Author: jessa-beth PM
Sherlock's submissive fantasies finally come to light, and begin an intense relationship of ownership and obedience between him and his army doctor. M Johnlock kink.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Sherlock H. & John W. - Chapters: 10 - Words: 50,714 - Reviews: 193 - Favs: 221 - Follows: 264 - Updated: 12-26-12 - Published: 03-11-12 - id: 7915934
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
They're starting to lose themselves. Both of them are starting to get scared by the intensity of their relationship. Sorry if it starts getting kinda dark. I'm hoping to thoroughly freak them both out and then heal them slowly. That's sorta my goal for the story, now.
Sherlock winced his way through the rest of the evening. While John made them dinner, Sherlock lay face down on the sofa complaining loudly about the fact that he couldn't move and he was "Bored, John, so bored!"
"You asked for it, you prick!" John laughed, stirring his pasta sauce with a shake of his head.
The complaints continued until the steaming pasta was heaped onto plates and John shoved one under his nose. "I don't need to eat," Sherlock snapped, cringing as he sat up on the sofa to take the plate.
John knew Sherlock was in severe pain, but that didn't mean he wasn't being an annoying dick. "Sherlock, if you don't shut up and eat that food, I'm going to bend you over my knee and spank you again. How about that?"
Quite contrary to John's intention, Sherlock's eyelids drooped with lust. "Oh," he purred suggestively, abandoning his plate to nuzzle John's neck. "Is that a promise, Sir?" John groaned.
"Stop it," he snapped, swatting the distracted detective away. "Eat." He decided to alter his threat. "Or I'll hand-feed you."
In a huff, Sherlock returned to his food. He chewed dramatically, resent lining his face so he looked completely ridiculous, like a stubborn child furious about being made to eat vegetables. By his third bite, however, Sherlock practically forgot to chew. He was scarfing it down so fast he was practically inhaling the stuff. John watched him with amusement. "At least you're eating something," he sighed with a shrug. "That's always a feat."
"Well," Sherlock said, mouth still full of his last hurried bite of pasta, "if you're not going to play anymore, then I'm going to Bart's." He stood, dropping his plate to the floor without a care. John watched it roll a path to his armchair, and spin to a halt.
Sherlock moved, suddenly, like someone who didn't have welts healing on their backside. "Er… Sherlock? You're okay to go?"
The man snorted and waved off the comment with an eye roll. "You forget, John, that this body is only transport. It carries me so my mind can work when I need it to."
John smirked. "When you need it to, being the key words."
"Yes." Sherlock squinted, removing his bathrobe right there in the middle of the sitting room. "And?" John had no words. He just bit his tongue and pulled a face, his eyebrows raised. "Oh, I see. You are referring to the fact that you have seen me completely tethered to this body with my mind handed to you on a platter. You are poking fun at me. I see."
"No, Sherlock. I'm not poking fun at you. I'm just… I think it's interesting. Your mind is always going, but then…"
"I thrive on the two extremes. Most of the time, I live in my head, and it's a mad rollercoaster of genius in there." He allowed himself a moment of self-indulgence. "But you… You give my mind its only rest," Sherlock whispered. And at that, he turned on his heel and marched out of sight, towards his bedroom. John watched Sherlock's beaten, red arse walking away, enjoying the way it swayed with the motion of Sherlock's hips.
It took John's brain a moment to catch up, but after Sherlock had been gone a few minutes, he realized what a loaded sentiment he'd just been given.
He sat back on the sofa, having completely forgotten about the plate of pasta in his lap. He was lost in thought. His head was pounding with Sherlock's complex nature. No one could figure that man out. No one. John felt he owned the most special being in all creation. He was literally the luckiest man on earth.
It took John several minutes to regain his cool. He finished his dinner in a daze, barely even tasting it. To be graced by Sherlock's compliments was the most heady experience imaginable. For a man as unbelievable as Sherlock to view him as special… now that was something to cherish.
Sherlock emerged from his room in a freshly pressed shirt and a clean blazer. John was at the sink, scrubbing his plate clean, when Sherlock passed him on his way out. "Wait," John said, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, looking around expectantly with an expression of impatience. John dried his hands quickly and wafted over to the taller man. He looked very smart. John smiled up at him fondly. "I love you," he said. Sherlock blinked, and his mouth twitched.
