I attract riptide broken men leaking bits of soul,
nothing but bravado holding hearts
intact. Come to me, all soft flesh and
dull nails unable to truly scratch.
Let my hips heal you, let my lips guide
your ragged triangle edges back smooth. Why don’t
you ever let me hold you? Come here.
I’ll fold you into uneven squares
of paper I could pop into my mouth where
you are safe
melted together like calm lake, current
calm, rocks skipping like records.
There had been a moment. A swift, sudden, terrifying moment. Sherlock and John didn’t speak of it, and John was pretty sure that Sherlock had absolutely no recollection of the event because when John had casually mentioned it the following morning as a joke, there had been no reaction. John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks. When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed. Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol. He wore a look of dopey happiness and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat. He was so beautiful when he looked stupid. Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him. For a full eight seconds. Surprised and embarrassed, John had tried to recover but there was no use. The damage had been done. As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong. And they had gotten on drinking so heavily after that that neither of them thought about it at all.
That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.
“we were both at this party and you were the designated driver but i was too drunk to give you my address so i woke up in your bed and commented on how you were way out of my league before realizing we didnt sleep together” au
or the one where min yoongi questions every single one of his life choices
Do you know that poem?” John asks him. “’Do not go gentle into that good night’?”
Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly. Imprints the image in front of him into his synapses: John, smiling. John, tender. John, old; John, young; John, in-between. John. Just that. John.
“Yes,” he says.
“’Rage, rage, against the dying of the light’?”
“I know it.”
John takes his hands between his own. The texture of his skin is pressed against Sherlock’s once more. For the last time. Calloused at the fingertips, soft in the middle. A metaphor, in that, Sherlock thinks. The wedding band that has been there so many times cold, but always clean, shining, and warmed by the both of them now.