turned up coat collar

musings of 'bachelor' john watson, sitting alone in baker street.

Mar 5

Anonymous said: hello. are you ever going to continue this? just asking... :)

this is a fair question, nonny. which is why i’m publishing it along with the answer.

and that answer is: I fucking hope so.

i’m as frustrated as you that this god damned story doesn’t want to end. part of it is that sherlock’s voice has taken over my brain a bit so writing john pov is harder than it used to be, but i’m hoping my muse will start cooperating and i’ll be able to do so in the next few months. 

i very much appreciate all of you followers for enjoying what i’ve done so far and sticking around to see it to the end.

when i find one, i promise i’ll post it.

so much love,

rvf


Jan 27

At some point he’d rolled over to face me, and pushed his forehead and knees up against my side. His mouth was still moving as if saying something over and over but I could never quite catch what it was. Then he started to get fidgety, his arms and legs moving around into a different position every minute. At one point his hand slid around my thigh and pulled my leg closer to him, as he pressed his face against my hip. I buried the fingers of my left hand in his curls and tried to calm him with stroking his head. It didn’t help him, but I felt calmer. 
Until, of course, he bucked against me and shouted just as I’d lifted my mug to my lips, causing me to spill hot tea all down my front. He jumped up at my yelp and grabbed me by the throat, staring blindly into my face and yelling about refraction dragons. I scrabbled at his fingers blocking my windpipe as he slowly dragged his consciousness from wherever sleep had trapped it. When he finally blinked and saw what his hands were doing to me he dropped them like I was on fire. I gasped a breath and touched my throat to test for bruising. He wiped a hand across his eyes, then down his nose and mouth. 
“What happened…?” He shook his head, hard. I put a hand on his shoulder and he rested his forehead against my chest. 
“I don’t know. I left you ages ago. What happened to you?”
His shoulders tensed. “What did you see last?”
“I was there with you up until the moment I came inside you.” I couldn’t help wincing as I said it, the heat of shame rolling up my neck to explode on my cheeks.
He brushed his lips back and forth over my collarbone, then kissed the side of my neck. “Ah. That explains it.”
“What, Sherlock? Explains what?”
I cupped his chin in my hand and tilted his face up so I could look into his eyes. There was a shadow there I couldn’t name. 
“Why the nightmare came back. Why you were so bloody unhelpful and then disappeared. Why I felt so at sea.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. And I couldn’t bring you out of it, though I tried.”
He looked down. “It’s all right, I’m not angry with you….why are you wet?”
“Spilt my tea when you woke.”
“Ah. Any left?”
“You’re joking.”
“Normality would be welcome right now. I was almost raped by a dragon.”
“Oh my God…” I covered my face with my hands, then wiped them downwards, dragging my cheeks and the corners of my mouth as they went.
“What?”
“Tea first. Stay right there.”
I got out of bed and padded to the kitchen. He followed me, of course, watching my hands and face, wanting to ask, knowing I wasn’t ready to answer. It was easier to talk with my back to him, fiddling with the tea things.
“I woke to find my cock between your thighs.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. What, that’s not enough of a violation?”
“You were balls deep in my arse in the dream. Which is what I’d asked of you.”
“Yes but you hadn’t consented to what was happening in real life —”
“Waking life. Which is no more real than dream life.”
“Yes it is! Much more real.”
He paused and looked at me for a minute. “John, I don’t know if this is true for you, but my subconscious and conscious minds are in accord when it comes to you.”
Jesus.


At some point he’d rolled over to face me, and pushed his forehead and knees up against my side. His mouth was still moving as if saying something over and over but I could never quite catch what it was. Then he started to get fidgety, his arms and legs moving around into a different position every minute. At one point his hand slid around my thigh and pulled my leg closer to him, as he pressed his face against my hip. I buried the fingers of my left hand in his curls and tried to calm him with stroking his head. It didn’t help him, but I felt calmer.

Until, of course, he bucked against me and shouted just as I’d lifted my mug to my lips, causing me to spill hot tea all down my front. He jumped up at my yelp and grabbed me by the throat, staring blindly into my face and yelling about refraction dragons. I scrabbled at his fingers blocking my windpipe as he slowly dragged his consciousness from wherever sleep had trapped it. When he finally blinked and saw what his hands were doing to me he dropped them like I was on fire. I gasped a breath and touched my throat to test for bruising. He wiped a hand across his eyes, then down his nose and mouth.

“What happened…?” He shook his head, hard. I put a hand on his shoulder and he rested his forehead against my chest.

