apophenic dreams.

Permalink

behindtintedglass:

I never wanted the throne. I only ever wanted to be your equal.
Loki - Thor.

Arthur staggers backward as his vision whites out and the sheer force of the images—prophecies, his mind whispers—renders him breathless. His knees buckle and he leans against the stone wall of the cave as he wills his limbs to stop trembling. It takes him a while to realize that he is still tightly clutching the crystal in his hand. Merlin’s voice, quiet, resigned, and inexplicably sorrowful, is still echoing inside his head.
I only wanted to be your equal.
“What,” he gasps. ”Is this supposed to tell me?”
Beside him, the old man—the sorcerer—watches him with eyes that seem to pierce through his armor, under his skin, inside the marrow of his bones. “The truth,” the sorcerer quietly answers.
“That can’t be the truth!” Arthur lashes out. He throws the crystal onto the ground, where it shatters into a thousand shining pieces.
Merlin’s tears are glistening in each one of them.
Arthur curses as he rapidly shakes his head, trying and failing to rid himself of the images torturing him behind his eyes.
“And why not?” the sorcerer queries calmly. ”Are you blind to the truth that is laid bare before you, Prince of Camelot?”
I never wanted the throne. I only wanted…
“That can’t be the truth.” Arthur finally looks up and meets the sorcerer’s fathomless gaze. Oddly enough, it is the sight of those mysterious eyes that finally eases his erratically beating heart. ”Because I already know that.”
The sorcerer cocks his head to one side, pondering. ”Oh? What do you know?”
Arthur thinks back to the visions revealed to him here: The Crystal Cave, the sorcerer had said, where he is to see everything that will be. He remembers the heavy crown resting on his head, remembers rising from the throne that is now his… and remembers looking down at Merlin, who is still wearing his ragged servant’s clothes, bowing to him, pleading, shaking.
He doesn’t understand the disappointment in Merlin’s eyes. He can’t bear it. He can’t accept it.
“I already know,” Arthur says quietly. ”That he never sought the throne. He… That’s…” He takes a deep breath. ”That’s what he wanted for me. But that’s not what he wanted for himself.”
The sorcerer narrows his eyes. ”And what does this… Merlin want?”
“A place to belong.” The sorcerer’s eyes widen at the certainty in Arthur’s voice. ”Home.”
Something in the air changes. They can feel it thrumming in the walls, sizzling against their skin.
“And you think…” The sorcerer’s brows furrow curiously. ”That this home he seeks… is by your side?”
Clutching the steady weight of Excalibur by his side, Arthur strides away from the sorcerer and towards the mouth of the cave.
“You are presumptuous, young prince.” The old man’s raspy voice, amplified by the echoes within the cave, stops him in his tracks. ”Why do you claim to know what this Merlin desires above everything?”
A smile tugs at Arthur’s lips. ”Because he told me so.”
A heavy pause. Then: “What did he tell you?”
Arthur raises his hand to gaze at the sword he holds, the sword that Merlin has kept safe for him. For years.
“He told me once, a long time ago, that the reason he left Ealdor was because he wanted to find a place where he could fit in. I asked him if he already found it, and the idiot said he wasn’t sure.”
The light of the crystals bounce off Excalibur’s blade. In it, he can see the reflection of sorcerer behind him as the old man’s eyes widen in surprise.
He drops his hand, looks over his shoulder, and grins at the old man.
“Seeing how incompetent he is, if he can’t find that place where he fits, I’ll just have to create that place for him.”
And with a final flourish of his sword, sliding it back in the scabbard, Arthur smiles at the sorcerer and steps outside the cave where the Knights are waiting.
At the Prince’s words, the crystals in the cave stop glowing for a moment. Intrigued, the sorcerer crouches down and picks one up. The crystal comes alive at his touch, but this time, the light is different.
“The Once and Future King finally seals the fate of Albion.” The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle into an amused smile. “The prat did a much better job at changing the future than I did.”
And with that, The Last Dragonlord disappears back to his own time. Back to his King.
And his place beside the throne.

