Love of Heaven and Hell

Pasts We (Really) Want to Forget

    John didn't sleep very well that night, not only was his head spinning around in annoying circles, but the pain in both of his shoulders was making it very difficult to close his eyes for long. He could hear Sherlock's slow breathing next to him, so he told himself he was the only one up for now. John couldn't blink without seeing Victor's dead eyes staring at him, but you'd think it was because he was guilty, or scarred for life. In reality he was thrilled, for some sick, twisted reason the thought of Victor dead at his feet was something he'd like to put in his Christmas letter. It might not even be jealousy, of course he was a lot happier in his own life when Sherlock and Victor weren't kissing all the time, but it was more pride. After all that time he was the one that saw Victor for who he was, and now Sherlock was facing the consequences of trusting someone he had just met. John wasn't quite sure he believed Sherlock's claim, that he only loved Victor because he knew he would be loved back. What did that mean, was he gay or would he just love anyone? And even if John did make an attempt, would Sherlock love him or just use him to feel wanted? Love was such a mystery, and Sherlock was like a fog and a complicated cross word puzzle loaded on top of that bloody mystery, John felt hopeless, trapped even, because he had these, these feelings, he couldn't place them and he didn't know how to express them. Was it love, pity, or just the same desire to hold someone in his arms once again. It had been so long since his pathetic little heart had loved, it had been almost ten years now... John shuddered at the thought, but he blocked it out of his mind. No, he had moved on, to bigger and better things, and now, maybe now, he was able to turn his aspect on love a whole new level. He could bring himself to love again, to love the beautiful man beside him, be able to cherish the beautiful green eyes, be able to run his fingers through the chocolate curls... Sherlock stirred in his sleep and John immediately turned his head in fear, as if Sherlock could tell he had been thinking of him. But the boy slept on, his eyes closed and his face smeared slightly against the pillow. John smiled to himself; Sherlock looked so peaceful it was almost too much for John to handle. It felt like there was a beast trapped in his chest, trying and failing to claw itself out, but to what John had no idea. Maybe to Sherlock, maybe to some girl, or maybe it just wanted to be free. John sighed, sitting up at night was great until you let your mind wander, and then all the sudden you're over the river and through the woods and to Mount Doom and then you're at Oz and it was just running all of your regrets through your head and not thinking logically at all. Like he'd think of the lives he hadn't been able to save, all in all they were about six or seven, but John would think about how horrible of a person he was and pounder how he'd ever get into Heaven if it did exist, but he'd never consider that he's saved over two hundred and still has more lives to save. John was pretty much a pessimist in the middle of the night, and every time really. He felt like a failure because of those six people, all who were now gone forever because he wasn't fast enough, he let them get eaten, or cut up, or bitten, or murdered in cold blood, and he could've stopped it. See, late night thoughts. So John lay there until the sun came up, poking its rays through the gaps in the curtains and making John sigh with relief, he had dug back in his brain so much he found his first grade picture, where he had burned off an eyebrow with his mom's curling iron (long story). Sherlock finally started to stir, rolling over in his sleep and finally opening his eyes. The first thing Sherlock did was turn his head to see if John was up, and he gave a shy smile when he saw his ugly poop eyes staring back at him.
"Good morning." Sherlock muttered with a stifled yawn. John thought he was an entire new level of gorgeous when he was just waking up, his hair was all matted and poking up randomly and his eyelids drooped ever so slightly. John thought he probably looked miserable and sleep deprived, but he smiled back anyway.
"Not really. I barely slept." John admitted.
"That's a shame." Sherlock decided.
"Yes, yes it is." John agreed. Sherlock smiled again, looking thrilled to see John for some reason, and buried half his face slightly in his pillow so that it gave John his own mini cardiac arrest. He was stunningly beautiful and it was completely unfair. "Did you sleep well then?"
"You'd know." Sherlock debated.
"Oh, well, yes then, I suppose you did." John said, blushing a little bit even though he didn't know why.
"I had a nightmare though, about Victor." Sherlock muttered, his smile fading.
"What happened?" John asked.
"He killed you, and Matt didn't come save us, and he...well it was just awful." Sherlock summed up.
"Well, I'm okay." John pointed out.
"No you're not, you're wounded." Sherlock debated.
"Well who cares about the details, I'm starving." John decided.
"I'm guessing I'm responsible." Sherlock muttered.
"Heck yes, and I'm tired of hotel food, do you mind driving over to McDonald's or something and get me a breakfast burrito, with hash browns?" John suggested.
"Then I have to get dressed." Sherlock complained.
"Please? I might die, you never know." John pointed out. Sherlock sighed, but closed his eyes in a motionless nod.
"Alright then, but only because you're injured, don't be thinking this is normal!" Sherlock decided.
"Thank you." John teased, smiling tauntingly at Sherlock as if asking what he was going to do about it.
"Ya, ya, ya, you owe me one." Sherlock decided.
"I get rid of the demon that possessed you!" John pointed out.
"According to you it just left." Sherlock debated.
"Who cares about the facts?" John groaned.
"I'll get you the stupid burrito!" Sherlock pointed out, rolling out of bed with a groan. He was wearing fleece pajamas, John had no idea where he had gotten them, or when, or even what money he had used, but they were there and he wasn't going to ask questions. Let's just say that bed head Sherlock in plaid fleece pajama pants and a thin cotton shirt was proof that God was real. John felt like he was staring, so he distracted himself with the bandages taped to his chest. They were blood soaked but he wasn't going to ask another favor of Sherlock just yet, after breakfast was over he would start to think about the unnecessary things, like his physical injuries. Sherlock grabbed his clothes and changed in the bathroom, which John was thankful for because he was sure some chef would try to cut him up he'd go so red and be mistaken for a tomato.