"I love you, too, John," he rumbled, and leaned down for a kiss. John returned the kiss hungrily, letting the warm taste of Sherlock's mouth sink in.
When he pulled back, Sherlock looked breathless. There was a faint blush around his cheeks. John grinned goofily. "Alright, piss off, you sod. Have fun."
Sherlock scoffed. "Fun is not the point, John."
"Yes, yes. Go experiment or whatever it is. Love you."
He left, and John sighed, missing him already.
Two hours later, while the television droned quietly in the background and John was lounging on the sofa and typing up the recent case, his phone received an incoming text from an unknown number.
Lestrade is here. Following up on a case.
Shall I tell him?
Now? can't this wait?
John did not hear back. Irrational worry gripped him. He knew Sherlock was prone to not respond to his texts, but he was flooded with the strangest vision of Sherlock describing their private life in graphic detail to a mortified Lestrade.
He tried not to think of such things. He sat back, trying to absorb himself in his writing once more, but he was making zero headway. He was rapping his fingers on his lap, staring at his computer screen without really seeing it. Ten minutes passed like this before he gave up completely. He missed Sherlock anyway, and he felt useless here without him. "Damn," he muttered, feeling a little stupid as he made his decision to gather his things and follow Sherlock to St. Bart's.
"Why am I not surprised to see you here?" Lestrade's smile was gentle. He looked tired. Sherlock looked up from the body he was bending over, and observed the intruder.
Lestrade was verging on 48 hours without sleep now. He looked exasperated yet comforted as he locked eyes on Sherlock. He'd gotten take-away for dinner, and had eaten it in his office. Sherlock struggled to deduce how long it had been since Lestrade had last gone home.
"Following up on the last case?" Sherlock asked, flitting his eyes back to the corpse whose finger he was dissecting.
There was a deep sigh from Lestrade. "Not one I worked on with you," he said.
"It's amazing you ever complete any case without me."
Sherlock did not have to look to know that Lestrade was then waving to Molly through the window where she stood in the attached room. Sherlock knew Molly would then wave back demurely in her way, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear and being stupidly bashful. It was her nature. Or was that only in response to him? Would she even have the same reaction to Lestrade? Would she continue to have that kind of reaction to Sherlock if she knew that he was someone else's property? Mm. Property. The word sent a pulse of joy through Sherlock's mind, and he was momentarily distracted.
Regaining himself just as Lestrade pulled back the sheet of his intended subject, Sherlock asked: "Mailman?"
Lestrade looked a little bemused for a second, but with a short glance up at Sherlock again, he gave up even trying to figure it out. "Yes," he sighed.
"It was, without question, an accident gone awry. A teenage girl, too scared to call the police."
The Inspector laughed. "True or not, I still need to gather evidence."
"I don't see what for."
"Paperwork. Legal stuff, Sherlock. The stuff you never help me with, remember?"
"Whatever." Lestrade went back to work, examining the man's neck.
Sherlock whipped out his most recent disposable mobile, and sent a quick text to his lover, who replied almost immediately.
Shall I tell him?
The response to that made Sherlock frown.
Now? can't this wait?
He supposed it could wait, but why should it? Lestrade was here, and John had agreed. It was so much easier to disobey John when he wasn't right beside him, infecting his mind with the instinctive need for obedience.
Sherlock looked over. Lestrade was absorbed in the corpse's collarbone. He cleared his throat, and the Inspector looked up. "What is it?"
John and I are in a relationship, Sherlock thought. John and I fuck like angry rabbits. John owns my body and heart. I am his claimed property. I am his pet. I do his bidding. He is my Master and I am in love with him. What came out of his mouth instead was "John and I." Then there was silence.
Lestrade raised his eyebrows and straightened his back, pulling himself away from the body on the slab to cross his arms over his chest. He waited a long minute, and when Sherlock still said nothing else, he shrugged, and turned back to the victim. "Finally," he mumbled.
"I mean…" Lestrade chuckled, and looked back up again with a wide grin. "Finally! Really, Sherlock, did you and John think I couldn't tell you're together? Do you really think I'm that much of an idiot?"
"Well, you are an idiot."
"You know everyone is, though."