Permalink

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)

Permalink

“Are you my fan, John?”

behindtintedglass:

He blinks at the non sequitur. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock is lounging lazily at their sofa, his blue dressing gown falling open on one side to reveal long, pale fingers clasped daintily by his chest. His eyes are closed, however, and John wonders briefly if Sherlock is merely talking in his sleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time; god knows the man is physically incapable of shutting up.

“He told me Moriarty was my fan.”

At this, John puts down the newspaper he’s reading and leans forward, intrigued and just a little bit anxious. ”Who?”

“Jefferson Hope.”

“The cab driver?”

“The one you killed, yes.”

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Surely Sherlock can do better than that if he hopes to throw him off. John has killed a number of men in his lifetime — and the exact total is not something he wants to find out, let alone think about — and he has slept all the more peacefully because of it. Especially now, knowing that the world will bear witness to the machinations of the brilliant mind of a painfully beautiful man for a little while longer.

“Are you my fan, John?” Sherlock repeats, when no answer seems forthcoming from John; this time, John can detect the slightest tremor in his voice. John’s eyebrows furrow in concern. What is that he’s hearing? Is it fear? Surely not.

What does he have to fear from me?

“Sherlock… are you equating me with Moriarty?”

At this, Sherlock snaps his eyes open and glares with a look in his eyes that all too clearly says: Surely you can’t be that much of an idiot, so stop being so intentionally dense. John purses his lips in annoyance but keeps silent and holds Sherlock’s gaze. He isn’t entirely sure why, but he’s certain that what Sherlock is about to tell him is important. Probably more important than anything he has ever said before. So John looks at him and waits.

Whatever Sherlock has been searching in John’s eyes, he must have found it, for a few heartbeats later something softens in Sherlock’s gaze. ”I had wondered,” says Sherlock quietly. ”What kind of man would sponsor a killer.”

“Moriarty,” says John definitively. Sherlock has never talked about it before, but he has absolutely no doubt as to whom Sherlock is referring to. A serial killer’s sponsor. Christ. The man’s a bloody genius. And he’s as sick as fuck.

“And then,” says Sherlock softly, and it is here that John’s breath catches in his throat when Sherlock gently averts his gaze: “He wondered what kind of man would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s eyes widen.

That… was amazing!

Quite extraordinary!

That’s brilliant!

Fantastic!

John swallows; his throat feels tight. Oh Sherlock.

A long moment of silence passes between them. John grinds the heel of his palm against his eyes and takes a deep breath. Nothing he ever says again will be as important as what he will say next.

“He’s a fan of your brain, Sherlock. But he’s not a fan of your heart.”

Sherlock blinks at him, clearly not expecting that reply, and John can’t help but relish this rare moment of not only surprising the great detective, but also confusing him. ”The cabbie?”

“No,” says John softly. ”Moriarty.”

Sherlock stares at him. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and in that suspended moment, John knows the words that almost came out, the automatic response:

I’ve been rightly informed that I don’t have a heart.

John steadily holds his gaze and smiles a little sadly. We both know that’s not quite true.

There’s a flash of something unguarded in his Sherlock’s eyes, something vulnerable, something akin to what John had seen when Sebastian so callously declared: We hated him. Sherlock is quick to catch himself, however, and he clears his throat. ”And you, John?” he asks again. ”Are you a fan of both?”

This time, however, he does not bother to hide the fear from his voice.

No, thinks John in terrified awe as the certainty hits him like a punch to the gut. He is not afraid of me.

Sherlock Holmes is afraid for me.

“Moriarty,” begins John, before he hesitates, marshals himself, and soldiers on. ”Moriarty will never burn your heart out. Not when I will do my damnest to keep it safe.”

It is not quite the answer to the question Sherlock is asking. It is the answer to the question Sherlock won’t dare ask.

You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson, John thinks ruefully.

Sherlock looks at him, and his cold, hard eyes melts into something grateful, tender, open… worshipful. ”Take care of yourself, then.”

