The Game Is On (Johnlock)

Forgotten (Part 1)

Hello! It's me. I'm back and feeling much better. Thanks for understanding, you guys. I hope you guys like the last one, it took a long time to write. I'm sure you've noticed that I'm using dialogue prompts more than actual Johnlock headcanons. I didn't actually use the dialogue from the prompt, but it had given me an idea. I hope that's okay. Love you guys. Onto the story!

*This may be slightly triggering to some, as there is mentions of self-harm. Be careful.*

Near the end, it may get a little graphic. Not in triggering ways, but in lemony ways. ;)

Please read the note at the end of the story. It's important. Thank you.

As per usual, inspired by Pinterest.

sadlynormal xoxo

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I woke up with a massive headache and a weight around my stomach. The room smelled of mint, which was what Sherlock always smelled like. A rush of memories hit me: skin sliding on skin, gasping breaths, light chuckles, soft moans, heat. God, so much heat. Blinking wearily around the room, my gaze lands upon Sherlock. Dark curls scattered across a white pillow, bare chest half-hidden by a thin blanket, swollen lips parted slightly. Then the panic hits.

Why am I in his bed? Why is he half-naked? What did we do last night? I bolted upright and tried to sort out the mess of memories. Sherlock's arm was still thrown over my waist but as he stirred, the warmth slowly faded as he sat up to look at me. "John? Are you okay?" His voice is groggy from sleep and vaguely slurred from alcohol. I nodded shakily, keeping my face from his view. But damn it, he knows me too well. "Look at me, John. Whatever happened last night, we can handle it. Okay, love?" He froze when he realized that he called me love. My head was still pounding, so I laid down on the pillows that smelled of mint.

Almost absent-mindedly, Sherlock gently trailed his fingers up my naked torso. Wait, naked torso? I glanced down and sure enough, I wasn't wearing a shirt. His touch was soft and sent shivers down my spine. I didn't understand what had happened or why, but I knew that I was almost completely comfortable with the situation. The only thing I was worried about was Sherlock finding the tattoo that I'd gotten. "John?" Sherlock's voice was apprehensive. "Yes, Sherlock?" His fingers were tracing something on my left shoulder. I knew immediately that he had found the tattoo. "What's this for?"

My breath came shakily when I inhaled. "You." His fingers stopped moving. " It's for you. I got it after you faked your death. I couldn't live here anymore, so I left. I found a flat that was cheap and lived there until I met Mary. She encouraged me to get something as a tribute to you. All I could think of was the face you'd spray-painted on the wall and that stupid phrase you said every time we had a case. The game is on. That's what you used to say. So I got the tattoo of that fucking face on the wall and your favourite phrase. It was my way of coping with you being gone."

Tears were cascading down my cheeks without my realizing it. Sherlock moved closer to me and brushed the tears away with his thumb. I laughed, a gurgling sound, that was much too harsh for the quiet of his room. The sheets were in a tangle around our waists, causing us to be pulled together closer. Sherlock's chest was against my back. I was attempting to pull myself together for his sake. He didn't need to know how his "death" had affected me. It had almost killed me. From getting sloshed at the pub to taking a kitchen knife to my legs, him dying nearly tore me apart.

"John, I know." My head snapped up. How did he find out? I knew he was good, had told him so when he was . . . he was . . . before he disappeared. I'd told him that he was that clever. But I had covered all my tracks: he never saw me without a housecoat on if I wasn't wearing pajama pants. There was no way he could know; absolutely nobody knew that I had taken to cutting my legs in a fruitless attempt to make it easier to deal with Sherlock's death not even Molly. "What?" His eyes, those clear blue eyes, held an emotion that I wasn't ready to handle. "You're scared of what this means. You don't want things to change. I know you don't. You've never been one to welcome change with open arms. This doesn't have to mean change, John." I released a shaky breath. His arms wrapped around me, tugging me farther into his chest so that we were flush.