“I don’t know. I left you ages ago. What happened to you?”

His shoulders tensed. “What did you see last?”

“I was there with you up until the moment I came inside you.” I couldn’t help wincing as I said it, the heat of shame rolling up my neck to explode on my cheeks.

He brushed his lips back and forth over my collarbone, then kissed the side of my neck. “Ah. That explains it.”

“What, Sherlock? Explains what?”

I cupped his chin in my hand and tilted his face up so I could look into his eyes. There was a shadow there I couldn’t name.

“Why the nightmare came back. Why you were so bloody unhelpful and then disappeared. Why I felt so at sea.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. And I couldn’t bring you out of it, though I tried.”

He looked down. “It’s all right, I’m not angry with you….why are you wet?”

“Spilt my tea when you woke.”

“Ah. Any left?”

“You’re joking.”

“Normality would be welcome right now. I was almost raped by a dragon.”

“Oh my God…” I covered my face with my hands, then wiped them downwards, dragging my cheeks and the corners of my mouth as they went.

“What?”

“Tea first. Stay right there.”

I got out of bed and padded to the kitchen. He followed me, of course, watching my hands and face, wanting to ask, knowing I wasn’t ready to answer. It was easier to talk with my back to him, fiddling with the tea things.

“I woke to find my cock between your thighs.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. What, that’s not enough of a violation?”

“You were balls deep in my arse in the dream. Which is what I’d asked of you.”

“Yes but you hadn’t consented to what was happening in real life —”

Waking life. Which is no more real than dream life.”

“Yes it is! Much more real.”

He paused and looked at me for a minute. “John, I don’t know if this is true for you, but my subconscious and conscious minds are in accord when it comes to you.”

Jesus.


Jan 23

I regained consciousness to find us in a spooning position, his back to my front. I was holding him around the chest, pressing him tightly to me, my hard cock thrust between his thighs, the tip brushing his bollocks.
I was so shocked by the shift in my reality, or what I thought was reality, that all arousal left me. My first thought was of his reaction to the situation and I immediately heaved myself up on my elbow to look at his face. 
He was still asleep. I grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook it slightly, speaking his name quietly into his ear. He didn’t wake. I repeated these actions, a little harder and louder, but nothing. He was dead to the world. 
Well, not that he looked dead. In fact, he was murmuring something. Not sure it was actually English, except the rhythm of it seemed familiar. His body was still but slightly tensed, and when my eyes trailed down I saw that he was very hard.
That’s something at least. If we were sharing that dream — and God I hope we were or shit just got really fucked up — then at least it was pleasurable for him. Though I’m appalled at what feels like a very real lack of consent in this situation. Fuck.
The doctor in me wanted to examine his arse to see if penetration had happened, but I couldn’t make myself perpetrate such an invasion of privacy. 
Fuck. 
This is bad. This could be very bad. I don’t care what he says about everything that happens while we are asleep being as real as when we are awake, we vanquished something very like a dragon earlier tonight, that was NOT fucking real. 
We did not have — I did not have consent to stick my cock anywhere near Sherlock, and I’m freaked out by the fact that I have basically — 
Hurry and wake up already, Sherlock, love. Don’t let me sit here and wonder if I’m…
Fuck.

I was driving myself mad with waiting and I couldn’t wake him for love or money, so I went and did the only sane thing I could think of: I made myself a cup of tea. 
I wanted to be there when he woke, though, so I came back to bed. I just propped myself up and sat there, drinking and thinking, wondering if it weren’t a good idea to slip some whisky into my mug, then deciding I needed to be completely sober for the conversation to come, then thinking who knows, maybe he won’t wake up until I’ve sobered up again, and on and around in circles, wondering how I could possibly have misjudged the whole situation and not known we were asleep, then being unsure if it mattered, then berating myself for thinking something like that could happen in real life, then worrying that maybe it would…
It was a nightmare, really. He took a good ten minutes but it easily felt like 2 hours. And of course he woke up in the most dramatic way possible.


I regained consciousness to find us in a spooning position, his back to my front. I was holding him around the chest, pressing him tightly to me, my hard cock thrust between his thighs, the tip brushing his bollocks.

I was so shocked by the shift in my reality, or what I thought was reality, that all arousal left me. My first thought was of his reaction to the situation and I immediately heaved myself up on my elbow to look at his face.

He was still asleep. I grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook it slightly, speaking his name quietly into his ear. He didn’t wake. I repeated these actions, a little harder and louder, but nothing. He was dead to the world.