Will caring about them help save them?

Yes, thinks John fiercely.

“I will,” says John, and he smiles. ”I will.”

Permalink

behindtintedglass:

behindtintedglass:

I will play you, Sherlock Holmes. I will play you, and you will cry out for me, you will sing for me, and together we will make the sweetest, most decadent music together, the notes and scales and arpeggios of your dark, disturbed heart, until I have wrung out all the pieces and measures and your heart is no more, no more, no more, and there is nothing left but you and me in the silence. And I am all that you will know. And I am all you will ever need.
Surrender to me, Sherlock Holmes. And I will play you.

There is a part of me that is fighting, struggling, clawing to get out, a part of me that’s flashing all the warning signs that this is all wrong, wrong, wrong.
I want to scream. I feel so open, exposed, violated… and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
A part of me is repulsed. Disgusted. Ashamed.
Afraid.
And yet…
A part of me… wants to know the answer. It is the unknown that seduces me the most after all.
And I don’t know what I will sound like… if he will play me.
Will the sounds that will burst out of my throat as he will slowly stroke me and tenderly saw through my skin be dissonant chords that pierce through the unified music of the orchestra of this mad, mundane world…
Or will the sounds, in fact, form an operatic masterpiece this ignorant world has yet to hear? Will there be, in fact, a standing ovation at the end, the applause and the spotlight we both crave so desperately?
I wait as he positions the bow. I want to scream. Everything is so quiet. So still. So lifeless.
Even inside my own mind.
For once… the monsters inside my mind are… silent.
It feels so very dangerous to be this vulnerable.
I have… never felt more alive.

Permalink

timetravellingfruitcake:

For behindtintedglass, whose hobby is destroying Sherlockian hearts. :(

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.

The infinitely lovely and infinitely talented Isa (timetravellingfruitcake) has done this infinitely beautiful art for my humble ficlet. She’s one of the loveliest person I know in real life, and I am wordlessly and deeply and completely touched and honored that she would do this for me. She’s also one of the most talented people I know, as you can see, and she’s one of the most amazing people to follow on Tumblr. Go on, you won’t be disappointed. ;)
This is also, incidentally, the second fanart that this ficlet has inspired. The first one is made by the also infinitely talented khorazir, and it’s posted here. :)
Thank you to both of these incredible artists for gracing my humble writing with their beautiful and evocative artistry. :)
And I would also like to give a shout out to the love of my life, Yana, who has always been my inspiration in everything I do. I have written this for her, first and foremost, through text messages that I have sent while waiting for sleep to claim me late one evening. And so the credit, and the inspiration, goes to her too. :)
—
Reposting the ficlet here:
—
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 you 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.

Permalink

khorazir:

The finished version of my drawing for this lovely ficlet by behindtintedglass. For those interested in seeing the stages of the drawing’s development, they’re here.
Happy John and Sherlock-Day everyone!

I am stunned, speechless, infinitely honored and incoherently flailing at this beautiful piece of art that the infinitely talented khorazir has drawn for my ficlet. I am pleasantly surprised that my humble piece of writing has got khorazir’s attention in the first place, for I certainly didn’t ask for it, but I am much more honored because of it. I actually only discovered this by accident, and I am very glad that I did. And khorazir has wordlessly been able to capture all the nuances and emotions I had been trying to capture in my story, from the calm that has washed over John’s face, to the mingled sorrow and relief in Sherlock’s eyes.
Thank you, khorazir. You are truly one of the greatest and most talented and most evocative artists out there that I truly admire. Thank you. Thank you, truly. It’s such an honor to have been graced with your artistry.
And I would also like to give a shout out to the love of my life, Yana, who has always been my inspiration in everything I do. I have written this for her, first and foremost, through text messages that I have sent while waiting for sleep to claim me late one evening. And so the credit, and the inspiration, goes to her too. :)
—
Reposting the ficlet here:
—
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 you 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.

