Story cover for One Last Dance by Closet_Sociopath
One Last Dance
  • WpView
    LECTURES 10,504
  • WpVote
    Votes 802
  • WpPart
    Chapitres 15
  • WpHistory
    Durée 1h 50m
  • WpView
    LECTURES 10,504
  • WpVote
    Votes 802
  • WpPart
    Chapitres 15
  • WpHistory
    Durée 1h 50m
En cours d'écriture, Publié initialement août 25, 2014
John's never had a patient quite as broken as Sherlock Homes. Or as ignorant of the fact that he is, indeed, broken.

He speaks rarely, and when he does it's this torrential flow of insults and hurt memories and sadness. He speaks like he doesn't know that he's broken yet, like he thinks he's fine, and superior to everyone else in the room.

Maybe he is. John doesn't know.

Maybe he's not as beautiful, and clever, and graceful as he believes. Maybe he isn't some kind of ethereal creature that John has had the honour of beholding. Maybe he's just broken. And useless. And alone.

John doesn't think so.

John thinks he's everything, broken man and all.

*

Sherlock's never done anything quite like dancing.

When he was there, wood springing under his feet, soft and warm and secure, he was happy. Sure. But he didn't know then that he'd give anything to be able to dance again. To have the pain of crushed toes, blisters, aching and biting all the fucking time. He didn't know he'd miss it like he misses breathing. But he does.

Sherlock forgets to breathe, sometimes.
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Simply exhausted of all colour. Wasted. I didn't lie down. I didn't blink. I just sat there, staring into nothingness, waiting for something to materialise into my vision. Something. Anything. I had kept Sherlock away. Kept him away from his death, for so long. So long. Little did I know, all he needed was a little jump from a rooftop. It wouldn't take me long either, would it? I wasn't going to die. I needed relief. I needed disconnection. Disorientation. Oblivion. Ignorance. Because ignorance is bliss. It was in my hand, now. Like vengeance disguised in forgiveness. Breathe. Steady. Hold. Control. . . . Now. Pain shot through my arms and my palms, like my nails were being pulled out. It spread like fire, like ice cold fire, still burning like coals. My limbs were numb. I fell onto the bed, my mouth pressed into the sheet at an odd angle. I was too fatigued to change it. Too drowned to change it. Drowned too deep. To change anything. I'd never done this. Was I going to die? It'd be better if I died. What would that feel like? Flying? Better that this I suppose. Don't you think, Sherlock? [TW: IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH PTSD SCHIZOPHRENIA DEPRESSION ANXIETY PANIC DISORDERS DRUGS OR ARE TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING ELSE PLEASE PROCEED WITH DISCRETION. GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NEAR- SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND VIOLENCE AND ZERO CLOSURE LIKE LITERALLY NO CLOSURE]