Well, not that he looked dead. In fact, he was murmuring something. Not sure it was actually English, except the rhythm of it seemed familiar. His body was still but slightly tensed, and when my eyes trailed down I saw that he was very hard.

That’s something at least. If we were sharing that dream — and God I hope we were or shit just got really fucked up — then at least it was pleasurable for him. Though I’m appalled at what feels like a very real lack of consent in this situation. Fuck.

The doctor in me wanted to examine his arse to see if penetration had happened, but I couldn’t make myself perpetrate such an invasion of privacy.

Fuck.

This is bad. This could be very bad. I don’t care what he says about everything that happens while we are asleep being as real as when we are awake, we vanquished something very like a dragon earlier tonight, that was NOT fucking real.

We did not have — I did not have consent to stick my cock anywhere near Sherlock, and I’m freaked out by the fact that I have basically —

Hurry and wake up already, Sherlock, love. Don’t let me sit here and wonder if I’m…

Fuck.

I was driving myself mad with waiting and I couldn’t wake him for love or money, so I went and did the only sane thing I could think of: I made myself a cup of tea.

I wanted to be there when he woke, though, so I came back to bed. I just propped myself up and sat there, drinking and thinking, wondering if it weren’t a good idea to slip some whisky into my mug, then deciding I needed to be completely sober for the conversation to come, then thinking who knows, maybe he won’t wake up until I’ve sobered up again, and on and around in circles, wondering how I could possibly have misjudged the whole situation and not known we were asleep, then being unsure if it mattered, then berating myself for thinking something like that could happen in real life, then worrying that maybe it would…

It was a nightmare, really. He took a good ten minutes but it easily felt like 2 hours. And of course he woke up in the most dramatic way possible.


Jan 17
He immediately started preparing himself, making his hole wet and open for me, and the heady arousal I felt at this was so warm and deep in my body, spreading low and wide through me, I lost any reservations at the prospect. 
The hungry way he looked into my eyes as he spread himself out for me shot a spike of lust through my centre and had me so hot and hard and ready so quickly I got dizzy. He held the back of my neck with one hand and grabbed my cock with the other, slicking it up and guiding it to his entrance in one fluid motion. 
I reached up to kiss him and his breath was panting. I mouthed his chin and neck and collarbone as I slowly pressed in, the give surprisingly easy. He moaned into my hair, his breath catching a couple times as I buried my length in him. He was so very hot but not so tight that I couldn’t move and nothing about his response seemed to register pain, so I started to fuck him. 
The noises he made. 
I couldn’t help but thrust harder when everything out of his mouth was so fucking encouraging, so bloody arousing. That man’s voice is a turn on of its own, but when he’s swearing and calling you gorgeous and trailing high-pitched oh’s across your skin with every move you make, it’s…fuck. I’ve never been more keen. 
The knife’s edge of pleasure was so very sharp and I slid right along it until I felt flayed. I was on the verge of falling into an orgasmic abyss and he was sounding close, so I reached for his swollen cock to bring us both off at once, and just as the pleasure spiked, everything was interrupted by a sharp, wild, screeching cry, and I jumped in my skin and woke up.

He immediately started preparing himself, making his hole wet and open for me, and the heady arousal I felt at this was so warm and deep in my body, spreading low and wide through me, I lost any reservations at the prospect.

The hungry way he looked into my eyes as he spread himself out for me shot a spike of lust through my centre and had me so hot and hard and ready so quickly I got dizzy. He held the back of my neck with one hand and grabbed my cock with the other, slicking it up and guiding it to his entrance in one fluid motion.

I reached up to kiss him and his breath was panting. I mouthed his chin and neck and collarbone as I slowly pressed in, the give surprisingly easy. He moaned into my hair, his breath catching a couple times as I buried my length in him. He was so very hot but not so tight that I couldn’t move and nothing about his response seemed to register pain, so I started to fuck him.

The noises he made.

I couldn’t help but thrust harder when everything out of his mouth was so fucking encouraging, so bloody arousing. That man’s voice is a turn on of its own, but when he’s swearing and calling you gorgeous and trailing high-pitched oh’s across your skin with every move you make, it’s…fuck. I’ve never been more keen.

The knife’s edge of pleasure was so very sharp and I slid right along it until I felt flayed. I was on the verge of falling into an orgasmic abyss and he was sounding close, so I reached for his swollen cock to bring us both off at once, and just as the pleasure spiked, everything was interrupted by a sharp, wild, screeching cry, and I jumped in my skin and woke up.