Lestrade let out a sigh. "Well, of course." He rolled his eyes. There was a quiet moment between them, and then Lestrade spoke again. "So, go on then. I'm totally exhausted and can barely concentrate anyway." He sat on a nearby stool, and laced his fingers in his lap. "Out with it. How'd this come about?"
"I… don't understand the question."
"Come off it," Lestrade laughed. "How'd you end up together? I always kind of figured you swung that way, but I didn't really get that from the good doctor until recently. So, let's have it. Did he start it all? He must've done."
"No." Sherlock sniffed, straightening his posture. "It was I who initiated."
"Really?" Lestrade pulled an expression of great surprise. "Always figured relationships weren't your area, so it'd have to be him, and then he'd have to practically convince you to give it a go. But that's just my read. I've known you all this time, and I still never feel like I really know you."
"Normally, relationships are not really my area, no," Sherlock agreed. "John, however… is not…" He paused, pursing his lips, reminding himself to choose his words carefully. John would want that. John was a very private person. Though it didn't bother Sherlock to say just how special John was to him, he wouldn't want John to feel uncomfortable."
"John's not normal for you, is he?" Lestrade's smile took Sherlock aback. He narrowed his eyes, a little confused. How was Lestrade being so observant? That was unusual. "You love him, don't you?" Sherlock blinked. His dry lips parted. "That's how it goes, y'know. That's how you know. When you think you know yourself, and then someone comes along and turns that all upside down. Yeah." He looked momentarily sad. There was a shadow in his eyes, flickering in the fluorescent lights. "I can tell. You love him."
Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. Lestrade laughed heartily. "Well," he said, "I really can't picture it, but I'm glad you're happy. And I'm glad you told me, as well. It's good. You're my friend, Sherlock, believe it or not, and it was kind of weird being kept out of the loop when there was clearly something going on."
"It wasn't that obvious," Sherlock spat.
"Ha! Are you kidding? The number of times I caught John staring at your arse, or touching you for way too long? Please. And don't get me started on the dog tags. Did you really think I wouldn't notice those? Especially after today!"
"When it was dead hot this afternoon. Your shirt was open, and there they were. Like I wouldn't see. Please. I swear, you two think I'm some kind of moron."
"We don't. John's just… very private."
"I don't see why. I'm your friend. It's not like I'm homophobic or anything."
"I don't really think that was the issue," Sherlock said, and then he suddenly wished he hadn't said anything at all.
Lestrade glared. "What was the issue, then? Why would he want to keep it from me? What's there to hide?"
"Nothing," Sherlock hissed, all too quickly. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks as he leaned back down to spread the flaps of skin on the corpse's finger with his tweezers.
"That's not a 'nothing' nothing, Sherlock. That was a 'something' nothing."
"That sentence didn't make any sense at all."
Lestrade breathed a tired laugh. "I mean that there's obviously something you and John want specifically to keep from me."
"I would have been open about it since the beginning. Blame John."
"Open about what?" The female voice startled them both. Lestrade stood from his seat and saluted Molly awkwardly. She smiled. "Open about what, you two? What are you talking about?" Her smile was sweet and naive.
Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing."
"Ah, now, that's not entirely true," Lestrade teased. "Really, Sherlock? You weren't going to tell Molly?"
"I didn't really think… I mean, I suppose John did give me permission to… I…"
"Permission?" The Inspector raised his eyebrows and tutted. "Wow. Sherlock, he's really done a number on you. You take orders from no one. Now John gives you 'permission,' I mean… wow."
"Who? What are we talking about?"
"John," Sherlock said proudly. "He and I are involved, now."
Molly tilted her head like a curious dog. "Involved? You mean…" Her smile faded. "What… you… and John?"
Lestrade giggled like a giddy schoolboy gossiping. "Sherlock and John are together. Boyfriends, are you? Ha! Sherlock Holmes with a boyfriend!" There was something stiff about his jokes, but Sherlock couldn't pick up on it.
"Oh," Molly declared. It was a little loud. "I'll just be…" She gestured to the door. "I mean, that's really great for you, Sherlock. And for John, too, I just… I mean, really, I'm so happy for you both. Really. Good. It's good. Yes. Well." And she left, leaving the two men behind her.
Sherlock looked confused. Lestrade just sighed sadly. "Ah, the news had to be broken to her eventually. I always thought you had to be gay, I don't really know why, but poor Molly's always had a thing for you."
