but sometimes it hurts instead (so darkness I became)

a Sherlock fanfiction


I remember,years ago, someone told me I should take caution when it comes to love.

I did.

Chontelle's Impossible

never mind, I'll find someone like you

"I can't say it."

He whispers it to himself at night after waking up screaming, crying; night mares of talking and not being able to touch, of running and reaching, of blood-matted curls and being to late chasing him back to bitter wakefulness, snapping at his heels and hissing, "You didn't believe him," and he knows.

In between those screams he chokes on final confessions, words left unsaid and better left buries in the graves shame built them.

Every day struggles past and not one passes when he doesn't think about it, about him; as he stood up on that rooftop singing lies and desperation, hair flying wild in the wind as John stoop below, crying confusion and strangling back the truth.

Time bleeds by slowly as though from a wound begun to heal, thick and viscous, but it hasn't. That wound bleeds, fast and fresh as the day it was inflicted, from the burned, blackened cavity where his heart used to be, the wide gaping maw of his emptiness visible in the clench of his hand and the stiffness of his gait.

Moriarty finally followed through on his threat from all that while ago and his intended collateral damage became a second victim.

don't forget me, I beg

I'll remember you said

He still can't say it; after a year of the seven stages, he's still stuck on the first. If he doesn't say it, it'll cease to be true, it'll stop corroding inside his soul, it'll stop him feeling so incomplete.

But it lingers, there in every scream, in every tear, in every half-confession gasped into the darkness. It festers in the cavity in his chest, dripping down in glittering dark read beads. It's the colour of his rage, of his ache, of his shame; making a mess and a mess of him.

And dark bright black, his regret hangs over his head like the waiting blade of a guillotine and is wrapped around his neck, a rope with which he has already hung himself.

What does it even matter if he says it aloud or if he leaves it crystallising in his veins; words left unspoken stayed negligible whether or not he screamed them from the rooftops or took them and set the skyline on fire with them.

sometimes it last in love

After all, what good would "I love you," do a dead man?

but sometimes it hurts instead

and in the dark I can hear your heartbeat

I tried to find the sound

but then, it stopped

and I was in the darkness

so darkness I became

Florence + the Machine's Cosmic Love

Love hurts

Love bites and Love pricks

Love hits hard and Love fights back

Love soothes with lovely, terrible words

and Love takes them back with a tongue

never more wicked

never lovelier

Love is a sinner, Love is a saint

Love cuts deep and Love stabs back

But when Love bleeds out gasping Love's name

who is left but Love to hold Love's hand

as Love cries out

for all Love has lost?

~ Olivia Imogen Witchcross

End notes ~ Reviews, comments, criticisms, thoughts are always appreciated.

Music that inspired as I wrote this fic:

Rumour Has It/Someone Like You ~ the Glee Cast

What the Water Gave Me ~ Florence + the Machine

What Hurts the Most ~ Rascal Flatts

Someone Like You ~ Adele