Jan 15

I swallowed. Hard.
His cheeks still had tear tracks on them. He looked wrecked. Fragile. In more pain than I would wish on an enemy. In a word, gorgeous. But not fuckable. Not like this.
“I can’t.”
“You can, and you want to.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
“Pain is nothing new. And sometimes beneficial. You just proved that over the past few minutes. But whether it hurts is immaterial. I’m not looking for it to hurt. That wasn’t the point of wanting to be beaten, I’ve realised. The point is to feel you.”
“But, Sherlock…”
“I need something right now to help me through this, and I know how well I respond to you. At present the only sensation I can come up with that is strong enough to drown out everything else is that which I derive from sex.” He inched closer, sliding his thigh between mine and his arm around my waist. 
“You might not be able to orgasm that way.”
“Not sure that matters. Watching you come is almost as overwhelming for my senses as doing it myself.” I scoffed at that. He looked at me in all seriousness. “Cataloguing every microexpression, every movement and sound, the way your muscles tense and in which groups, the progression of how your face changes from just before, to during, to just after, not to mention the smell and taste of you at varying points…it’s a lot to take in.”
“So, you’re saying my sex face is a good distraction.”
“This isn’t about distraction, John. Not really. It’s about grounding myself with the very essence of the person I love most in the world.”
I took a deep breath and didn’t let it out for half a minute. When I did, I closed my eyes. I had searched his face and come up with nothing but sincerity. But to take him at his word was difficult. I don’t know why, exactly, but it was. Not just difficult, painful. To believe I was worthy of that…
“Sherlock…” He kissed me gently, his hand cupping my jaw. I put my hand on top of his and pressed in closer, opening my mouth to him. “Please.”
We kissed with tongues and teeth and our mouths became ever hotter, ever more red. 
“Please what, my love?” He barely stopped kissing to speak.
I pulled his waist to me until our torsos were flush against each other. “Help me deserve that. Deserve you.”
“You deserve so much better than me. But I’ll give you all I have.”
 


I swallowed. Hard.

His cheeks still had tear tracks on them. He looked wrecked. Fragile. In more pain than I would wish on an enemy. In a word, gorgeous. But not fuckable. Not like this.

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you want to.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

“Pain is nothing new. And sometimes beneficial. You just proved that over the past few minutes. But whether it hurts is immaterial. I’m not looking for it to hurt. That wasn’t the point of wanting to be beaten, I’ve realised. The point is to feel you.”

“But, Sherlock…”

“I need something right now to help me through this, and I know how well I respond to you. At present the only sensation I can come up with that is strong enough to drown out everything else is that which I derive from sex.” He inched closer, sliding his thigh between mine and his arm around my waist.

“You might not be able to orgasm that way.”

“Not sure that matters. Watching you come is almost as overwhelming for my senses as doing it myself.” I scoffed at that. He looked at me in all seriousness. “Cataloguing every microexpression, every movement and sound, the way your muscles tense and in which groups, the progression of how your face changes from just before, to during, to just after, not to mention the smell and taste of you at varying points…it’s a lot to take in.”

“So, you’re saying my sex face is a good distraction.”

“This isn’t about distraction, John. Not really. It’s about grounding myself with the very essence of the person I love most in the world.”

I took a deep breath and didn’t let it out for half a minute. When I did, I closed my eyes. I had searched his face and come up with nothing but sincerity. But to take him at his word was difficult. I don’t know why, exactly, but it was. Not just difficult, painful. To believe I was worthy of that…

“Sherlock…” He kissed me gently, his hand cupping my jaw. I put my hand on top of his and pressed in closer, opening my mouth to him. “Please.”

We kissed with tongues and teeth and our mouths became ever hotter, ever more red.

“Please what, my love?” He barely stopped kissing to speak.

I pulled his waist to me until our torsos were flush against each other. “Help me deserve that. Deserve you.”

“You deserve so much better than me. But I’ll give you all I have.”