Permalink

On The Side Of The Angels

a Sherlock fanfiction

(slight AU; semi-crossover with Supernatural)

—

“I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you. I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.“

—

“John,” Sherlock whispers. ”What are you doing here?”

He watches in mingled fascination and horror and hunger and fear as the diminutive army doctor steps forward, the fires licking tempestuously at his clothes.

“I told you,” John answers softly with a smile on his lips and steel in his voice. ”There’s nowhere you can go that I can’t follow you.”

If demons had a heart, Sherlock’s would’ve surged and swelled and broke at that very moment.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sherlock says desperately. ”You’re—”

“On the side of the angels?”

Sherlock’s head swivels towards the smooth, cold, reptilian voice that hisses from the shadows. John follows his gaze, and his eyes widen in disbelief.

“No,” he whispers. ”No it can’t be…”

Moriarty emerges from the shadows and smiles at them sweetly. ”Welcome to Hell, Johnny-boy!” He exclaims cheerily as he spreads his arms. ”How are you liking it so far? I can give you a tour…”

And he drops his arms as his voice darkens and the whites of his eyes turn coal-black.

“… But it won’t be free.”

“Don’t touch him.”

Moriarty’s laugh echoes throughout the chamber as Sherlock steps in front of John, black feathers ruffling as he spreads his wings out like a shield to protect his friend. His only friend.

Who has now followed him into Hell.

“You’re not in a position to tell me what to do, Sherlock.” Moriarty slowly steps into Sherlock’s personal space and reaches out to caress the other man’s cheek with the back of his hand. ”My dear,” he murmurs.

John’s hands curl into tight fists to quell the sudden burning rage that bubbles inside him, to stop the overwhelming urge to rip out Moriarty’s fingers.

One. By. One.

Demons can feel pain too, right? John thinks in inappropriately gleeful savagery.

“Why yes, John, yes we can.”

John stares back in horror as Moriarty’s black eyes are now trained on him, his gaze shamelessly devouring him hungrily.

“Killer instincts. You have them, Johnny-Boy, oh you have them,” Moriarty murmurs happily. ”Cold, hard, unrepentant killer instincts. And you’re capable too, my little soldier. Not as capable as my Moran, but…” He smiles widely at John. ”Why suppress it? Why not… let it take over you? Let it all out?”

And John steps back instinctively as Moriarty’s eyes and voice transform into something else entirely. Something that makes him believe in the monsters hiding underneath his and Harry’s beds when they were children.

And then suddenly, Moriarty is there, in a blink of an eye, his lips hotly caressing John’s ear.

“I can have so much fun with you.”

The next thing John sees is Moriarty slumped against the wall on the other side of the chamber… and black wings curled protectively around him.

John swallows as he struggles to find his voice. ”Sherlock…”

Strong arms loosen their hold on him as Sherlock steps back, and John stifles a gasp as Sherlock opens his eyes.

His coal-black eyes.

John feels a shiver run through him. And he wonders what it says about him when he knows it isn’t a shiver of fear.

If anything, he is… inexplicably thrilled.

Is it possible for demons to be that beautiful? John thinks in breathless awe.

Sherlock blinks at him… and smiles.

And the next thing John feels is a possessive hand grabbing his hair and a hot, wet tongue invading his mouth, and before his human mind can even process what’s happening, Sherlock pulls back and presses his forehead against him and breathes against his lips:

“Moriarty can’t have what is mine.”

Behind them, Moriarty laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

“Now that is precious, Sherlock, so precious, my darling, I can’t take it!”

The demon and human locked in a forbidden embrace turn to look at the other demon walking towards them. His hands brush the dirt off his Westwood suit as he quips, “You seem to have forgotten, Sherlock.”

He catches Sherlock’s eye, and he grins.

“You and I, honey… we are one.”

“What is he talking about, Sherlock?” John hisses at the demon currently cradling his head against his chest. Dimly John registers the frantic beating of his own heart, while Sherlock…

Sherlock doesn’t have one.