"And the fact that I'm now with someone has made her… jealous? Hurt? I don't really understand."
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't, would you? Human feelings, Sherlock. You never seem to comprehend those properly, do you?"
"I suppose not," Sherlock whispered under his breath.
"But you feel love. And that's something. At least we know you're human."
Sherlock didn't say the fact that love was tearing him open and whisking is insides to make him something totally new. He didn't say that he was having trouble keeping a firm grasp on his sanity while love made him into a two-headed beast that was Sherlock-and-John, and not just Sherlock. He was not himself anymore. He was a pair. Without John, he was not himself. With John, he was not the self he used to be. Everything was changing so fast.
He missed John desperately all of a sudden. His heart ached for his army doctor. Stupid. He chided himself silently.
"So you guys are… boyfriends, or what? Was I right? Boyfriends? Partners? What is it?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Foolish labels," he spat, but then he sighed. "I suppose we're boyfriends, if it will please you to call us that." He and John had, of course, called each other 'boyfriends,' since they'd become romantic, but Sherlock wasn't about to reveal that much sentiment to Lestrade. The man had no use for his trivial sentiment. It was no business of his, what they called each other in their personal life. For the briefest second, Sherlock imagined saying, Actually, no. John is my Master and I, his pet. I obey him, and he hurts me. How's that for boyfriends? The thought made him snicker.
"What's so funny?"
Lestrade shook his head. "You and John, always keeping things from me."
"I was thinking about my sex life with John which is, of course, none of your business. Are you really that keen on knowing the details of my sex life? I had no idea, Lestrade, that you were so interested in the happenings of my bedroom."
That garnered quite a blush from the DI, who threw his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright." He licked his lips nervously, turning back to the slab. "Glad you've got a sex life, though. I figure it's making you less… you."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I feared as much."
"That's a good thing, you dolt."
"Yes," Lestrade said firmly with a nod. "You're more bearable than you used to be. Not that that's saying much."
Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock turned back to the finger. Ten minutes later, after much distracting scribbling on a file, Lestrade sighed dramatically. "Alright," he breathed, stretching. "I think I might actually have time to sleep tonight," he said. "Here's hoping I can."
"In the office again?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him from over the corpse. Lestrade's lips twisted.
"I—yes," he said in a defeated tone. "I still haven't found a place yet."
"Pity," Sherlock said, averting his eyes back to the tangle of veins again. "You look dreadful."
"I feel dreadful." A moment's pause. "Alright, well… I'm off. Thanks again, for… y'know… opening up."
The morgue was quiet again. Sherlock worked with steady hands, his mind whirring with excitement as he placed a tiny slice of vein on a slide.
He wasn't sure how long it was before the door to the morgue burst open again. When it did, he looked up, and John's face was a beacon of light. "John," he exclaimed joyfully. "You're here!"
"You never responded to my text, so I just…" He pointed over his shoulder. "I saw Molly out there and she wouldn't even look at me when I asked where you were. She directed me in here, but god, she looked terrible. Is she…?"
"Jealous of us? Yes."
John's arms hung limp. "You told her?"
"Molly. Lestrade. Yes. I believe that covers everyone, except, perhaps, the Yarders. Not that those gits need to know."
"Uh huh. Great. You didn't want me to be here when you told people?"
"Why would that be necessary?"
"I don't know, just…"
Sherlock squinted at him. "Oh," he said with a nod. "You believe I am tactless enough to spout details of our private life."
John's laugh was gentle. He approached Sherlock with open arms. "Aren't you?" he said playfully, coming up behind Sherlock and slinking his grip around Sherlock's middle so he was trapped in an embrace. He pressed his cheek upon Sherlock's upper back, and the detective sighed. He leaned back into John's touch, satisfied by his closeness. He could feel John's chest and stomach pressing against his wounds from earlier, and he enjoyed the reminder.
"I would never do that to you," Sherlock breathed. "It matters not to me if our friends know that I am owned. I don't care what people think of me. I do, however, care what you think of me, and I know that you are private; that you would be angry with me if I were to spill that kind of information."
"Mm," John agreed quietly, nuzzling Sherlock's shoulder blade. "Although," he added, "I really think you should know that lately I can't stop thinking about making it known. I don't think I actually want to, but god the fantasy is really… really exciting to me."