 


Jan 13
I lay down behind him and spooned myself against his back, hugging him tightly to me, keeping him immobile. He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. I buried my nose in the curls at his nape and breathed with him. It was a slow process, getting him to calm down, but he let it happen without violence. 
Every little while I would cause a quick moment of pain — pinch his arm, or scratch his chest, nip at his neck or tug on his hair with my teeth — something to get his attention and help him focus, but I continued to fully trap him into stillness with my body. He lay there, quietly weeping, his breath uneven with holding back emotion, tapping his fingers against my forearm when he needed another bit of distraction. 
I couldn’t help thinking through what was going on for him and where it came from. I had been occupied with my own daddy issues during the nightmare face-off, but I thought back over what happened with both of us, how once we came to a moment of acceptance with our fears, once we were able to forgive, the threat disappeared. 
But then I thought about the explosion when Sherlock’s mum vanished and wondered if that fireball was the physical manifestation of a Yow. And if so, whether it was the biggest one he’d ever had. I hoped so, for his sake. It seemed like an atomic bomb made up of every last emotion about his family that he had packed away for almost twenty years. 
If all of that was cleared away and he was hollowed out inside, now what? What was left?
“John.”
“Yes, love?”
He rolled over to face me, I let him. Our limbs entwined and our foreheads were almost touching. His hand was on my neck, caressing my jaw with his thumb. “I want you.” 
“You have me. I’m right here.”
He leaned in until our lips were less than an inch apart and breathed his words into my mouth.
“I want you inside me.”

I lay down behind him and spooned myself against his back, hugging him tightly to me, keeping him immobile. He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. I buried my nose in the curls at his nape and breathed with him. It was a slow process, getting him to calm down, but he let it happen without violence.

Every little while I would cause a quick moment of pain — pinch his arm, or scratch his chest, nip at his neck or tug on his hair with my teeth — something to get his attention and help him focus, but I continued to fully trap him into stillness with my body. He lay there, quietly weeping, his breath uneven with holding back emotion, tapping his fingers against my forearm when he needed another bit of distraction.

I couldn’t help thinking through what was going on for him and where it came from. I had been occupied with my own daddy issues during the nightmare face-off, but I thought back over what happened with both of us, how once we came to a moment of acceptance with our fears, once we were able to forgive, the threat disappeared.

But then I thought about the explosion when Sherlock’s mum vanished and wondered if that fireball was the physical manifestation of a Yow. And if so, whether it was the biggest one he’d ever had. I hoped so, for his sake. It seemed like an atomic bomb made up of every last emotion about his family that he had packed away for almost twenty years.

If all of that was cleared away and he was hollowed out inside, now what? What was left?

“John.”

“Yes, love?”

He rolled over to face me, I let him. Our limbs entwined and our foreheads were almost touching. His hand was on my neck, caressing my jaw with his thumb. “I want you.”

“You have me. I’m right here.”

He leaned in until our lips were less than an inch apart and breathed his words into my mouth.

“I want you inside me.”



Jan 11

“Breathe.”
He shook his head.
“Breathe, dammit.”
I pounded on his back and he coughed and caught his breath. Then he sobbed so hard I thought his ribs were going to crack. And he couldn’t stop. Great gasping heaving sobs. Without tears. They came in fits and starts because in between he was holding his breath so hard the veins stood out on his neck and forehead. 
I rolled him over onto his back to better examine him, but there was nothing I could do but comb my fingers through his hair and stroke his cheek to comfort him until he got control of himself. 
“Don’t. I don’t…I can’t have you…”
“You can, I’m here.”
“No, please stop. I can’t handle it —  stop touching me!” He jerked away and I froze. He covered his face with his hands. “Too gentle. I don’t deserve…”
“Sherlock, love…” 
I reached to pull his hands off and he wrenched his arms free, batting me away. 
“Stop! Unless you are going to punch me, get off!”
“No, I…”
“Hurt me, John.” He had started to sob again, more quietly than before, his eyes full of tears.
“I can’t, I—”
He bared his teeth at me in sheer anger. “If you won’t beat me to a bloody pulp right now, go away. Far away.”
“No. No, nuh uh. I refuse to hurt you or let you hurt yourself. You just escaped being torn to shreds by a pack of wolves and you want to be beaten up for it? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His anger broke apart into pain, and fear, and possibly regret. Or maybe that last one was just me. Either way, he rolled onto his side away from me and curled into a tight ball, covering his head with his arms, and murmured softly, heartbreakingly. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I’m afraid I know exactly…”
“Sshhh…sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that was not the right thing to say. Come here.” I reached for his shoulder but jumped and pulled back as he started to hit himself over the head with his fists and forearms. 
“Baby, no. Please. What is, it? What will hurting yourself solve? Talk to me.” I was able to get hold of his arms and keep them still, but he wouldn’t let them come away from around his head.
His voice came muffled from underneath. “I’m not looking for it, I’ve found it, finally, and it’s ripping me open. I can’t stop it, but I’m sure physical pain will ground me so I can get through it. That’s worked for me before, but this is so much worse. I need your help.”
“It? What ‘it’? What are you talking about?”
“Love for my mother.”
I caught my breath before I could say anything. There was nothing to say. 
 


