rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter fourteen

love is letting someone
hold a gun to your head and
believing they won't pull
the trigger.
a.n

*okay just to clarify in this chapter there will be a lot of um johnlock thingamabobs... It won't be smut I'm pretty sure but it'll be a bit more than fluffiness... I'll see how it goes erm.. Thanks. Thanks drapple_ for the idea but I'll put // where the fluffyish chapter starts and finishes. Okay.*

SHERLOCK

Men come after him staggering with red, blood covered faces that smell faintly of a metallic scent. They reach out to him. Not to Sherlock but to John. Catching hold onto his limbs scrabbling for every inch of skin. Sherlock lets out a desperate shriek as he attempts to stand between the bloody figures and John. He gasps as the hand reaches right through him. This isn't real. He tells himself. This isn't real, this is all my head. THIS ISN'T REAL. He pinches himself and slaps his face, and has finally told himself that this is real. All quiet real. But this isn't real. It's a dream. Sherlock tells himself. He watches as John gets torn apart, the creatures tearing at Johns flesh, reaching for his bone. Then they disintegrate into the ground revealing nothing more than a hunk of meat and a weeping boy.

***

It didn't help that when Sherlock finally regained his consciousness, that he had a foul taste inside his mouth. It tasted like salt and stale sweat. He found that the more the placed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the more salt sat and saturate there, gathering salt.

He looked over to John who seemed to wake up prefect, not a single flaw when it came to his cheeks, or his hair or his face for that matter. John smiled at him, and Sherlock returned a slight turn up of the mouth. Hardly regarded as a smile. He looked at his feel and then at the kettle on the kitchen bench and tried to create resemblances. Both the kettle and his feel looked weary and tired from overuse and rough treatment.

He sat down on the couch next to him, handing him a stack of freshly collected newspaper and tea.
"Thanks."

"Bloody hell, what drug have you taken this morning? You're saying thank you!" Exclaimed John jokingly, looking up from his paper with a look of mock surprise.

"I find it insulting that you are surprised by the very fact I have said thank you." Sherlock looked hurt.

"I'm joking." He said before handing him another paper as they swapped, sipping their tea silently.

"It's nice you clarified that." Sherlock muttered. There was a few minutes of silence when John suddenly burst out,

"You're beautiful Sherlock, I don't understand why you do these things to your beautiful body."

"That was unexpected."

"I mean it." John asked, obviously looking comcerned, "you're beautiful and you know it. Why waste it?"

Sherlock looked into his eyes, and he felt as if he could see a million stories, a million galaxies among them. He just wanted to kiss him. He wanted to let go of everything that was hurting him at that moment of time and just let go.
But he couldn't use John for that. He could use John for letting go as he wished. Sherlock didn't even know if he loved him. So he leaned into John, letting go of everything.

JOHN

\\John played along. It was just an ordinary kiss at first, the one he'd Usually give him, on normal occasions. Within seconds of the kiss it turned into a fiery burning passion that stirred inside him. He reached up to Sherlock face, touching every harsh edged line, that formed his face, every inch, every centimetre. Sherlock kissed his neck, and his hand travelled down his body, to his waist. They were fast, elastic kisses burning with curiosity and fire. John kissed his collarbone and proceeded to remove his shirt. His fingers seemed to shake as he undid the buttons of Sherlocks shirt. "John-" breathed Sherlock holding on to his shoulders as John kissed his neck, "I'm expecting Mycroft-"
"Who gives a damn." Said John feeling up Sherlocks, sides and grabbing hold of the belt loops in his jeans.
"He -" groaned Sherlock, "he- could just walk in on us."
"chances he won't."
"Okay." And Sherlock smiled, he removed John's shirt and trailed kisses down his throat, his chest, his arms.
"You're so beautiful,"
"So are you."
John unhooked his fingered from his belt hoops and began to remove Sherlocks pants.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Asked John causally.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Just fuck me."
"Patience."
Their kisses became more desperate, less longing, more as if they were kissing to forget. It became quick, fast and simple. He wanted Sherlock.
But it felt so wrong.
As they kissed, their tongues dance around, exploring the new and exciting environments. Sherlocks pants were by his knees, by now, when the stairs creaked. They abruptly stopped.
"Forget it," said Sherlock, regaining his place to John's neck. \\
"It could be your brother."
"Fuck him."
"Whatever-"
The door opened. And there stood Mycroft Holmes with a black umbrella in his hand, and a smug smile on his face.
"Dear me, Sherlock. What now? Homosexual relations"

John, looking both embarrassed and confused pulled up his pants and shirt.
"I don't think we've met?" Asked Mycroft to John holding out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes."
"Oh I know who you are." Snapped John, as if he was upset by this interruptive primitive.
"Oh, yes I'm sure, I was always the centre of a good discussion."

He paused.

"Brother mine." He turned to Sherlock who was now lying on the couch as if nothing had occurred

"Mycroft." Said Sherlock placidly.

"Why have you called me?"

"I have have certain matters to discuss."

"I have no time for your childish complaints."

"It's about mother."

An: this chap was really weird to write. Really uncomfortable oaky. So It better be worth it lmao
Thanks okay
Naomi
Love you guys okay xo