![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: And It Won't Burn
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stupid_drawings
Author:vintage_handle
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mentions of drug abuse
Summary: The rushes of adrenaline will boost straight through your heart, and he will be there, an essential piece beside you. This is your dream now, your reality.
Notes: I just really hope that the second person perspective doesn't scare too many people off. But here's some wingfic for you,stupid_drawings! Hope you enjoy.
You are awake as he touches the very edges of your wingtips, carefully tracing invisible geometries. Outside, the rain pours hard — pitter-patter — against rooftops and pavement and doors. You relish the feel of his fingers and flesh against yours.
He doesn’t meet your eyes but he hears the sound of your voice, a small whisper trapped in two heartbeats.
“John,”
Thunder rolls in and claps, reverberating throughout the rooms. The windows don’t rattle, although you wish they would. Lightning streaks through the sky, slicing open clouds and gray air.
You shiver under his touch and curl your wings behind your back. He finally looks at you, looks at you straight in the eye. His openness (you can see through him; you can see through his soul) hurts; it is a small pain that scratches at you from the back of your mind.
He can’t love someone fallen. He doesn’t deserve someone who has lost their last shreds of humanity to drugs rushing through swollen veins, an incredible mind that runs on nothing but sheer willpower, and the lack of empathy brought upon by skills disguised as a blessing.
(It’s not true, of course. There’s something left there, but you think it’s not enough)
Rain streaks through the sky, muffling the unnatural lack of words. You try not to look into his eyes as you leave. Even the sound of the door shutting quietly is a loud banging against your temple.
That night, you hear him dreaming of regrets. You think it’s not fair.
---
His wings are made up of white feathers, all free from traces of Afghanistan and dying cabbies and gray criminals rotting behind barred cages (they’re just as free as anyone else is, and you know this).
But he smiles at you and everything is broken. His wings are flaked with red and black and he curls up in your arms, wingtips brushing against yours. You think: this isn’t right.
This isn’t right at all.
There is smoke and ash. There are the hints of sunlight seeping in through open cracks. There is silence, and there is blinding light.
The world rumbles and waves ripple through the air, sending you flying across. Your wings are seared, and you hear yourself scream.
---
He is white against white sheets, wings wrapped in gauze and clothes draped over a still frame. His breaths are small and steady, but not nonexistent. In the paleness of his skin there is life, and you are happy for this.
But the hum of the machines isn’t a comfort. You wish for silence.
(You wish for John to wake)
The bombs have hurt you both, and you feel your wings are heavy against your back. They weren’t enough to fly away into safety, and the thought of that presses down on you. You wish for it to go away but it doesn’t, because you’ve become ordinary.
Repulsive.
And when he wakes you will lash out at him, telling him how stupid he is. He will shake his head and counter. Both of you will argue and yell at each other in only the way you can. And then you will realize that you have both been saying the same thing. And then you will both yearn for your normalcy once again, willing for the cycle to continue.
(The same thing, over and over, again and again: I love you, I love you, I love you)
---
You’re doused under the shadow of your wings as you spread them out wide. A feather falls, blown away by the mercy of the wind. Maybe you should fly away. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Jim Moriarty is both a genius and a madman, someone who will fall victim to your games and play, essentially losing. This way it will only be the two of you, and no one else, because that’s all that matters.
But you remember what you’re leaving behind. You remember what you will lose.
Instead, you return to your room and wait for the night to pass. Nighttime London blesses you with the screeching of tires and horns and the flapping of wings. It blesses you with lamplights and cold cases taken from Lestrade’s files to satiate your boredom, for now.
(It is selfish, but you don’t care)
When he returns things will be back to normal and no one will mention it, choosing to leave the memories undisturbed as they flicker into vision from time to time.
John’s wings heal. Yours don’t. Perhaps they never will, hidden underneath your great coat, only the very edges of the dark wingtips peeking out from underneath. Feathers will continue to fall and your body continues to merely be transport.
But now there will be lingering touches and spots of warmth. There will be muffled smiles and sweet silence. There will be the sounds of heartbeats and the feeling of feathers against feathers all the same. There will be John, only John.
You will join tentative hands and exchange wordless whispers.
There aren’t any kisses. Your lips are dry and clean. You don’t need them, not yet.
---
He smiles and his eyes dance. Both of you are coated in sweat but that doesn’t matter. The lights are dim and you step closer until your shadows melt into one.
It is soft and chaste, the first time. His lips are dry and chapped and salty. You promise to yourself to always remember this taste, to engrave it into the deepest recesses of your living memory.
