shoulder again, one hand catching hold of John’s to tangle their fingers together while the other cradles John’s skull possessively, fingertips ghosting through his hair.

After several minutes John shivers against Sherlock, partly from the cooling sweat on his body and partly in the aftermath of so much strong emotion, and Sherlock immediately eases John off his shoulder so that he can sit up and retrieve the blankets from the foot of the bed. He pulls them up, carefully tucking them round John in a gesture that John wouldn’t have believed him capable of just six months ago, and wraps his arms around John again, drawing him in to lie on his shoulder.

The rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest is steady and rhythmic, and John finds his own breathing slowing and aligning to it. He closes his eyes and concentrates on relaxing all the major muscles groups in his body, while Sherlock reaches down to take his hand again and gentle his fingertips along the grooves between John’s knuckles.

Half-asleep and fading fast, John’s mind is very calm, almost zen. When it comes down to it then things are actually very simple: anyone who wants to get to Sherlock will have to go through John first. Somehow, when John wasn’t looking, Sherlock crept in and now occupies a place in his heart that means that John would rather die than have to work out how to live without him.

There’s something almost freeing in the unshakeable certainty of it and it’s that which allows John to fall asleep, while Sherlock’s fingers tap out l-o-v-e in his hair.

—

excerpt from Messages Unspoken by kate lear

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John touches Sherlock’s lower lip with his fingertips, breathing hard. “How do you do that?

“What?”

“Incredible.”

“Which part?”

“Every part. Just when I think I’ve got you sorted. Every time. Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” John laughs, still kissing him though now his fingers are in the way slightly.

“Well. If you’d like.”

“God, yes, you’re so good, you’re—”

“I’m not, though. You’ve got us mixed.”

“I try to be good,” John says, letting his forehead touch Sherlock’s when the taller man ducks. “But I fail sometimes. I don’t mean to, but I’m human. I’m only human, Sherlock. We both try. You try, too.”

“It doesn’t look the same when I fail. Things explode.”

“Well. You’re a bit beyond human.” John tangles his fingers in the curls at his friend’s nape. ”So you have a different excuse altogether.”

“What are we to live on?” Sherlock demands, forcing his voice to remain even although it’s just now strenuously objecting. “How are we to live like this?”

“We’ll live on starlight and crime scenes,” John breathes. “Just as we’ve always done.”

That sounds right. Even though it doesn’t make a bit of sense. They will always live on starlight and crime scenes, Sherlock thinks, at the edge of the map, where other, saner people fear to tread. Something about the phrase strikes him as familiar, but not for any specific reason—it’s the way the five hundredth crime scene looks familiar, when the fifth was still foreign. He’s been here before, somehow. And John is speaking his language. How John learned it Sherlock doesn’t know, because he never taught it to him. John is like Babelfish, English to Sherlock, without ever having been programmed. It’s magical, what the doctor does, like being able to speak to jungle creatures, or communicate with the weather. Perhaps everything will be all right after all.

They have starlight and crime scenes, and they’ll not need anything else.

“Are you coming home, then?”

John huffs out a slightly crazed laugh. “I’ve forgiven you, so—supposing you agree to forgive me—yes. Will you?”

“I don’t care about forgiving you one way or the other. It’s completely irrelevant. I’m not even angry.”

“How in hell could you not be—no, no. What am I thinking? It’s not surprising. None of this is a bit surprising. Let’s go home.”

They start walking, fingers intertwined. Sherlock is still baffled by half of it, but John will doubtless explain everything later.

He only hopes that later lasts just as long as it possibly can.

They don’t go home.

John drags Sherlock into the first restaurant they pass, which happens to be Vietnamese, and forces pho into him. Then they walk along the edge of the river for a while. The sky is darkening above and the water ripples beyond and there are trees here, and poetry underfoot. The colours are present and vivid again. Things begin to feel better. The threads of what-might-have-beens, all the ways they already match each other and the ones they haven’t even imagined yet, are back in Sherlock’s mind, a hopelessly tangled skein running wide and deep and slow like the Thames. He didn’t burn them after all. What a fortunate circumstance.

“You can say you love me if you really want to,” Sherlock says a bit sheepishly. “I promise not to fuss about it.”

“I don’t have to,” John returns with an easy smile. “You love me, and you don’t want to hear it at the moment. And I think it just so happens to be my greatest joy and privilege to be with you. You lucky, lucky, bastard.”

—

excerpt from Part III of A Thousand Threads of What-Might-Have-Beens by wordstrings

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“You’ll always be beautiful, you daft bastard.” John isn’t breathing right either. “Beautiful like white tigers, and really expensive guns.”

“Beautiful like things you think will hurt you.” Sherlock nods in quiet despair. “I will again, probably. And you can’t take it, I see that now, and that’s—”

“No! It was never…oh, Christ. It was never about that. Not being able to take it.”

“Why else would you have left me?”

”Left you?” John exclaims. His lips dart forward, pushed together, as they do when he’s vexed about something. “Sherlock, I went to my sister’s. Without my bags or my clothes or. I never. God in heaven. Don’t tell me that you of all people didn’t know where I was, it’s impossible.”

“Of course I did, I had you tracked by the homeless network.”

“And I was easy to find, yes?”

“Childishly so.”