“Do you feel that, Sherlock?” Moriarty teases as he slowly circles around the demon tightening his hold on the precious human being in his arms. ”That want, that desire, that overwhelming urge to just take and use and possess The Good Doctor?”

Black wings wrap themselves around said doctor as Moriarty laughs again. ”Oh Sherlock, honey, I understand. I feel it too, of course I do. We’re one and the same, remember?”

He grins maniacally as Sherlock narrows his eyes. ”Of course, there’s a big difference between you and me,” Moriarty murmurs as he suddenly stops and turns to face them. ”Unlike you, I’m not that selfish.”

He smiles beatifically. “I don’t intend to keep Dr. Watson only to myself.”

Then he raises his head and calls out, “Seb, darling, will you do the honors for me?”

And Sherlock can only stare in horror at the black sword that pierces through John Watson’s heart, as Sebastian Moran grins triumphantly behind the wide-eyed doctor.

“My pleasure, Boss,” Moran purrs as he wrenches the sword out. The blood dripping from the dark blade touches the floor as John falls to his knees.

The ground glows. The walls shake. And somewhere in the distance, there is the sound of chains breaking and a cry of triumph.

The first seal is broken.

And from above, Alistair glides forward weightlessly as he settles into the ground, his ethereal black robes billowing behind him.

“Well done, my boys,” he murmurs. ”Well done.”

Moran frowns as he flicks the blood off his sword and sheathes it through the scabbard on his belt. ”Really Boss? You were comparing me to this pathetic piece of shit?” Disgusted, he kicks the writhing human on the ground.

Moriarty claps his hands delightedly. ”But he had such wonderful killer instincts darling, you should have felt it! Oh it was delicious.” He sighs. ”Too bad he felt the need to suppress it, to control it. How utterly boring.”

Alistair chuckles as he lays a hand each on Moriarty’s and Sherlock’s shoulders. ”I knew I could count on you boys. Especially you, Sherlock.” His coal-black eyes crinkle into a merciless smile. ”I knew you wouldn’t fail to deliver Dr. John Watson to me.”

But Sherlock isn’t listening. He stands there, numb and horrified, as he watches the blood pooling and spreading from beneath John Watson’s crumpled body. And yet the consulting detective in him still can’t help but observe, catalog, deduce. For even as John Watson’s crimson blood seeps through the ground, he sees it… transform. It begins to turn silver. And it begins to glow.

And somewhere in the distance, the triumphant cry turns into an anguished howl of pain.

Alistair narrows his eyes. ”Lucifer?”

“Sherlock’s right, you know.”

All the demons turn to face the small human being struggling to stand up. Sherlock’s eyes widen as John smiles at him.

“Do you remember the first time we met? You got everything right… except for the fact that Harry’s my sister, not my brother.”

“John…” Sherlock watches in awe as the army doctor stands on trembling knees, his blood pouring through the hand that is clutching at his chest.

The crimson blood that is beginning to glow silver.

The anguished cry in the distance is growing louder, more desperate.

“I’m not only on the side of the angels.”

John holds out his hand, and a bright, golden, magnificent sword suddenly materializes. He grips it firmly.

“I used to be one of them.”

Alistair takes a step back and shakes his head slowly. ”No… no it’s impossible!”

John steps forward, his legs suddenly steady, his blue eyes as hard as ice. ”You’re right about my killer instincts, Jim,” he says quietly. ”That’s why they kicked me off Heaven. I was too ruthless.”

“Were you?” Moriarty breathes.

John smiles. ”But that’s fine. Perfect, actually. Because if there’s one thing I like about being human…”

He curls his fingers, and the sword glows once, brightly, before it twists in on itself and transforms into a shiny golden revolver. A golden British Army Browning L9A1.

“We like to modernize things.”

And with a crackshot’s perfect aim, he shoots Alistair straight in the head, between his horrified devil’s eyes.

—

Based on Yana’s prompt:

One of the scenes that I can’t forget on Supernatural is that scene between Dean and Alistair, the demon who’s responsible for torturing souls in Hell. There are 66 seals that are holding Lucifer’s cage in Hell. What he said was something like…

The first seal shall break when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so too shall it break.

