Don't Stray From The Light

You Better Watch Your Tongue

It was odd, the feeling of terror that was thick in the air. It was unusually dark in the hotel room, shadows cast along the walls without the presence of any light that might have supplied them, and a dank smell of a basement lingering even on the top floor. It was unrealistic yet it was a dream, however in his panicked state john really had no way of knowing that. The window as shut and locked, for he had made sure of that not moments before as he scrambled towards the door, throwing the bolt and trying to press up a chair under the handle so as to ensure no one could enter from that way at all. It was a sad attempt at what might be considered safety, for the pit that was opening in his stomach was reason enough to believe that whatever measures he took would not prove useful for long. His next step was to hide the evidence, fighting tooth and nail merely to move with muscles that seemed to have turned to jelly, proving the utmost feeling of helplessness as he struggled against seemingly nothing. Someone was coming, of that he was sure, yet he didn't know when, and he didn't know who. All he knew was that he was in danger, and the mere presence of Sherlock's touch on his body was evidence enough. He burned in the places he had come into contact with Sherlock's skin, burned to the points where welts were being to form, skin was beginning to sizzle, and flesh was beginning to bubble. Yet it didn't hurt, although he saw the evidence that he must indeed be in pain. It was almost as if he was already in Hell, or at least the parts of him that were contaminated were. That would be what was coming for him then, the devil, or one of his minions? To send the rest of John's disgraced being to Hell where he belonged? John raced to the bed and shoved the letters under the mattress; doing his best to hide them from the public eye because he knew what was written in them was not for his accusers to see. Oh he should've burned those things when he had the chance, he should have been smarter than that! Just as John was falling away from the bed the window flew open, almost as if it had never been locked at all, and a darkened figure was emerging. It was slow at first, crawling with the mere outlines of limbs through the window that would prove to be its entrance, causing the most rigid, immobilizing fear to overtake John and paralyze him where he stood. This was the avenging angel, sent not from Hell but from Heaven instead, come to rid him of his sins, come to cleanse him in forms of fire. For a soul like John's could not be saved, for it had not committed a crime, it had merely conformed into something it was not supposed to be. A person who killed out of hate was easily fixable, yet a man who loved another man purely because his heart intended to, well that was a different matter entirely. Something that had nothing to do with fixing, nothing to do with repair. John had to go away now; he knew it in his heart. No body would be discovered, yet he would be dead. This shadow would take him, snatch him from the earth where he could be with the other men that had distorted their lives as he had, fallen prey to men as he had, and desecrated their chances of not only Heaven, but of redemption as well. This was the fate that awaited him, all he had to do was press his lips to Sherlock's, and such a fate was sealed. 

 John woke in a cold sweat, however he remained quite still. He saw that it was dark, yet it wasn't the type of hostile darkness that could be sensed in his dream. It was clam, quiet, and peaceful. It couldn't be long past ten o'clock, for he still smelled the lingering presence of candle smoke, however all was silent. Mary's presence was evident next to him, for the blankets did not fall off of the side of him but where instead stretched taught on the other side, promising that there was another figure lying next to him. It had to be Mary, for John knew that he would have woken in a much more pleasing way if it had indeed been Sherlock. His dream had terrified him; in fact he was still sweating as he tried to push the mere image of such a terrifying creature out of his mind. The feeling of anxiousness, the need to run, and the need to response, well it was still strong in him! It was the last thing he remembered, and so his body was still in that sort of fight or flight mode, despite his knowledge that both methods would be futile. He could only think to his wife beside him, and think to her so as to try to calm himself down. It was guilt that was eating him alive, he knew it for sure. It was that lingering thought that while Sherlock was so beautiful and so tempting, well John had responsibilities that far surpassed mere temptations of the body and the heart! There was the soul to take into account, the soul and the consciousness that deserved at least some of the recognition that was due! It was his wife, his loyal companion, the woman he had vowed himself to and the women he had pledged his heart and soul, well how easily was he really tossing her aside, carelessly? Did she not deserve his love as well? What type of husband had he become if a beautiful man by the light of a fire could tempt him away from the vows he had made on their wedding day, from the ring that he had put onto his own finger so as to remind himself of those sacred promises? What a monster he had become, and how deserving of his own fate! Maybe it was best for him to just disappear, away from whatever ladder he was steadily declining, so as to reach the bottom before anyone noticed he was gone.