He doesn’t push you back, but he tugs you closer. Arms are entangled into a clumsy but firm embrace. Wings lock into place, rough edges fitting into nooks and crannies. It works out, your black contrasting against his white. Both of you are still, breathing in the scents and the sounds and the tastes. You don’t want this to end. This is merely the beginning. It’s supposed to be the beginning.
But then the air escapes from your lungs, never choosing to return. The ground hits you as your knees buckle and you realize that you’ve been holding your breath (how stupid, look at how all this emotion makes you stupid). John helps you up and tries to speak, but you cut him off with a dismissive wave.
It would be a nice way to die, but you don’t want to die yet. It’s more addicting than anything you’ve ever tried, and it seems more natural. You could live on this, waking up to the sensations every day, having that familiar figure beside you.
He kisses you again, and the two of you dance your way upstairs to steps without melody, to rhythms without beats.
---
Things change, but very slowly. First, the kisses come and go. None are fleeting but none are passionate. The two of you fight for blankets and kick each other, limbs entangled underneath sheets. You embrace each other, but your clothes insulate and keep a steady barrier in between two bodies.
And yet, you don’t worry.
Sometimes he just traces imaginary patterns on your wings, the path of his finger a beautiful sensation blooming through your back. You choose chemical diagrams and the shape of his bones, not even prominent against his flesh.
You choose arteries and veins. You choose his heart. He realizes this and smiles, promptly brushing his hand against your cheek. His palm is warm and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, moving to make space for his wings.
It’s your way of saying sorry, somehow. You will never forget the miscalculated jumps, the sudden sprints, the criminals with hidden weapons even you never realized.
(And of course: not realizing the answer sooner, forgetting that Jim wasn’t bound by any rules, letting him cover you as black spots hovered in and out of your vision, underestimating the damage of the impact and succumbing to the searing pain that scorched your body, your broken wings)
He breathes out, his body moving to make space for air and exhalation. You already know what he’ll say.
You press your lips against his nape and wait for the shiver. It comes, soft waves rippling beneath your mouth.
---
His fingers press into the curves of your back, digging deep and prodding darkened bruises. You make no sound, but you grit your teeth. The sound of ripping fills a short void of silence and something soothes your pain momentarily.
A sting. You flinch and grit your teeth.
“John—“
Another rip, and the warmth soothes, leaving the pain only throbbing dully.
“Don’t touch my wi—“
“You’ve always been shedding? For how long, Sherlock? They probably don’t get to breathe under that bulky coat of yours.”
His voice isn’t as harsh as you imagined. Something thumps dully at the back of your mind. His hands come away, a fistful of fallen feathers. Embarrassment creeps up but you don’t blush, only look away.
“Lucky that knife didn’t get in too deep. He probably didn’t know what he was doing, waving it just blindly around. But that only means good for us.” John says, smiling. Laughter is in his voice.
Your throat dries, sandpapery and choking.
“But you’ve always known.” You say. “Hasn’t it ever disturbed you? Why do you insist on saying that it’s all right?”
There is silence, and then the sound of bandages being wrapped. Your wings are more constricted, but they are dry and warm, free of blood and open wounds.
“...Oh.” He says. “Was that it? Is that why you’re always so...”
It’s quiet, but his fingers run through the length of your spine. There’s an unvoiced “you’re getting too thin again”, but that doesn’t matter.
“For a genius, you’re pretty daft.” He chuckles. “It never mattered, you know? People call you a freak and a psychopath, and that never bothered you. Your wings are falling apart, but you try, even if you barely care. I can help you fix them up, but it will take time.”
“You’re not saying—“
...Oh.
...Oh.
(Emotions have made you stupid, but you don’t mind, at least you try not to)
John smiles, his lips curling up.
You’ve never needed another fix until he came along, thundering through. You don’t need them anymore, because he’ll take that place. The rushes of adrenaline will boost straight through your heart, and he will be there, an essential piece beside you.
“You know, I never minded. Don’t bother feeling guilty. Losing your wings like this doesn’t make you a monster.”
He doesn’t say anything about humanity, but you don’t think he needs to.
---
The violin sonata rings through both of your ears, both of your hearts. His hands are warm against your back and the sunlight lies trapped against the glass windows. You don’t understand the words but you understand what he means, and you understand what you feel.
This is the first time.
Your hands fall to your sides and your lips taste of salt and tea. White feathers tickle your neck and you spread your wings wide.
He falls with you and you both laugh, black feathers flying in the air. You have no need for flight, no need for escape.
This is your dream now, your reality.
Recipient:
stupid_drawingsAuthor:
vintage_handleCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Teen
Warnings: mentions of drug abuse
Summary: The rushes of adrenaline will boost straight through your heart, and he will be there, an essential piece beside you. This is your dream now, your reality.