“Breathe.”

He shook his head.

“Breathe, dammit.”

I pounded on his back and he coughed and caught his breath. Then he sobbed so hard I thought his ribs were going to crack. And he couldn’t stop. Great gasping heaving sobs. Without tears. They came in fits and starts because in between he was holding his breath so hard the veins stood out on his neck and forehead.

I rolled him over onto his back to better examine him, but there was nothing I could do but comb my fingers through his hair and stroke his cheek to comfort him until he got control of himself.

“Don’t. I don’t…I can’t have you…”

“You can, I’m here.”

“No, please stop. I can’t handle it —  stop touching me!” He jerked away and I froze. He covered his face with his hands. “Too gentle. I don’t deserve…”

“Sherlock, love…”

I reached to pull his hands off and he wrenched his arms free, batting me away.

“Stop! Unless you are going to punch me, get off!”

“No, I…”

“Hurt me, John.” He had started to sob again, more quietly than before, his eyes full of tears.

“I can’t, I—”

He bared his teeth at me in sheer anger. “If you won’t beat me to a bloody pulp right now, go away. Far away.”

“No. No, nuh uh. I refuse to hurt you or let you hurt yourself. You just escaped being torn to shreds by a pack of wolves and you want to be beaten up for it? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His anger broke apart into pain, and fear, and possibly regret. Or maybe that last one was just me. Either way, he rolled onto his side away from me and curled into a tight ball, covering his head with his arms, and murmured softly, heartbreakingly. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I’m afraid I know exactly…”

“Sshhh…sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that was not the right thing to say. Come here.” I reached for his shoulder but jumped and pulled back as he started to hit himself over the head with his fists and forearms.

“Baby, no. Please. What is, it? What will hurting yourself solve? Talk to me.” I was able to get hold of his arms and keep them still, but he wouldn’t let them come away from around his head.

His voice came muffled from underneath. “I’m not looking for it, I’ve found it, finally, and it’s ripping me open. I can’t stop it, but I’m sure physical pain will ground me so I can get through it. That’s worked for me before, but this is so much worse. I need your help.”

“It? What ‘it’? What are you talking about?”

“Love for my mother.”

I caught my breath before I could say anything. There was nothing to say.

 


Jan 9
I took a deep breath and let it out quickly, then blinked and realised we were in our bed. I was still cradling him in my arms and he looked exactly as pained as he did on the mountaintop, but we were finally away from that insane nightmare country.
I put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up. He closed his eyes to me but didn’t resist. When I bent down to place my mouth on his, his lips parted. His mouth was searingly hot, but wet and inviting. I did my best to comfort him with my kiss, but he would not be calmed. There was something desperate in him left over from the dream that needed expressing and it seemed he was going to use this connection with me to do so. He clutched tighter and kissed harder, leaving me no room to breathe. He twisted quickly and rolled us over on the mattress until I was on my back and he was on top of me, trapping me in place. The kiss was scorching in its hotness, I won’t deny that, and my body responded, as it’s wont to do, but his aggression started to worry me and I had very little recourse to deal with that. To effectively say no without rejecting him. Because I couldn’t get away. 
It’s not like I was scared he’d hurt me, I was more worried about him, and what exactly he was trying to accomplish with this, well, attack. Because it didn’t feel like he was actually aiming for me, if that makes sense. It was as if he was pressing so hard into this in order to make himself feel something, and my response was virtually a side-effect. I didn’t take offense, I’ve given in to that temptation in the past. Not with Sherlock, but when I was younger. It just had me scrambling for ways to give him a break so that we could figure out what he really needed. Moments like this, it’s rarely what you go for that will help. 
I was able to brace my forearms just inside his shoulders and push up until there was breathing space. He was panting hard and his brow was furrowed deep, my eyebrows were at my hairline as I caught my breath. 
“You can’t dig up love for your parents by mining my tonsils, darling.”
He huffed, I grinned. He collapsed on me, all strength gone from him in an instant. I exhaled, relieved to have gotten out of something that had started to feel forced upon me, when I realised he was shuddering as if he were very cold. 
I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed his back. “Sherlock…?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. As I lay there assessing his responses, I realised he wasn’t breathing. Not in. He was expelling every last bit of air from his lungs and not taking any in. The tenseness of his frame as it pushed until there was nothing, then held, was as if he’d turned to stone. I will admit, for a second, I panicked.

