White Noise

Lying In The Bottom Of Nothingness

John was feeling emotion, welling up in his throat like a big ball of anger and sadness; he was so taken aback by Sherlock's sudden heartlessness that he almost didn't recognize him.
"Please Sherlock." John managed, his words balling up in his throat as he tried to force them out to something remotely understandable.
"Beauty is my burden John, I've had to send many men away, men that have crawled on their hands and knees and kissed my shoes, they would've done anything, just as you would. I don't underestimate your love for me; however I hate to say that I'm indifferent to it. You'll move on John, surely you'll move on." Sherlock assured in a soft voice. John felt his eyes heating up, he felt his head start to burn, his heart start to crumble. Was this really the end, the end to everything he had sacrificed, the end to all he has managed to accomplish? The love that he had felt with Sherlock was a mere game to play, and now that their time had expired Sherlock was simply throwing him to the wind?
"I can't...Sherlock..." John closed his eyes, squashing out the tear that was forming and letting it slide down his cheek in a slow, steady line. He didn't want to open his eyes and face this reality, oh how he wished he had just read the Burger King sign ten more times, maybe then he would've been able to convince himself that this visit wasn't appropriate. Standing here, facing this harsh misery, it was the worst feeling he had ever felt, it was as if Sherlock, the light at the end of the tunnel, had suddenly extinguished, and was now boarding up the exit, making sure John was trapped with his misery for the rest of his life. And then he felt him, the skin, he felt the hands on his neck, he felt them brush away that single tear, he heard the heartbeat and felt the breath upon his skin.
"Now doctor, don't cry." Sherlock muttered in a deep voice, so very close to his ear. John opened his eyes in disbelief, finding that Sherlock was standing right up next to him, his hands upon his neck and a smile on his face. Where that cigarette got to John didn't know, but something told him that it was now smoldering against asphalt below, getting run over numerous times by car tires treading overtop.
"What are you doing?" John breathed, shocked to see that Sherlock was willing to be so close, shocked that he would even make the effort to comfort him.
"I don't like to see your impressionable little heart broken." Sherlock responded softly.
"You don't like to realize that you were the one who smashed it?" John whispered back. Sherlock's hands brushed away more tears from John's face, tears that were now flowing freely now that they were being recognized. They drew Sherlock closer, and if his tears brought some sort of humanity into that beautiful man then he wasn't afraid to cry until he had dehydrated himself. If Sherlock was close, it was most certainly worth it.
"I have found, Dr. Watson, that men are like flowers, blooming out in a field with the rest. Some are more beautiful than others, with their luminous petals and tall stems, and as you gaze upon them you get such a feeling, such a good feeling, and it possesses you. You want that one beautiful flower all to yourself, so you go over and you pick it. You kill it. And as it lays rotting in your hands you're forced to watch that beauty fade, until you're not holding a flower, simply a bunch of wrinkled gray petals, and you are left to wish you hadn't picked it at all, because if you hadn't been so selfish, it would still be there gleaming and glittering in the sunlight." Sherlock muttered. John was left there for a moment, trying to process what he had said, trying to counter it.
"But you're not killing us Sherlock, I'm not dead. You're not the murderer, you're the gardener, and simply by laying your hands on us we become more beautiful still." John insisted.
"Were you not just dead, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock whispered. John was silent once more, his eyes still leaking out tears very weakly while Sherlock hovered so close, yet he was still so far away, so unobtainable. It almost killed him, if he wasn't dead already, not to move closer, had he been this close before he knew that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him he probably would've combusted. Yet now there seemed to be a wall between them, a wall of glass that only Sherlock could see.
"I wasn't dead." John assured in a weak, unconvincing voice.
"But you weren't alive. That it the curse, John, the curse that falls on every man who loves me, they have to watch me leave." Sherlock insisted.
"What's preventing you from staying?" John wondered softly. Sherlock just sighed, blinking for a long moment as if remembering his mistakes. It had to be Victor, that boy had to have made some sort of lasting impression on Sherlock, something that made him ever so doubtful of the intentions of men.
"And why should I stay for you, doctor, and not the rest of the men who have begged and pleaded for the pleasure of my company?" Sherlock wondered, raising his eyebrow curiously.
"Because I don't just love your body, I love your soul, I love your existence. You're my angel, Sherlock, and I'd be a fool if I let you fly away." John whispered, not even stuttering or taking a moment to think about his words. They had always been there, on the tip of his tongue, he had just been waiting for Sherlock to ask.
"You're no fool, Dr. Watson, I'll give you that." Sherlock assured. John looked up at him hopefully, letting himself get hopelessly lost in those beautiful irises, all the while easing himself closer and closer, his feet taking minuscule steps, so small that he doubted Sherlock even noticed. But finally their chests brushedup against each other, and John's eyes hovered right up against his lips, lips that were slowly curving into a smile.
"Need I encourage you to go on?" Sherlock whispered ever so softly. The answer to that question, of course, was no. But still, he was timid, he was nervous, if he made a wrong move, if he didn't something Sherlock wasn't specifically asking for, what would become of the love that he was so close to salvaging?
"Just say the word." John whispered back, his words barely even forming on his lips as he uttered them. Sherlock just laughed, his fingers traveling up to the fringe of John's hair, his lips hovering closer and closer, finally uttering the words John had been longing to hear.
"I'm all yours." Sherlock whispered in assurance, and John barely waited for him to finish his sentence. He barely waited to even take a breath, because breathing seemed so unimportant, not when he had Sherlock, not when he had him all to himself. It wasn't even a matter of if, or when, or even a consideration that maybe there were other people on their terraces that could easily look over at crazy Mr. Holmes making out with another random man. It was just Sherlock. Not even the world would spin while Sherlock was in his arms, every kiss and every touch slowed down the rotation until finally they were at a standstill, and the only two people that were moving were now flung upon that cheap red couch, throwing their excess clothes off of the balcony and into the traffic below.