The Mad House

We're Too Good Of People

At first John couldn't move, at first he had no control of his body, he felt like a solid chunk of cement, he felt unable to move a single muscle he just...he just stared. And Sherlock stared back, his mouth hanging open and his face white. Yet he didn't move, he didn't say a word. They were lying flat, their limbs strewn but their eyes facing each other's none the less. Well, it would seem by the look of panic in Sherlock's eyes that they at least had one thing in common.
"Oh s*#t." John whispered worriedly.
"You saw it too?" Sherlock asked in clarification. John still couldn't move, all he could find within himself was the ability to nod.
"I saw it too. I saw it all." John agreed, his voice cracking and his heart trembling.
"That was the past." Sherlock clarified, his voice trembling now, as if he was about to cry.
"It was." John murmured heavily.
"That was us." Sherlock whispered.
"It used to be." John agreed in a pained voice. Sherlock took a troubled breath, now finding it within himself to move, to push his bangs from his face and to fold his legs underneath him.
"My God." Sherlock whispered. "Is that what it's really like?"
"Sometimes." John agreed.
"And is this...is this really what it feels like?" Sherlock whispered again, his face going a little bit red.
"Ya." John grumbled, feeling as though he should look away.
"God." Sherlock whispered again, looking a bit confused. Perhaps he was wondering why he would ever do something like that, or perhaps he was wondering instead why he would ever not. John just shook his head, finally finding the power to get to his feet and stumble out of the bed anxiously.
"I'll...I'll sleep on the floor." He decided finally, marching to the bathroom and splashing cold water onto his face. He stared into the mirror yet could only see one thing, Sherlock, all of Sherlock, he could see the man writhing underneath him, his fingertips were still charged with the feeling of his very skin. He could still...he could still feel it all. John groaned anxiously, splashing himself again. The cold water did nothing, he still saw it, he still felt it...he splashed again, and the only thing he felt was Sherlock's lips upon his skin. This wasn't working, it wasn't...it wasn't working. His life wasn't right, his past wasn't right, his future was crawling along like an agonizing wheel and this wasn't working.
"F***ING DA*N IT!" John screamed, slapping at the sink and only managing to send the bottle of soap flying half way across the bathroom and landing unceremoniously in the bathtub. "WHY CAN'T I JUST...!" John let out a scream of anguish, smacking his hands upon the wall with all of this pent up frustration.
"John, calm down!" Sherlock exclaimed, coming rushing into the bathroom in an attempt to do something to help, to calm him down. And yet of course his presence wasn't appreciated, of course he could do nothing but escalate things.
"THAT WAS YOU!" John screamed, staring at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror and leaning his hands on the sink. He saw himself, too, red and angry, his face screwed up into a tight knot of rage. "THAT WAS YOU...under me, that was your skin, that was your lips, your everything, that was you..." John collapsed against the sink, falling to his knees and letting his head rest against the porcelain, letting his forehead up against the cold. "You loved me." he whispered out.
"John, that was a century ago, that was...it was nothing." Sherlock insisted, walking up to him and attempting to place a comforting hand onto his shoulder. Yet that did nothing, it didn't help, how could it? John smacked his arm away, yet held fast to his wrist, ensuring now that Sherlock could not get away.
"Now why do you say that?" John growled. "Why do you say that? Why do you discredit our past when you're so excited to wear Victor Trevor's bloody ring. Why do you think we were just...we are just...nothing?"
"Because I thought...Because I thought you were afraid of it." Sherlock whispered, his voice dropping to such a shameful whisper that he could hardly get a word out.
"Afraid of it?" John whispered, turning his head now to notice the tears that were falling down Sherlock's cheeks, the man was just now choking on his sob, trembling from head to foot as he tried to steady himself against John's firm grip.
"Afraid of me, afraid of what I might do to you. Do with you... You saw that and...and that wasn't you! I know it's not you, you're married, you've got a child you're...you're too good a person!" Sherlock exclaimed, finally wrestling his arm away and flinging himself against the opposite wall. "You're too good a person to do that with me now." John pulled himself to his feet, he stumbled forward, he used strength that he was getting from somewhere, somewhere that was not within himself. These were exactly the words he had been waiting for, a love confession that came in the cry of anguish, of despair. Finally he was able to see this side of Sherlock, this hysterical side, in which he admitted to have feelings of his own. In which he admitted to grappling with the same moral conflicts, of whether or not to love a married man. John grabbed hold of Sherlock and pulled him closer; he grabbed either side of his face and pulled him into the most passionate, most furious kiss he could manage. He kissed him better than he had in that dream; he kissed him better than he had in all of their lifetimes combined. He kissed Sherlock Holmes with such a passion, and such a fury that he was surprised they didn't stoop over and die with the sheer force of it all. With the enormity of this moment, with all of their lifetimes together, falling down on top of them, with all of their futures, and presents, and pasts... And yet Sherlock gave a gasp, and pushed him away. He gave a writhe and a cry, tears falling freshly upon his cheeks. He sobbed quietly, keeping John now at arm's distance away, keeping John pent up with all of his emotions, with the real taste of Sherlock's lips fresh upon his own. He kept him back as if he was equally afraid.
"And I'm too good of a person to let you." Sherlock managed throughout his choking sobs, and with that he raced out of the bathroom, pulling open the door and disappearing away with his fading footsteps.