I took a deep breath and let it out quickly, then blinked and realised we were in our bed. I was still cradling him in my arms and he looked exactly as pained as he did on the mountaintop, but we were finally away from that insane nightmare country.

I put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up. He closed his eyes to me but didn’t resist. When I bent down to place my mouth on his, his lips parted. His mouth was searingly hot, but wet and inviting. I did my best to comfort him with my kiss, but he would not be calmed. There was something desperate in him left over from the dream that needed expressing and it seemed he was going to use this connection with me to do so. He clutched tighter and kissed harder, leaving me no room to breathe. He twisted quickly and rolled us over on the mattress until I was on my back and he was on top of me, trapping me in place. The kiss was scorching in its hotness, I won’t deny that, and my body responded, as it’s wont to do, but his aggression started to worry me and I had very little recourse to deal with that. To effectively say no without rejecting him. Because I couldn’t get away.

It’s not like I was scared he’d hurt me, I was more worried about him, and what exactly he was trying to accomplish with this, well, attack. Because it didn’t feel like he was actually aiming for me, if that makes sense. It was as if he was pressing so hard into this in order to make himself feel something, and my response was virtually a side-effect. I didn’t take offense, I’ve given in to that temptation in the past. Not with Sherlock, but when I was younger. It just had me scrambling for ways to give him a break so that we could figure out what he really needed. Moments like this, it’s rarely what you go for that will help.

I was able to brace my forearms just inside his shoulders and push up until there was breathing space. He was panting hard and his brow was furrowed deep, my eyebrows were at my hairline as I caught my breath.

“You can’t dig up love for your parents by mining my tonsils, darling.”

He huffed, I grinned. He collapsed on me, all strength gone from him in an instant. I exhaled, relieved to have gotten out of something that had started to feel forced upon me, when I realised he was shuddering as if he were very cold.

I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed his back. “Sherlock…?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. As I lay there assessing his responses, I realised he wasn’t breathing. Not in. He was expelling every last bit of air from his lungs and not taking any in. The tenseness of his frame as it pushed until there was nothing, then held, was as if he’d turned to stone. I will admit, for a second, I panicked.


Dec 24
Gleefully, we soared through the sky of our nightmare country, arcing along in loop-the-loops and double helixes as we went, whooping out loud and congratulating ourselves silently in each other’s heads. But the adrenaline rush of being free from the clutches of that monster only took us so far before we were spent and weighed down by the trouble we carried. We had faced our demons and conquered them, sort of, but were the worse for wear in mind and body.
Sherlock slumped, exhausted, onto a rocky outcropping overlooking the valley where our confrontation had taken place. I landed next to him and caught his shoulders as he slow-motion fell to the ground, taking me with him. His voice in my head was my name over and again, holding the connection with me mentally as much as I was holding him physically. I shushed him and held him as I had when he wept not long before, pressing his shuddering frame to my chest, and watching him closely. His eyes were dry. He curled himself into me and clung, silent, for a full minute.
“I’ve never forgiven her.” He said this in his physical voice, scratchy and catching on his breath, soft with a lack of support, but calm. “Never thought I could, let alone have any desire to.”
I was curled around the top half of his body, his head was resting on my collarbone, and he was speaking into the hollow at the base of my neck. I pushed his hair off of his brows to watch his face. He shook the fringe back over his eyes and I respected his need for cover.
“Him too, though. I have always been angry at my father for leaving us as he did. But I knew how desperate he was to end it. I couldn’t begrudge him his peace. She, on the other hand, was the enemy of peace and her betrayal was about control. I sent her to Coventry for it. Or, I sent myself. Razed every family feeling to the ground and refused to build up again. Being with you has uncovered long-buried ruins I thought were unable to be excavated.”
All fire had left him by this point, but something about this conversation felt scorched as the grass had been at the pitch.

Gleefully, we soared through the sky of our nightmare country, arcing along in loop-the-loops and double helixes as we went, whooping out loud and congratulating ourselves silently in each other’s heads. But the adrenaline rush of being free from the clutches of that monster only took us so far before we were spent and weighed down by the trouble we carried. We had faced our demons and conquered them, sort of, but were the worse for wear in mind and body.

