Look at you. Crying in a forgettable place.
Trying to will the tears away so no one on the street
questions you. Everything that you put hope into is failing.
You feel like there’s nothing for you to cling to anymore,
like there’s nowhere else for you to go.
But you have survived for years on the thought that
things will get better. And look how far
you’ve come. You have survived
all of the things that you thought would kill you.
Even the hardest years have passed.
Things changed, and you with them.
You became new, tougher,
and proved yourself resilient when you were
not even convinced you could leave bed.
Quiet the scared piece of you
that doesn’t believe you can do it again.
Swallow Impossibility and Pick Yourself Up, Lora Mathis
Do not drink at the political protests and also do not undermine the opinions of your allies. Also, do not swallow the mustard I brought. I just figured out: It is expired. You may put it on your hotdog and eat it, but whatever you do…do not swallow it. I implore you.
“Where’s the puppy, mommy?” You tug on your mother’s dress, but she dismisses you. Feeling guilty, she turns back and ruffles your hair. “Sorry sweetie but looks like it ran away.”
And for the luxurious life you follow - this was the first memory of disappointment. But it was only a matter time before everything in your life would abandon you…after all, who could stand you?
Sweet nothings stumble from your lips and honey words entrench in the air. This is your life. You whisper enticing words into old men’s ears and it proves no difficulty for you - you’ve done it countless times over.
You’re all gussied up, dressed like a doll to perfection. Women envy you as you walk past and men become flustered. “God that guy was disgusting.” You whisper out of the corner of your mouth to Secretary Yoona.
She smiles half-heartedly. “I’m sorry miss.” You sigh internally. Your father couldn’t accompany you this evening but you don’t mind. It’s easier when he’s not here; he won’t be able to sense your fatigue that you’ve been masking with easy smiles.
You grab a glass of golden champagne to help you ease up, weaving through the crowd to make your way to chief executive blah blah blah blah of your father’s rival company. Here we go again, you think. As you prepare an alluring smile, you feel a ripple through the air.
Bang. The Corporate Chairman of Swallow Enterprise falls to the ground.
“Cas,” Dean sighed, running his fingers through his hair, “we can’t.”
“Dean.” The angel all but pleaded.
Dean sighed again and leaned back on the doorframe of his bedroom. They stood together in the cramped hallway, Cas’s sad eyes burning a hole in Dean’s chest.
“Look, Cas…We just can’t, alright.”
Can took a step into Dean so that they were only a few inches apart, his gaze intensifying. “Do not lie to me and say it’s because you do not want to, we both know that you do.”
Dean swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He could feel the heat from Cas’s body and breath and he knew he was instinctively swaying into it, seeking it out, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Our enemies already know, and have known, that my weakness is the Winchesters and the Winchesters have a weakness for me.“ He took a small exhale; “Dean, we are already family. I see no other reasons for you to be fighting a needless battle.”
“Yeah well, what if you leave, huh? Or what if you die, Cas. How could you expect me to go on if something happened to you?”
“Dean, you have done it before.”
“Barely! And it would be different if we… I mean… How could I after that, Cas?,” Dean downcast his eyes, “If I can’t even now… how could I after?”
“Dean,” Cas said again, softly, his hands reaching up to cup the back of the hunter’s neck. His voice was just above a whisper when he spoke, “do you not think it is the same for me?
They stared at each other for a long moment. Dean’s hands had somehow made their way to Cas’s shoulder. They stood there in silence, holding on to each other, Cas’s fingers were scratching soothingly at the base of Dean’s hair, making Dean go weak in the knees, draining all the fight left in him.
In sync, both sets of eyes flicked to each others lips. They were so close, Dean could just lean in and finally do it. His heart hammered away, every beat screaming yes yes yes yes. It was a lot. It might be too much.
“I don’t know if I can do it Cas,” Dean confessed.
Without warning, loud sound erupted through the hallway.
Cas and Dean both snapped their heads to look at the end of the hall, immediately tensed and ready for battle.
Sam was standing there, just holding his iPad out in front of him, letting a video of Shia LaBeouf yelling in front of a green screen play at full volume.
“JUST…D O I T”
Dean was going to kick Sam’s ass for this, but Sam’s face actually seemed pretty determined. He nodded at Dean.
“Don’t let your dreams…..be dreams,” Shia LaBeouf commanded, the way his voice echoed around the hallway made him sound like he was God, pronouncing a holy order.
The video looped.
Dean surged forward and crashed his lips into Cas’s. Cas began kissing back almost instantly.
When they came up for air, Sam was long gone.
“Hey Cas,” Dean smirked, “wanna go do it?”
Cas rolled his eyes and pushed Dean into his room, shutting the door behind them.
Sherlock swallows, and looks out of the window. It’s a rainy day. The people on the street hide under their umbrellas. They walk fast, with their shoulders raised against the strong wind. How do I feel. That’s a good question, Sherlock thinks, frowning. Ella always asks good questions. She’s looking at him, waiting. Sherlock feels overwhelmed. What’s the answer. What’s the … Sherlock sighs in frustration. He has never been good at describing his emotions. They’re always so … confusing. Not logical. That’s why he usually prefers to act like he doesn’t have them. But that doesn’t work anymore. Not when it comes to John. John. The reason why he’s here. The reason why … He needs to talk to someone. He needs to … Why can’t I do anything right …
“Sherlock,” Ella’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Are you still with me?”
He looks at her. He swallows again. “I …,” he starts, and then stops, because he can’t … “I feel like I’m losing control,” he finally says, and looks down at his entwined hands. And that’s the truth. He hears Ella scribble something into her notebook, and he can feel his face heating. Useless. Why are you always so useless …
“Control over what?” Ella asks softly.
“Everything. Everything is … different. Not
calculable. I don’t like when things are like that. I like … routine.” Sherlock restlessly scratches over his right elbow. It’s itching. A leftover from the regular drug use weeks ago. “Everything is chaos right now. And John … John is … I don’t know.” He looks out of the window again. Idiot.
Ella takes notes again. The pencil scratches on the paper. Sherlock doesn’t like the noise. He doesn’t like any noises right now. He wants to go home. He wants to lie down in his calm room and sleep.
“And what do you think, would help you against that feeling of losing control?”
“John,” Sherlock murmurs without looking at her. Obviously. But he hates you. He hates you and you’re useless to him now. You’re pathetic.
“Have you talked to John since you received his note?”
“No.” I would only make him more angry and sad.
“I want to try something. I want you to write letters to John. He doesn’t need to see them. I just want you to write down your thoughts. Your feelings. What you told me. Okay?”
Sherlock sighs. “I don’t know how that … yes, I’ll try,” he says
reluctantly. They will be full of pathetic ramblings. Great.
“Good. I’ll ask you a few more questions now …”
She asks him about his sleeping and eating habits. About his current feelings about the drugs. About possible suicidal thoughts. After that, he feels even more useless. Every single night, he lies awake thinking about what went wrong. How he could have done better. How he could be useful to John again. It’s pathetic. In the end, she prescribes
him something, which is supposed to help him sleep. She calls his problem depression. He’s not surprised. It’s the same diagnosis as years ago.
“Then I’ll see you next week?” She asks and smiles, “And you’ll bring a letter with you?”
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Next week. With the letter.” * When he leaves her office, the rain pours down on him and he shudders. The weather seems to reflect his mood perfectly. He sighs, and makes his way back to Baker Street. The flat, which isn’t really a home anymore.