Notes: I just really hope that the second person perspective doesn't scare too many people off. But here's some wingfic for you,
stupid_drawings! Hope you enjoy.You are awake as he touches the very edges of your wingtips, carefully tracing invisible geometries. Outside, the rain pours hard — pitter-patter — against rooftops and pavement and doors. You relish the feel of his fingers and flesh against yours.
He doesn’t meet your eyes but he hears the sound of your voice, a small whisper trapped in two heartbeats.
“John,”
Thunder rolls in and claps, reverberating throughout the rooms. The windows don’t rattle, although you wish they would. Lightning streaks through the sky, slicing open clouds and gray air.
You shiver under his touch and curl your wings behind your back. He finally looks at you, looks at you straight in the eye. His openness (you can see through him; you can see through his soul) hurts; it is a small pain that scratches at you from the back of your mind.
He can’t love someone fallen. He doesn’t deserve someone who has lost their last shreds of humanity to drugs rushing through swollen veins, an incredible mind that runs on nothing but sheer willpower, and the lack of empathy brought upon by skills disguised as a blessing.
(It’s not true, of course. There’s something left there, but you think it’s not enough)
Rain streaks through the sky, muffling the unnatural lack of words. You try not to look into his eyes as you leave. Even the sound of the door shutting quietly is a loud banging against your temple.
That night, you hear him dreaming of regrets. You think it’s not fair.
His wings are made up of white feathers, all free from traces of Afghanistan and dying cabbies and gray criminals rotting behind barred cages (they’re just as free as anyone else is, and you know this).
But he smiles at you and everything is broken. His wings are flaked with red and black and he curls up in your arms, wingtips brushing against yours. You think: this isn’t right.
This isn’t right at all.
There is smoke and ash. There are the hints of sunlight seeping in through open cracks. There is silence, and there is blinding light.
The world rumbles and waves ripple through the air, sending you flying across. Your wings are seared, and you hear yourself scream.
He is white against white sheets, wings wrapped in gauze and clothes draped over a still frame. His breaths are small and steady, but not nonexistent. In the paleness of his skin there is life, and you are happy for this.
But the hum of the machines isn’t a comfort. You wish for silence.
(You wish for John to wake)
The bombs have hurt you both, and you feel your wings are heavy against your back. They weren’t enough to fly away into safety, and the thought of that presses down on you. You wish for it to go away but it doesn’t, because you’ve become ordinary.
Repulsive.
And when he wakes you will lash out at him, telling him how stupid he is. He will shake his head and counter. Both of you will argue and yell at each other in only the way you can. And then you will realize that you have both been saying the same thing. And then you will both yearn for your normalcy once again, willing for the cycle to continue.
(The same thing, over and over, again and again: I love you, I love you, I love you)
You’re doused under the shadow of your wings as you spread them out wide. A feather falls, blown away by the mercy of the wind. Maybe you should fly away. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Jim Moriarty is both a genius and a madman, someone who will fall victim to your games and play, essentially losing. This way it will only be the two of you, and no one else, because that’s all that matters.
But you remember what you’re leaving behind. You remember what you will lose.
Instead, you return to your room and wait for the night to pass. Nighttime London blesses you with the screeching of tires and horns and the flapping of wings. It blesses you with lamplights and cold cases taken from Lestrade’s files to satiate your boredom, for now.
(It is selfish, but you don’t care)
When he returns things will be back to normal and no one will mention it, choosing to leave the memories undisturbed as they flicker into vision from time to time.
John’s wings heal. Yours don’t. Perhaps they never will, hidden underneath your great coat, only the very edges of the dark wingtips peeking out from underneath. Feathers will continue to fall and your body continues to merely be transport.
But now there will be lingering touches and spots of warmth. There will be muffled smiles and sweet silence. There will be the sounds of heartbeats and the feeling of feathers against feathers all the same. There will be John, only John.
You will join tentative hands and exchange wordless whispers.
There aren’t any kisses. Your lips are dry and clean. You don’t need them, not yet.
He smiles and his eyes dance. Both of you are coated in sweat but that doesn’t matter. The lights are dim and you step closer until your shadows melt into one.
It is soft and chaste, the first time. His lips are dry and chapped and salty. You promise to yourself to always remember this taste, to engrave it into the deepest recesses of your living memory.
He doesn’t push you back, but he tugs you closer. Arms are entangled into a clumsy but firm embrace. Wings lock into place, rough edges fitting into nooks and crannies. It works out, your black contrasting against his white. Both of you are still, breathing in the scents and the sounds and the tastes. You don’t want this to end. This is merely the beginning. It’s supposed to be the beginning.
