The Words

Darkness entered the world dependent upon mystery to focus his matchless mind. Sherlock they called him. Though his tresses where more midnight than bright. He was efficient enough, a whirlwind of observation, the consummate master of vehement, venomous tongue and always he traveled alone. For no one could bear his gaze, his arrogant ways, his total lack of empathy or heart. No one cared or dared to follow him into the dark.

Lost was the Light. Lost and not to be found. The Light so strong and true, deadly murder on his hands. Hands that always healed, an enigma was the Light and he was called John, a simple name for an un-simple sprite.

The Darkness swirled his Belfast wool, Light drawn in awe of gravity found. Light and dark mingled by a mere twist of fate or did design bring each to each to close the unseen empty breach in hearts that love had bound?


Life and death, John thought. His hands had dealt out both in equal measure. His hands, heart and body had been attached to both life and death and he'd never shied away from those decisions. Never been afraid to step up and tip the scales one way or the other and he didn't flinch now.

Protecting Sherlock, whose genius was incapable of thoughts of self preservation, was a natural thing, a good thing. The killer cabbie could have been wounded, could have been given the benefit of the doubt, but he'd threatened Sherlock. Suddenly John's imperative was to protect Sherlock and only a dead man would not inflict harm. It had been there from the first, from those first hours, minutes and seconds. When Sherlock had winked at him, smiled and turned away. John was hooked, was lined and sinkered. There had been no thought; his heart had made his decision without taking votes from the rest of this body.

He'd tried really hard to ignore the obvious, not believe that he'd found himself awed, overwhelmed and just a tad bit turned on by the observations of the very observant man. But couldn't Sherlock see? Couldn't he observe that the loyalty, the protection, the steadfastness was overlaid by the love? No, that wasn't on Sherlock's agenda was it?

John stood at the window, looking out at the London that he loved. Snow fell in cold beauty that never ceased to fill his heart with wonder. Lights were everywhere. The rush of people had subsided and he pressed his fingers to the cold glass and gave a deep sigh. He would just have to take what was given and be a happy boy with that. Wasn't that a lot, wasn't it more than he'd ever dreamed of? Just be happy with the man, his insanity and his observations and not to worry about the love. It was there deep down in the depths of Sherlock, he could feel it.

His fingers caressed the cold glass as if it were the lover that he'd never have. Then he pressed his fore head to the glass, closing his eyes to exist in the still place in his heart. Hands gently gripped his shoulders. John didn't startle. He never startled when Sherlock touched him. So starved for that touch, each time it came it was so very welcomed.


That velvet voice that could command thunder and rage with a brilliance all its own; spoke in whispered hushes against his ear.

"John, forgive me, please."

John smiled and took another cleansing breath. "What have you done now, you overgrown…?" John made as if to turn to face his delinquent flat mate and evil eye him into at least cleaning up...

"Don't turn around, John. Not just yet. I have to say this while I still have the courage to do so."

John stilled himself and wondered what the hell had happened to cause Sherlock to 'please' and be 'afraid' to look him in the eye. Holy shite. Life and death, John thought, life and death. You've handled it all, you can handle anything this man throws at you; life and death.

"Do you forgive me, John?"

"Of course I do Sherlock. There's nothing that you could do that I can't forgive. Except for the bread pudding that wasn't bread pudding. That was pretty bad." You could hear the smile in John's voice.

Unbelievably long arms wrap around John, pulling him close into an embrace that was soul satisfying. Whatever Sherlock had done, John would forgive it 10 to the millionth power. Just to rest in this embrace for this moment in time. Anything.

"I lied to myself John, but even more destructively, I lied to you."

John waited, patience one of his many virtues, patience and a kind heart. He placed his hands on the arms that embraced him and leaned back, lending his weight to his acceptance. Sherlock bend his head into the crook of John's neck.

"I do care, John. I have cared. I do know what love is now and it terrifies me. It's not a thing that controls easily and I get lost in it. Am I making any sense, John? I—love—you—John." That voice that could blast down mountains and turn jumbo jets in the sky, that voice was sad and lonely and so very lost.

John turned then and put his arms around Sherlock. The world melted away and the sounds of London muted and even the snow stopped falling. Two hearts beat furiously coming together to synchronize their sounds and blend their movements via shared electric currents.

"It's all good, Sherlock. There is nothing to forgive. You've protected your heart, that's something that everyone does. I promise to make you proud everyday that you have entrusted me with your love. I promise to protect it and keep it safe and I give you my love in return. How's that for a deal?"

John lifted Sherlock's chin and stared into those eyes. Those good-god-in-heaven eyes that were a frosted London fog grey or an electric blue and sometimes in the pale light they turned the storm-sea-green that took your breath away. As they were turning now from grey to blue to green and the smile, the little boy smile that would melt any grown man's heart. There it was the crooked corners turning up. How delighted John felt. How blessed. He did love this man, this Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock took a deep breath and settled into John's embrace. John gathered him up and took him back to the couch. He sat in the corner of the couch, put the small Union Jack pillow in his lap and ushered Sherlock to take up his favorite position lying on the couch with his head in John's lap. This was so comforting to Sherlock that he'd come to ask for it. John would massage the meridians of Sherlock's head (he was sure that massive brain would do anything to be touched) and gently pull his fingers through the curly dark hair. You could almost hear Sherlock purr. John started his rubbing and pulling and Sherlock hummed and purred. The world resumed its wobbly turning.

"You know, John, I've always been able to feel your arousal through the pillow." Sherlock said in a small indoor voice.

John began to laugh and Sherlock joined in.

"It wasn't meant to be a joke, John. I've got one too." Sherlock brought one of John's hands down to touch his matching hardness.

"Well, I'm not sure how you want to handle this, Sherlock?"

"I'd like to find out how to handle it, John. I want you to teach me what you like, I've read about sex, but it's different for everyone isn't it? And lovers have to learn one another don't they?"

"Yes, they do Sherlock. Are you sure you're okay with this?" John was so not wanting to push Sherlock farther than he'd be comfortable with.

"The really hard part was saying the words, John. I think the rest will be, as they say, a piece of cake."

"Then I think we should retire to your bed since it's the largest."

"Our bed," Sherlock corrected, "our bed."

John's felt as if he'd been given everything he'd ever wanted. Everything.