John
Friday
If I'm honest, I woke up assuming I had dreamt everything. It seemed too perfect to be real. I turned over in bed to see Sherlock lying awake next to me, looking down at me with those galaxy like eyes of his. I swear I could spend hours staring at them.
"Morning." I yawned, not bothering to cover my mouth.
"Good morning."
There was an awkward pause which stretched out for longer than I would have liked. Clearly there was some tension from yesterday's events.
"Sleep well?" I asked to break the silence.
Sherlock nodded halfheartedly and finally brought up the subject. "Do you want to talk about yesterday?"
"So it did actually happen then. I didn't dream it after all." I said, voicing my thoughts.
"Do you usually dream about kissing me?"
Yes.
Although I wasn't looking at him, I could feel Sherlock's eyes on me the entire time. To my surprise, I didn't feel myself blushing. I felt completely at ease. Sherlock knew the answer to his previous question and he now knew how I felt about him. I didn't have to pretend anymore. I smiled.
Sherlock coughed slightly, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Do you want to talk about yesterday?"
I sighed and edged closer to him. He pulled himself up straighter. It was then I realised he was topless, we both were. Although I already knew fully well nothing like that had happened, looking at him like that gave me a strange sensation in my stomach. A bit like butterflies but bigger. A whole hoard of giant butterflies racing around in my tummy at the sight of Sherlock Holmes without a shirt on. I felt pathetic.
Pulling myself out of my daze, I rested my head on Sherlock's shoulder. "No..."
"No?"
"We can talk about what happened when we're home. Can we just enjoy ourselves for now? Please?" I almost whispered the final word.
Sherlock wrapped his arm around me protectively and I just looked at him. It was so unexpected and out of character that I didn't quite know how to react. Something had changed in Sherlock, that was for sure.
I felt his lips press against my forehead and I immediately lost my train of thoughts. This wasn't Sherlock... Well, it was - obviously - but at the same time, it wasn't. It was as if someone has possessed him. It wasn't my Sherlock...
~
The beach was windy. So windy, in fact, that I had to hold my jumper down so that it wouldn't fly up suddenly. It was then that I began to imagine my jumper flying over my head and up into the grey, cloud-filled sky, never to be seen again. I would simply watch in awe as the jumper flew into freedom.
I watched as the waves engulfed the sand and crashed against the nearby rocks. The noise was almost deafening up close. What words would you use to describe the sea? Calm? Peaceful? The crashing of the waves and screeching of the seagulls is found relaxing. Such aggressive words to describe such a beautiful scene. The sea is a perfect representation of freedom.
Everything about the seaside is free and non-restricting. That's what I love about it.
I felt a cold hand in my own - Sherlock's. He was softly trying to direct me towards an area he'd found for us to sit in. I followed him and sat down in the sand.