Sherlock took hold of John's hands where they lay across his abdomen. "Is it?" he asked.
"Yes. I imagine making you wear your collar all the time, no matter who you're around or what you're doing." His voice grew quite low and thick with lust just from the thought.
Sherlock moaned, which caused John to chuckle. "I would, Sir," he breathed. If you asked it of me, I would wear my collar every day and be proud of the way it shows, and be proud every time someone asked me what it was for."
"I even imagine marking you. Carving my initials into your hip so that the scar would shine on your skin forever, and you could never forget me."
"I am proud to have you as my Master, Sir. I feel privileged to be yours. I will bleed for you if you want me to, Sir."
John laughed hard. "Jesus, Sherlock, are you going under right here? Now?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock was. He was in a daze already, totally engulfed by John's fantasies. It was that fast, that easy, with John. Amazing.
"Stop that!" John demanded with a giggle. "We can't. Not here. Not now, Sherlock!" But quite contrary to his words and tone, he ran his hands up Sherlock's chest, took hold of his nipples and twisted them. Sherlock's groan was music to his ears. "Stop it, now," he said again, warningly. "You're insatiable, but you know we can't."
"Then stop touching me. I bend too easily to your touch, Sir. I'm yours."
John almost did pull away at that, but something stopped him. It was the thought of fucking Sherlock here. Right here, in the morgue. With Molly just a few doors down. The fantasy made him hard. Sherlock's willingness was also not helping. "What if I were to fuck you, right here?" John asked teasingly, flicking his fingernail over one of Sherlock's sore nipples. The detective hissed with pleasure before speaking.
"What… here? In public?"
"Yes," John snapped. "Here. On the floor. Or even…" He craned his neck and licked Sherlock's earlobe. "…On a slab."
"Sounds unsanitary, Sir," Sherlock said, but he spoke through a revealing moan.
"I don't care." The thrill of the moment had John harder than he could have expected in such a short time. His body had been too tired before. He had sworn he couldn't come again for a while. But Sherlock was pliant in his arms despite his aching backside, there was a packet of lubricant in the pocket of his jeans (there always was), and there was an empty slab to their right. It was so exciting, just the idea of it. "God, I want you," he growled. "I don't care anymore. That's it. I'm fucking you."
"Sir!" Sherlock gasped as John pulled him from his stool and dragged him the several feet to the slab in question. "Sir, I—!"
"You nothing," John interrupted. "You are mine." He spun his pet around and pressed his fingers to Sherlock's temples. "You. Are. Mine. I want to fuck you. Here. Now. Where anyone could find us. Where anyone might walk in and see what a diligent pet you really are for me. Would that embarrass you?" He stroked the gorgeous shape of Sherlock's pallid face now tinged pink. "Would it humiliate you to have your friends see you with a cock in your arse? To have them see you for the writhing slut you are?"
Sherlock grunted in response to this. His eyes were closed. His cock was straining against John's, separated by several layers of fabric. "Down," he ordered, and Sherlock went without an ounce of hesitation. On his knees, Sherlock looked a beautiful wanton thing. John undid his zipper quickly. With his knees planted on the cold morgue floor and his hands holding himself steady on John's thighs, Sherlock opened his mouth, waiting. Wanting.
John abused the offering lips with overzealous vigor. Sherlock gagged almost immediately, coughing and sputtering. His fingers tightened on John's trouser legs, grounding him as he tried to regulate his breathing. "Good boy," John said softly when Sherlock put the tip of his tongue to use. "God yes, there's a good boy." Sherlock's throat was starting to soften, and John pummeled it with the head of his cock. Sherlock took it, so dutiful and calm.
"That's enough," John said suddenly. Sherlock pulled himself off of John with an obscene, wet pop. A string of saliva stretched between his shapely lips and the full cock in front of him. John smiled. "I need to fuck you. Nothing else. I just need to have my cock inside my property, alright? Right in your gorgeous arse. Now." He tugged Sherlock up by the collar of his blazer and lifted him with impressive strength onto the slab. Sherlock arched and lay back, but John flipped him quickly.
Everything happened in a flurry of desperate motions. It was so fast. So dizzying. John had Sherlock's trousers around his knees in seconds, and the packet of lube was opened with fumbling fingers. Sherlock was trembling when John crawled on top of him, and the slippery cold substance on his arse made him flinch.