But then the air escapes from your lungs, never choosing to return. The ground hits you as your knees buckle and you realize that you’ve been holding your breath (how stupid, look at how all this emotion makes you stupid). John helps you up and tries to speak, but you cut him off with a dismissive wave.
It would be a nice way to die, but you don’t want to die yet. It’s more addicting than anything you’ve ever tried, and it seems more natural. You could live on this, waking up to the sensations every day, having that familiar figure beside you.
He kisses you again, and the two of you dance your way upstairs to steps without melody, to rhythms without beats.
Things change, but very slowly. First, the kisses come and go. None are fleeting but none are passionate. The two of you fight for blankets and kick each other, limbs entangled underneath sheets. You embrace each other, but your clothes insulate and keep a steady barrier in between two bodies.
And yet, you don’t worry.
Sometimes he just traces imaginary patterns on your wings, the path of his finger a beautiful sensation blooming through your back. You choose chemical diagrams and the shape of his bones, not even prominent against his flesh.
You choose arteries and veins. You choose his heart. He realizes this and smiles, promptly brushing his hand against your cheek. His palm is warm and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, moving to make space for his wings.
It’s your way of saying sorry, somehow. You will never forget the miscalculated jumps, the sudden sprints, the criminals with hidden weapons even you never realized.
(And of course: not realizing the answer sooner, forgetting that Jim wasn’t bound by any rules, letting him cover you as black spots hovered in and out of your vision, underestimating the damage of the impact and succumbing to the searing pain that scorched your body, your broken wings)
He breathes out, his body moving to make space for air and exhalation. You already know what he’ll say.
You press your lips against his nape and wait for the shiver. It comes, soft waves rippling beneath your mouth.
His fingers press into the curves of your back, digging deep and prodding darkened bruises. You make no sound, but you grit your teeth. The sound of ripping fills a short void of silence and something soothes your pain momentarily.
A sting. You flinch and grit your teeth.
“John—“
Another rip, and the warmth soothes, leaving the pain only throbbing dully.
“Don’t touch my wi—“
“You’ve always been shedding? For how long, Sherlock? They probably don’t get to breathe under that bulky coat of yours.”
His voice isn’t as harsh as you imagined. Something thumps dully at the back of your mind. His hands come away, a fistful of fallen feathers. Embarrassment creeps up but you don’t blush, only look away.
“Lucky that knife didn’t get in too deep. He probably didn’t know what he was doing, waving it just blindly around. But that only means good for us.” John says, smiling. Laughter is in his voice.
Your throat dries, sandpapery and choking.
“But you’ve always known.” You say. “Hasn’t it ever disturbed you? Why do you insist on saying that it’s all right?”
There is silence, and then the sound of bandages being wrapped. Your wings are more constricted, but they are dry and warm, free of blood and open wounds.
“...Oh.” He says. “Was that it? Is that why you’re always so...”
It’s quiet, but his fingers run through the length of your spine. There’s an unvoiced “you’re getting too thin again”, but that doesn’t matter.
“For a genius, you’re pretty daft.” He chuckles. “It never mattered, you know? People call you a freak and a psychopath, and that never bothered you. Your wings are falling apart, but you try, even if you barely care. I can help you fix them up, but it will take time.”
“You’re not saying—“
...Oh.
...Oh.
(Emotions have made you stupid, but you don’t mind, at least you try not to)
John smiles, his lips curling up.
You’ve never needed another fix until he came along, thundering through. You don’t need them anymore, because he’ll take that place. The rushes of adrenaline will boost straight through your heart, and he will be there, an essential piece beside you.
“You know, I never minded. Don’t bother feeling guilty. Losing your wings like this doesn’t make you a monster.”
He doesn’t say anything about humanity, but you don’t think he needs to.
The violin sonata rings through both of your ears, both of your hearts. His hands are warm against your back and the sunlight lies trapped against the glass windows. You don’t understand the words but you understand what he means, and you understand what you feel.
This is the first time.
Your hands fall to your sides and your lips taste of salt and tea. White feathers tickle your neck and you spread your wings wide.
He falls with you and you both laugh, black feathers flying in the air. You have no need for flight, no need for escape.
This is your dream now, your reality.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-06-17 05:02 pm (UTC)Feathers will continue to fall and your body continues to merely be transport. is a damn fine line. Made me have a lot of emotions. Actually, the whole thing accomplished that, but that line was just particularly pretty.
Thank you so much! I know I probably had way too vague and unhelpful a request and I am amazed this came out of it.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-05 01:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 02:01 am (UTC)