To Be Like That Of A God

Pretend Like Nothing Is Happening

           

"John...John you're not, this...this cannot be." Sherlock whispered, getting slowly to his feet yet clutching onto his chair for support, he felt almost as though he was going mad. Why would John Watson be in his bedroom, how had he gotten in, why was he here, didn't they both agree that it was best for them to keep their distance? John looked equally anxious, his face had grown pale and his fingers were clutching to the sleeves of his worn overcoat, he looked as though he had just walked a great distance for there were still snowflakes melting in his hair...
"I know that I may not be welcome, Sherlock I just had to see you." John insisted, taking a step forward before thinking better of it and retreating a step to land him exactly where he had started, his brown eyes looking almost as if they were filling up with tears. Sherlock could do nothing but gape, he stared at that man and yet he couldn't process that he was actually there, his heart seemed to have stopped beating and his lungs could not find the air to inflate with, and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming.
"No, John of course, of course you're welcome, I just...why are you here?" Sherlock whispered.
"I heard that Molly was going out of town. I thought that maybe, well, oh this is just so wrong. What am I doing taking advantage of this solitude, you're married, oh Sherlock what a fool I've been." John insisted, shaking his head and going to turn. And yet suddenly all vows disappeared from Sherlock's mind, suddenly his ring slid off of his finger and hit the ground below, forgotten, and trodden over by his bare feet in desperation.
"No, no John wait!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing towards him so as to stop him from leaving, trying to clutch at his wrist. Yet he missed, John was just too fast, and yet they stopped, they both stopped, for they both knew there wasn't anything they could do other than what must be done. John was here for a reason, it was futile to pretend that there was anything more or less that had to be done. Sherlock took a step back, and yet John took a step forward, so as to make up for the ground he had lost in confusion.
"Stay." Sherlock whispered, his dressing gown hanging loosely once more over his bare chest, doing a very poor job at hiding anything under the purple fabric.
"You're sure?" John wondered, looking up at Sherlock so that their eyes met for a moment, gazing into his soul lovingly, carefully. Even as they contemplated whether or not this was a good idea they were already inching closer, and whatever dedication Sherlock had to his wife or to his forceful forgetfulness was forgotten itself, for John was the only thing that mattered. Staring into his eyes reminded Sherlock of that kiss, the one exchanged by the blazing light of the fire, during which John's lips had tasted of whiskey and his hair smelled of firewood. Sherlock had spent his days wishing he could relive that night and here it was, that opportunity, yet in a different night, a different dream, he was sure that John's lips would taste different and his hair would smell different and yet his skin would feel the same, his lips would kiss the same, and his love would be multiplied for all of the uncertainties would be forgotten. Sherlock wanted this, John wanted this, oh it was only a matter of time, it was only a matter of mere seconds!
"I'm sure. I've missed you, John how I've missed you." Sherlock whispered. John nodded in agreement, looking as though he intended on smiling and yet he couldn't seem to break the mood, for there was a seriousness settling upon them, an undeniable lust that would be interrupted with the presence of joy.
"I've missed you as well, Sherlock...it's been an eternity since I last saw you." John agreed. Too much small talk, it was becoming unbearable, and so Sherlock took a step closer, standing close enough for their arms to reach out and touch each other, should they have the need to. The door was locked and the fire was blazing in the hearth and in their hearts; it was time, was it not? It was time.
"Your beauty has not faltered." John assured in the smallest of voices, seemingly unsure what to do, how to start. He was terrified, they were both so terrified, and yet they both knew what was to come. Sherlock reached up to John's forehead, brushing any of his stray bangs from his eyes, his hair had grown considerably longer than when they had last parted, and tonight it looked almost unkempt, brushed yet disheveled by the wind. Sherlock then moved even closer, letting his hands fall upon John's shoulders and ever so carefully pushing his fingers under the neck of his overcoat, working it from his shoulders to reveal a simple button down shirt, an old one, a worn one. Evidently it was John's best shirt, for he seemed to have ironed it carefully, as if he expected he would be wearing it long. John's breaths were caught in his chest and yet he was able to return the favor, he edged closer and took up the cord of Sherlock's dressing gown, unknotting it with careful rough fingers and letting it fall open, looking Sherlock up and down for the first time, his breath forced and his heart beating uncontrollably, Sherlock could almost feel the intensity now that the formalities were through. No words were uttered when their lips finally met, a mere brush before Sherlock took John's head in his hands, pushing their lips together with such ferocity that John evidently wasn't expecting it. And yet almost as soon as Sherlock tried to take control of what was happening here tonight John in turn got just as rough, suddenly kissing Sherlock so intensely that he could barely even keep up, his heart was beating so fast he felt like it was almost about to quit, his lungs were gasping for air and yet he supplied them with none, for he could only gasp for breath and yet his lips were quite occupied at the moment. He got the chance to breathe when John's lips migrated from Sherlock's lips to his neck, finally letting him gasp for breath as John pushed away the dressing gown for good, letting it fall to the floor and steering Sherlock away from the door, away from the fire.
"Lie back Sherlock." John instructed in a deep voice, his hands taking Sherlock by the shoulders and kissing him once more before pushing him onto the bed, sending the poor man sprawling onto the blankets, gasping and letting his head fall back, not thinking to protest, not bothering to do anything except breathe, for that was all he could do when he was so helpless in John's hands.