"Alright, I'll be back, anything we need?" Sherlock asked. Couples therapy.
"Not that I can think of, other than silver bullets, mental help and money." John pointed out.
"Nothing major then." Sherlock said with a laugh, searching around the cluttered table for something.
"Where are the car keys?" he asked.
"Oh, dresser." John pointed out, nodding his head towards the metallic keys shining under the dim lamp light.
"Ah, yes." Sherlock sighed, walking over and retrieving them. "You'll be good?" he asked, right above John.
"I'll be fine, you just be safe, don't get in any car accidents or anything, and take care of my bloody car." John warned.
"Or what?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Or I'll make Victor eat you and burn your bones myself!" John warned.
"Sounds reasonable." Sherlock shrugged. "See you." He decided, and with that he walked out the door and was gone. John waited a good thirty minutes before finally the door opened and a very angry looking Sherlock came in, carrying two bags of McDonald's take out.
"I waited in that stupid line for like twenty minutes!" Sherlock growled, handing John the bag of food.
"Thanks for all the effort." John decided, not going to mention how his stomach was probably digesting itself at the moment. He was able to move his arms ever so slightly, just enough to dig around in the bag and get to the food. He ate his burrito in two minutes and devoured his hash brown; the only thing he was going to have trouble with would be the orange juice cap. John tried, he really did, but none of his manly strength could get that stupid cap off.
"Hey Sherlock, could you maybe..." he held up the bottle shamefully.
"You kill werewolves and you can't open orange juice?" Sherlock asked with a laugh, setting down his breakfast sandwich with a laugh.
"Oh shut up!" John growled, but Sherlock only laughed, as if John were incredibly adorable.
"Give it here." he decided. John tossed the bottle, which Sherlock caught easily and twisted off the cap.
"Should I cut up your sandwich in little bite sized pieces, do you want a bib?" Sherlock joked, handing John back the bottle just in time for John to slap him playfully.
"I'm injured!" John defended.
"You're not crippled." Sherlock pointed out, hitting John on the forehead. John responded by pushing his as hard as he could with his injured arms, sending Sherlock flying back and sitting down on his bed hard.
"At least there's a bite to that bark." He decided.
"What's that even supposed to mean?" John asked, sipping his orange juice with a frown.
"It means you'll follow up with violence if you threaten, haven't you ever heard that term?" Sherlock asked.
"Nope." John admitted.
"Where do you live?" Sherlock asked.
"I live nowhere; I thought I told you that." John pointed out.
"You did, but I thought you might have been somewhere else before all of this." Sherlock shrugged.
"I was, somewhat, I had an apartment, but something happened, and now I'm hunting." John pointed out.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked. John sighed, looking at the floor but not talking.
"I want to forget about it as much as I can." He muttered.
"I lived in an apartment as well, alone; I worked at the bookshop across the street, I was normal, I read books, played violin, somewhat acknowledged my neighbors, and then black smoke shoved its way down my throat." Sherlock sighed.
"You play the violin?" John asked, kind of surprised. He knew Sherlock was elegant, so it wasn't that much of a shock that he would play the most beautiful instrument known to man.
"Ya, before all of this." Sherlock nodded.
"Any good?" John asked.
"Well, the neighbors didn't complain, they actually said it was quite soothing." Sherlock shrugged.
"I wish I could hear you play." John decided.
"No you don't." Sherlock laughed.
"Of course, come on, I have no special talents and I've never met people really, what other secret talents do you have?" John asked.
"I have no special talents; I'm only bloody Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock defended, but he was blushing. Obviously there was something he wasn't telling John.
"Okay, fine. I was really good at art when I was in school, and I did this 3D sculpture statue thing and it's on display in a display case in school." John admitted. Sherlock didn't laugh, thankfully, but he smiled, as if that were kind of embarrassing.
"I love to dance. Always had, I used to sneak into ballet practices and sit in the back row where no one could see me, and then I'd practice myself in my room and I broke my brother's prized umbrella when I failed at a pirouette." Sherlock admitted. John really had to control his laughed, because the thought of Sherlock prancing around in a ballet tutu was almost too funny to be true.
"One time I ate three pounds of raw cheddar cheese and threw up all over this old lady in the supermarket." John admitted.
"Once I tried to grease my hair over like in the 60's movies but I used bacon grease and got attacked by the neighbors Pomeranian." Sherlock muttered.
"I did an Elvis impersonation in the middle of the school hallway and kicked the principal. When she yelled at me I just said thank you, thank you very much and ran away." John laughed.
"I threw a textbook at the bully one day and they shoved my head in a toilet." Sherlock admitted. Soon the two of them were laughing uncontrollably, John almost spilling his orange juice all over the carpet, and Sherlock was looking so perfect and hilarious and beautiful and all John wanted to do was lean over and kiss him and hug him and have him be his forever but alas, all John could do was giggle along with him. John couldn't help wonder if Sherlock was wondering the same thing, was he debating whether or not to kiss John, or did he consider that some sort of sick joke? Soon the giggles were over and Sherlock was wiping small tears from his eyes, and John was practically kicking himself, Sherlock was literally so close yet so far, and John was too scared to lean in a little bit. Ughhhh.