"Oh god, yes, Sir," the genius moaned, and John hissed at the sound of his title. If anyone could hear way Sherlock cried the word 'Sir,' they'd be horrified, it was so lewd.
John pumped his wet fingers inside Sherlock once, twice, three times, and withdrew quickly. Preparation was hardly an issue at the moment. John was so wrapped up in the need of the moment, he wasn't thinking. It didn't matter to him that Sherlock would hurt, that he was already sore from the day's events, or that he wasn't wearing a condom so it would cause a serious mess. He cared about nothing except fucking Sherlock into breathlessness on this cold metal slab. The door wasn't even locked. They were totally exposed, and it drove John forward.
His cock was slicked and ready. John entered him in one slow, difficult motion. Sherlock cried out uncontrollably, so John had to lean forward to press his hand over Sherlock's mouth. The detective's eyes rolled back into his head. His rapid breaths through his nose were hot and hard against the back of John's hand. He felt the rumbling moans stifled against his palm when he began his violent pounding, and it was gorgeous.
"Fuck, Sherlock," John breathed against Sherlock's neck, ruffling his lovely curls. "God, yes. Fuck."
John thrust hard. The slab shook. Sherlock was completely pinned and unable to move, though his arms were still free. He gripped the sides of the table so hard that his knuckles went white. John's hips were relentless and quick, violent in the pace they found. It was brutal. The table made awful screeching whines with every pound, and Sherlock's cracking screams were quite audible despite his Master's hand over his mouth.
The doctor came faster than he would have liked, but it was good. It was better this way, in such a setting as this. He grunted with his orgasm, nipping the back of Sherlock's neck gently between bursts of tingling bliss.
When he released Sherlock's mouth to pull himself up, the detective whimpered like a beaten dog beneath him. He got to his feet, zipped up, and walked around the slab to stroke Sherlock's face. "You alright, love?" he panted.
Sherlock swallowed. He looked shaken, but his pupils were thick black plates surrounded by their slim blue halos. His mouth hung open. He was speechless and aching with arousal. When John had determined that he was okay, he laughed. "Good, I take it?" Sherlock nodded dazedly. "In that case, get up. You're going to drip my come all over the slab, and then Molly will have a right fit."
The tall, dark beauty slid himself off the surface and into a standing position. His legs shook beneath him as he did up his trousers again. "I'm afraid this may be a particularly sticky ride home," he said in a strangled yet impassive tone. John laughed, envisioning the ejaculate sliding down Sherlock's thighs. "I may have to get these trousers dry-cleaned, now."
John shot him a wide grin. "Worth it, though?"
Sherlock licked his lips, which were plump and pink. "Completely, Sir."
"Shall we get out of here, then?"
"My experiment," Sherlock reminded him, gesturing vaguely to the other slab.
"Right. Can't you put it off?"
"Only if I take this man's hand home with us."
"Oy! So it can stay in our fridge for the next week? That's disgusting!"
"Exciting, you mean."
"Awful," John joked. They smiled warmly at each other.
On the way out of the morgue, the couple passed an abashed looking Molly. She grinned awkwardly at them without making eye contact, and her ears were especially pink. John couldn't tell if it was the mere effect of jealousy, or if she had heard their moans.
Some nasty part of him hoped, for a second, that she'd heard them; hoped she'd heard the man of her dreams calling out John's title while rammed full of cock.
The dark desire made his pulse race. He forced it back, shaking his head to rid himself of the momentary lapse in judgment. He gave Molly an apologetic smile, which she returned hesitantly.
They left, Sherlock clinging to the plastic-wrapped hand like a child to a Christmas present. The hand did, in fact, end up living with them for a long time, and Sherlock could not have been happier.
The body parts were not the only sick things hiding out in 221b, however. John's harbored fantasy for public display was growing, and his poor judgment at the morgue haunted him for weeks afterward, only making the shameful desire worse by the day.
I am dreadfully unhappy with the way this chapter is. It just sounds bad in my head when I read it to myself. But I don't care, because I'm a lazy FUCK, and... yeah. Whatever. Let me know what you think. If you have suggestions, they're totally welcome. I am never opposed to criticism!