“Well, and what did you make of that?”

Sherlock gapes at him, because he’d not made anything of it.

“After I’d picked up the bare necessaries, I never set foot in a shop, either. You knew that? You were watching?”

“Of course I was.”

“And you didn’t make any deductions? Not a single inference?”

”What inference?”

“That I needed some air,” John murmurs, looking dazed. “A lot of air. A very great whopping deal of air. There isn’t enough sodding air on the planet for the amount I needed. I nearly derailed the entire ecosystem. But I…are you serious? You thought I was going to live out the remainder of my adult life with a knit jumper, a mobile, and three pairs of new-bought pants to my name? Are you ought of your—”

John cuts himself off, putting a hand over his thin mouth.

The entire world is reeling. Sherlock can’t understand why the other people in the Park aren’t staggering about, the ground is so uncertain.

“You left your keys!” he snaps. “You left without saying goodbye. You left me standing there. You left.”

John winces, hard. “God, I did. I know. I was punishing you, I think. Punishing myself too, for. I don’t know. Not being enough. Enough of a friend that you…enough to keep you here. But god knows how that drug was messing with your internal chemistry, and you did come back, and I should never have… I’m ashamed of myself, really.”

“Why? You know you can leave. I’ve told you.”

“No, not for leaving, not if I’d really been leaving because I knew I couldn’t take you anymore. That would have been fine. It isn’t as if you were being tactful, you’re never that, and you were being… Well. Unguarded, I suppose, worse than usual. Still. I never thought we couldn’t survive it. But I thought you’d come after me a hell of a lot sooner. Sherlock, I went to Harry’s.  Not—not Abu Dhabi, for fuck’s sake. At first I was too hurt and furious to think at all, but later I supposed you’d pop round by morning, demanding I follow you to some godforsaken bloodbath or other. I can’t believe you managed to resist, in all honesty, with me kipping on my drunk sister’s sofa, but then again. Christ. You shock me stupid six and seven times in the week. Why didn’t you burst through her door with a case and a cracked expression?”

“I could have. Morty Tregennis was murdered horribly. It was wonderful. But I don’t understand this.” Sherlock’s head is beginning to pound again.

“I almost lost you. I was half off my head already, Sherlock. Then you…you gutted me pretty thoroughly, and I s’pose I wanted to punish you. It was wrong of me, now I look at it, but that’s what it was.”

“Because I was being unguarded,” Sherlock says slowly. “But you’ve already seen the very worst of—you’ve already seen twenty-six on the chalkboard, for example, though there are perhaps others equally as bad now.”

Not Fine List

26. Carve a massive scar in John’s right shoulder to match the absolutely brilliant one on his left, so that the majority of his scarring belongs to me, and slowly, and he had better watch me do it.

“What?” John looks alarmed. “There are new ones?”

There are, of course, since the Incident of the Flu. They’re slightly out of order of importance these days, as twenty-seven is still John mercy-killing Sherlock, but he can’t be bothered to re-number everything perpetually, can he?

28. Arrange for John to ingest nothing whatsoever save what I feed to him, forever, so that the production of all his new cells might be entirely my doing.

29. Induce another serious fever, this one more prolonged, and thereby learn absolutely everything about John’s subconscious.

30. If only one of John’s kidneys failed, then I could—

“Stick to the point,” Sherlock snaps. “How was what happened any worse than—”

John throws his hands in the air. “Because you seemed to think it was all right to tell me you returned from the brink of death so as to pay me back a fiver for cab fare. As if you were in a snit over an accounting balance. It wasn’t nice.”

“A fiver?” Sherlock cries. “It was because of…of the hospital. You didn’t have to do that, to do something mad just because I’m mad, I never imagined a life where I even wanted such things from a person before I met you, let alone a life where anyone would dream of tolerating them, let alone coming up with new ones unasked. It was something I didn’t even know I wanted and you gave it to me just because you’re good, and it was a miracle, you’re a miracle. An electroencephalogram? You did that because I’m insane, it was tailored for me, and you…you understand. So yes, I wanted to give you something like that. Something…it was an act of charity, John. I wanted to return it in kind.”

This ought to be working, but John is turning green.

“What have I done now?” Sherlock demands.

“I am an idiot,” John whispers. “Officially. But for the record, you giving me a spectacular orgasm does not fall under the category ‘selfless favours John has done Sherlock,’ or ‘John’s acts of pure altruism,’ you barking mad git.”

“I can’t talk anymore, talking isn’t any good when I’m not,” Sherlock says miserably, fear seeping like acid through the soles of his shoes. “I knew it wouldn’t be. If you come home, we don’t even have to—I could try to let you alone, John. It’s a nice flat. Yousaid it was very nice indeed. The rent is low. I just need to hear you walking over the kitchen floor occasionally, that would be enough. You don’t have to blog about me, or help me, or sleep with me, or make two cups when you make tea. Just don’t leave me. I’ll be very quiet if you like, even when I’m doing experiments. You’d never have to touch me again, or kiss me, just be there. Will that make you come home?”

“No, it fucking well will not make me come home,” John gasps, reaching out with two hands and dragging Sherlock’s mouth down to his.

—

excerpt from Part III of A Thousand Threads of What-Might-Have-Beens by wordstrings