Sherlock slumped, exhausted, onto a rocky outcropping overlooking the valley where our confrontation had taken place. I landed next to him and caught his shoulders as he slow-motion fell to the ground, taking me with him. His voice in my head was my name over and again, holding the connection with me mentally as much as I was holding him physically. I shushed him and held him as I had when he wept not long before, pressing his shuddering frame to my chest, and watching him closely. His eyes were dry. He curled himself into me and clung, silent, for a full minute.

“I’ve never forgiven her.” He said this in his physical voice, scratchy and catching on his breath, soft with a lack of support, but calm. “Never thought I could, let alone have any desire to.”

I was curled around the top half of his body, his head was resting on my collarbone, and he was speaking into the hollow at the base of my neck. I pushed his hair off of his brows to watch his face. He shook the fringe back over his eyes and I respected his need for cover.

“Him too, though. I have always been angry at my father for leaving us as he did. But I knew how desperate he was to end it. I couldn’t begrudge him his peace. She, on the other hand, was the enemy of peace and her betrayal was about control. I sent her to Coventry for it. Or, I sent myself. Razed every family feeling to the ground and refused to build up again. Being with you has uncovered long-buried ruins I thought were unable to be excavated.”

All fire had left him by this point, but something about this conversation felt scorched as the grass had been at the pitch.


Dec 16
The fire still raged through him, expanding across the entire football pitch and singeing the treeline. It burned me, but not unbearably so. I felt like the center of the flame, the part that looks colourless, stretching between the blue and the orange.
Above us the dragonlike nightmare creature, our fear made flesh, screeched at an impossible register and volume, and we looked up to see its wings had caught fire. It was swooping in crazy loops, its snaking body writhing in unimaginable pain.
Sherlock’s eyes gleamed golden, reflecting the firelight, as he watched the aerial death dance, his nostrils flaring as the rank smell of burning feathers wafted towards us. The more the creature burned, the less seemed his need to combust. “Shall we feast on his roasted flesh when he expires?”
“I don’t want any part of that poisonous thing anywhere near me, let alone inside me.”
He nodded. I’d made a good point.
“Let’s finish him off for good and all, then.” He turned to me, burned clean of any hesitancy, his skin ivory, practically translucent, with a look so fiercely joyful my breath caught in my throat. And then I caught fire. He took my head in his hands and pulled my mouth to his, kissing me hard and hot and slickly. The heat of it caused us both to unleash the desire inside us and our wings spread high and wide to launch us into the air. We clung to each other as we spiraled upward until we broke apart and circled round to flank the fear monster. The nightmare we were sure to wake from.

On getting in position on either side of the creature, we turned as one and flapped our wings towards it to fan the flames. Our combined wind ignited the last bit of the thing that wasn’t engulfed in flames and burned quickly through its head and body, leaving a black exterior lit from within by a blood red glow. The monster froze in flight and hurtled to earth like a spent match, tumbling tail over head to smash to ash on the crags below. 

The fire still raged through him, expanding across the entire football pitch and singeing the treeline. It burned me, but not unbearably so. I felt like the center of the flame, the part that looks colourless, stretching between the blue and the orange.

Above us the dragonlike nightmare creature, our fear made flesh, screeched at an impossible register and volume, and we looked up to see its wings had caught fire. It was swooping in crazy loops, its snaking body writhing in unimaginable pain.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed golden, reflecting the firelight, as he watched the aerial death dance, his nostrils flaring as the rank smell of burning feathers wafted towards us. The more the creature burned, the less seemed his need to combust. “Shall we feast on his roasted flesh when he expires?”

“I don’t want any part of that poisonous thing anywhere near me, let alone inside me.”

He nodded. I’d made a good point.

“Let’s finish him off for good and all, then.” He turned to me, burned clean of any hesitancy, his skin ivory, practically translucent, with a look so fiercely joyful my breath caught in my throat. And then I caught fire. He took my head in his hands and pulled my mouth to his, kissing me hard and hot and slickly. The heat of it caused us both to unleash the desire inside us and our wings spread high and wide to launch us into the air. We clung to each other as we spiraled upward until we broke apart and circled round to flank the fear monster. The nightmare we were sure to wake from.

On getting in position on either side of the creature, we turned as one and flapped our wings towards it to fan the flames. Our combined wind ignited the last bit of the thing that wasn’t engulfed in flames and burned quickly through its head and body, leaving a black exterior lit from within by a blood red glow. The monster froze in flight and hurtled to earth like a spent match, tumbling tail over head to smash to ash on the crags below. 


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