—

Thank you, my love. It’s because of you that I’m writing again. This is for you.

(Source: behindtintedglass)

Permalink

You truly want to know what I want? I want you so completely inside of me that I don’t know where you begin and I end. And, no, John, this isn’t another one of those metaphors I used earlier. I want you to be part of me. I want your breath to be my breath. I want your heartbeats to come from my heart. I want your thoughts to come from my mouth. I want to taste the food you eat on my tongue.

I want to know everything you know. I want to crawl inside your brain and study every nook and cranny of your mind and know every neuron. I want to understand why the hell you enjoy those James Bond films, and why you love your sister after everything she’s put you through, and why you still insist on wearing those ridiculous jumpers.

I want to know what color your eyes are in the morning, and the evening, and the night. I want you to be here when I wake up, and I want to make you horrible cups of tea, and I want to know your heart rate when you’re sleeping and when you’re running and when you’re laughing and when you’re terrified.

I want to grow up with you in your mind, I want to be part of every memory you’ve ever had, and I want every memory you ever will have to be of me, of us, together. I want to pull the nightmares out of your head and burn them into nothing but ashes.

I want to burn alive anyone who would ever touch you, who would even think of laying a hand on you, because we’re inseparable, John. If anyone touches you at all, they are wounding me. And when you bleed, I bleed too.

I want to watch every wrinkle form in your skin as we get old and catalogue them all. I want to know exactly how many grey hairs you have on your head, and when they come in. And I want to know the sound you make when you take your last breath so that I know how I will sound when I die the next minute. I want to make you immortal, John. I want to put you in suspended animation so that every single golden piece of you stays perfect and good and flawless forever.

I want to keep you, John. I want to go where you go, and eat what you eat and dream what you dream and I never want to be alone ever again.

Permalink

Live for me, Sherlock. Live for me, as I will always live for you. Don’t ever think that your life is something you have to sacrifice, not when your life is too precious to be thrown away. Not because you’re brilliant and one of a kind, not because you’re the only consulting detective in this world, although it’s partly that. Not because the criminal classes will run rampant and London will be boring without you, although it’s partly that as well. But most of all, don’t ever throw your life away because you matter to the people who care for you. And you matter to me.

Let me save you, as you have saved me.

Let me stay by your side. And don’t go where I can’t follow you. Because I haven’t saved you yet, Sherlock. Because you still haven’t let me.

And when I will have finally convinced you of the truth of my words, of everything I’m telling you right now…that’s when I’ll know I have saved you. That’s when I’ll truly, finally, become the hero in your story.

Because I will have made you believe.

Let me prove to you that heroes exist.

And that heroes, like you, are worth living for.

Permalink

“HEART ON A SHELF” - a Sherlock/John fanfiction

behindtintedglass:

by afrogeekgoddess & behindtintedglass

“After the night at the pool, Sherlock struggles between his need for John and his desire to keep John safe. And when Sherlock decides to protect John’s heart from his own, John convinces him that their hearts are safer together than they are apart.”

Published at: AO3 (afrogeekgoddess) || FF.Net (behindtintedglass)

—

Those who have been following Sarah (afrogeekgoddess) and I will recognize this as the story which evolved from our dialogue as Sherlock and John, inspired by this photoset by benedictcumberbatchseyebrows and its ensuing commentaries.

The title references a lyric from Stevie Wonder’s “You’ve Got it Bad Girl,” with both the meaning and the image jumping out at us:

“If you try to display an emotion
That will contradict itself
You will find your heart just sitting
Like a statue on a shelf”

We wrote this piece together as a literal dialogue between two people — as a literal meeting of minds (and hearts). In some places it’s raw and abrupt and disjointed… but at the same time, I believe that’s also what makes it so painfully real. And we both hope that it will be as beautiful and heartrending for you as it has been for us. We will be infinitely pleased, honored, and grateful.

Permalink

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 you 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)