Haunting

Home

You put a fever inside me
and I've been cold since you left.

Sherlock always felt like home to John.
That slender, reed-like figure was his safe place. When the memories became too much, when the world grew too bleak and his soul too weary, Sherlock was the place John went. His grey-blue eyes, his porcelain skin that nearly shamed parchment's white, his long fingers that ran through John's thick hair--everything about Sherlock somehow brought him peace. Even when the man tore up the kitchen with experiments and stowed body parts in the refrigerator, and even when he drove John up the wall.

He was perfect.

His dark, curled tendrils of hair that fell haphazardly over his forehead and framed his perfectly sculpted face.

His eyes that were the color of London fog, the color of a stormy sea.

His fingers that moved over the strings of a violin like they were only made for that purpose alone.

His supple and pale skin that would've looked unhealthy on anyone else, but fit him so perfectly.

His pursed and pink lips that mimicked the color of a sunset in the early stages when the sun was barely cresting the horizon.

Everything was perfect.

They rarely spoke about their feelings toward each other. They knew they were reciprocated. They knew they were important, but that they should be kept secret. They knew each other, and that was enough.

Late nights, John would feel Sherlock slide into his bed, silent and seeking John's warmth.

The slow mornings when John made breakfast, carefully and easily avoiding the beakers of God knows what.

But now those were gone.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

•

John's feet shuffled slightly, not lifting nearly as much as they had been at the days beginning. His figure was slumped slightly, curling in on itself as he stepped through the threshold and into the flat. He stood at the doorway, eyes wearily scanning over the dark room. He felt tears sting in his eyes and he tried to blink them away. When his breath hitched in his throat, and his chest convulsed slightly, the tears started. He vaguely felt them roll down his cheeks, but he paid no mind.

He felt his chest tighten when his eyes landed on a note, scrawled out in haste from days prior.

Be back by 5. Case with Lestrade.
~ S H

John's knees grew weak. He heard his keys clatter to the hard wood floor. Everything was so bleak. The stench of blood and wet pavement still lingered.

He was on autopilot, and he found himself in bed now. He vaguely wondered how he'd even gotten there. He decided it didn't matter. His fingers moved across the sheets and heavy duvet until they met what they were searching for. He gripped the soft fabric of Sherlock's pillow in his hands and pulled it to his chest. Burying his face into the pillow, John's tears started again.

Soon, he was asleep, but there was no solace in his dreams. They all consisted of what had happened only hours earlier. He forced himself not to believe it. If he didn't believe it, it wasn't true. It couldn't have happened. Sherlock was alive. How could he not be? This was Sherlock Holmes--he did not simply die. He was infallible. He was too wonderful to be dead. No. Any day, he would wake up and Sherlock would be laying next to him, or sitting upside down in his armchair, or putting arms and legs and hands and feet in the freezer amidst John's lasagna.

But days passed, and Sherlock was not there. Days passed and John sat silently, staring at his armchair until Sherlock returned. If he believed enough, Sherlock would come back. He had to.