My Full Confession

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

"Are you thinking about home?" John asked quietly, hugging me closer to his chest. It was a little ways past ten o'clock, yet the blinds were drawn so tightly that I might not have known. I couldn't see the darkness, and so wouldn't be able to see the light. We had made our own little world, in a way, by alienating ourselves from the other.
"Not right now." I admitted, bringing my face up to his and smiling sweetly.
"Do you ever?" he asked.
"Of course. It's still weird to think that we're not going back." I admitted.
"We may go back, eventually." John offered. I chuckled doubtfully, for I could only imagine the warm welcome we could get.
"Back again when everyone we used to know is dead." I agreed hesitantly.
"Oh, perhaps just when everyone we used to know has forgotten us." John suggested in return, for obviously he didn't like the morbidity of my response.
"And Victor is dead." I added in. "Let's just hope for that one."
"What made you hate him so much? I mean I know he's sort of...weird. But he used to be our friend." John pointed out. I sighed heavily, shaking my head and remembering that horrible night on the porch. The night where he decided that he was entitled to everything he wanted, including me.
"He tried to kiss me one time, very forcefully." I admitted quietly. "He was so rough, I fear what he might've done if Mycroft hadn't stepped in."
"You're not serious? Why that little rat!" John exclaimed, to which I chuckled in agreement.
"I just hope we never have to see him again, I hope that he's never given the chance to...to finish what he started." I admitted quietly.
"I'll always be around to make sure that never happens. My God, Sherlock. If he touches you just once I'll break his neck with my own two hands." John promised.
"Why is it that when you get all violent, I love you more?" I wondered quietly, chuckling a bit flirtatiously while he grinned at me.
"Perhaps because you think it's masculine and attractive?" John suggested, kissing my forehead rather quickly, just a little peck to make me giggle some more.
"Or maybe it's just the fact that someone cares enough to kill for me." I admitted.
"Again." John agreed. I kissed him this time, a bit more passionately than would have been expected throughout this conversation. Yet he didn't seem to mind, well of course he didn't mind. I expect that such a kiss was his end goal as well; I was just interrupting our conversation just a moment early. And just as soon as that kiss deepened, just as soon as he readjusted us both, so that I was sudden l laying underneath him...well I knew that surely tonight was the night. Tonight was the night that Mycroft had warned me about. And yet I wanted it, God I wanted him, in such a way that I had never felt before. My body was electric, and with every finger touch upon my skin I sparked, with a noise of excitement, or a grip onto his neck, or hair. His lips left mine, they migrated down onto my neck, and his hands began to tear my shirt away from my chest, I could feel his fingers upon my skin, skin that had only ever been touched by myself...I could hear him breathing, I could hear his heart beating, and I could feel his teeth begin to scrape at my skin. It was a feeling so passionate, so romantic, that I nearly..." 

"Mr. Watson..." Greg interrupted, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly as he paused his writing. The old man blinked, as if coming back to the world, and looked at his audience in a very inconvenienced sort of way. "Surely you don't need to tell me all of the details."
"What, are you modest?" Mr. Watson grumbled, looking a bit upset that he wasn't able to retell every single detail of his sexual life.
"I just don't want to hear everything." Greg defended, wondering who it was that should be embarrassed in this situation. Well surely Mr. Watson was treating this part of the story as if it was nothing more scandalous than the rest of it, yet Greg was feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Somethings, to a degree, are best left unsaid.
"Well alright then, if you want to stop there we can stop there." Mr. Watson agreed. "And you'll feel very silly; surely, if I die over the night and you never get to hear the ending."
"Don't talk like that." Greg snapped, almost offended that the old man would dare use such harsh threats.
"I can talk however I please." Mr. Watson insisted, crossing his arms and looking very dissatisfied. Obviously Greg had offended him, to some degree, yet it was necessary! He didn't want to hear the full retelling of the moment this ancient thing lost his virginity.
"So is that how we shall end the night?" Greg clarified.
"Yes I suppose it is." Mr. Watson agreed with a great sigh. Greg nodded, looking over the rather gruesome continuation of this story. What a turn it had taken, a turn from a childhood romance to a murder mystery novel!
"So that's your crime then?" Greg presumed, looking upon the part where John drove the knife into old Mr. Holmes's back, and so ending the beast...
"You will see, soon enough. It would've been enough to get me hanged, I do believe." Mr. Watson agreed with a heavy sigh.
"I feel as though this story would be a lot more nerve wracking, if I didn't know for sure that you survived." Greg admitted.
"Who said I survived? Who said that I can even die?" Mr. Watson said with some twinkle in his cataract filled eyes .
"You do...continually." Greg grumbled.
"Ah yes, but only because I have finished out the last of my nine lives. They hung me eight times, actually." Mr. Watson chuckled.
"I wouldn't doubt it." Greg decided, getting to his feet and tucking the chair where it belonged next to the desk. "Well have a nice night then, Mr. Watson. Dream of John Watson."
"I do, of course I do. Every night." Mr. Watson agreed quietly. "Dreaming of the day when I can return to his arms once more."
"Hold out just a little longer, just enough to finish." Greg pleaded.
"Death only comes when I call." Mr. Watson agreed, in something of a very confident way. Greg nodded, sighing heavily and staring upon the old man once more. How different he seemed, how drastically different. It was difficult to look at him and imagine that he had gone on such excursions; he's killed, eloped, and hid from the police. And yet here he sat, so docile and helpless, in such an unimpressive state that Greg was surprised that the last gust of wind hadn't ended him.
"Goodnight then, Mr. Watson." Greg said finally.
"Goodnight Greg." The man muttered, and allowed his guest to make his way down the staircase, through the halls that used to be walked by a younger man, with another by his side.