Dedicated to the Debauchery

7: Wise Visions

Your body hit the ground, and he bent down, leaning your head away from the floor, before humming and letting it fall as your vision turned black.

But you could still feel.

He hadn't killed you.

Waking up, you were sweating, with your breathing uneven, it was the day. You knew. Even with your nightmare, the psychopathic euphoria over your puppet finally playing a part in the play, didn't hinder you.

You only wished he liked you as much as you liked him. Even if you did stalk him a bunch, but you were pretty sure he already knew about all of that.

Did he really hate you?

You hadn't even noticed, but both the boys were in front of you and apparently you were hyperventilating. They were sitting in front of you at the base of the couch which you slept on, you hadn't even noticed your hand holding your own neck. 

Your bodies movements and the touch, suddenly alerted your mind that you were awake. You could only thank the gods that you weren't crying.

Trying to pay attention to the touch, you forced your hand away from your throat, hoping that it didn't cause any lasting damage or marks to imprint on it. Forcing your breathing to steady itself, you stopped your panic mode before either of the two boys were able to understand or try to come into contact with you.

You didn't want them to try anything.

You didn't mean to be vulnerable.

You didn't want them to see.

Gently forcing their chests away with your hands, your breathing began to calm. Breathing in and slowly out, you quickly gained your composure. Putting your hand on your head you tried to calm down, but also wake yourself up.

Sherlock and John both calmed down once they saw that you had calmed a bit.

"What was that?" One of them asked.

You put your head down, into your hands that rested on your thighs, groaning whilst Sherlock started speaking.

"I think it was a product of stress." He deduced 'expertly'.

"That is part of it yes," You spoke softly, trying to gain your energy back after your nightmare had sapped it out of you. John looked at you, empathetically. He knew what it was like to be so stressed, waking up in your own sweat because of a nightmare, one that repeats.

"I deduce a nightmare." Sherlock spoke. You looked at him deadpanned.

"Really, and what gave you that idea? I'm pretty sure John already figured it out Mr. 'Detective', and we both know, that's not saying much." You spoke sarcastically as you smirked, energy being brought back into your soul and your voice.

John looked at you offended, whilst Holmes deflated.

"What are you implying?" John gawked, offended at your implications. Sherlock lifted a finger to interject, but you did before him.

"Wow, I'm surprised you understand implications. That's progress, but still not ideal. Sherlock must be rubbing off on you." You responded teasingly, John was only able to stare.

"How can you just go from crying, to now insulting me?" John asked.

"I don't know. But I do know, that Sherlock the man in question wants attention." You said, looking towards Sherlock.

"Awe does our little darling need some attention?" You asked, mockingly. He blushed, yelling at you all of a sudden.

"I don't need attention!" He pouted, crossing his arms and allowing his lower lip to protrude outwards.