Just Within Your Reach

John Watson - Eight

Oh my god. I feel so *so* bad because I couldn't post anything lately. But I pushed through what I could and I made you all a new chapter. My depression is getting better lately, so I thought I'd celebrate with trying to write you all a new one. Once again, I'm so sorry I didn't post sooner

It wasn't easy being in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was, in fact, the hardest bloody things John had every had to do in his life. It was the hardest thing he knew. Well....second hardest at the moment. But he wasn't going to do a things about it.

When Sherlock raised his voice, it got deeper. And lord above help him if that didn't get him all hot and bothered. But right now, he was angry at Sherlock. He was not going to get himself off when he was this pissed. 

He shucked his clothes off and climbed into his bed. It felt nice to be back in his own one. He didn't much like the one at the hotel, although if he was honest, it was only because Sherlock was much to close then. He was a floor above Sherlock now, and there wasn't a chance that if, and that was an if, he had a nightmare, Sherlock would not hear it. 

John shifted under the cover he'd pulled up and around himself and shuddered as he dragged the edge of his cock against the sheets.

No. He was not doing this. He'd lie perfectly still, and think about dead puppies. Not Sherlock's cheekbones, or the way he looked when he stepped out of the shower, or how his hair curled at his temples, or about when he was experimenting and he'd chew on his bottom lip. He wouldn't think about the way Sherlock arched his back like a fucking cat after he'd fallen asleep half on John and half on the sofa while watching some show on the telly. 

And he wouldn't think about the smile he got when Lestrade came over with a new murder. Or how when Molly (tried) to hit on Sherlock, he would always turn to John for some reason, as if asking "what should I do?".  And he wouldn't think about the private smile he gave John when he was particularly happy about something, or how he ran his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated. 

Bloody hell. He needed to sleep. Not lay here and think about Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was being pissed at Sherlock. For hiding that Lestrade had found a new body. Or how it had been spelling out Sherlock's name. 

John's chest constricted. He couldn't loose Sherlock again. Not after....the fall. It had taken two years...two years of drinking and hurting himself and talking to someone who wasn't even there...

And to make it all that much better, he'd turned down a lovely woman named Mary, who'd seemed quite into him. But he had been Sherlock's, still was Sherlock's. And then after two years, two bloody years, Sherlock had shown up. And....all that pain had just...evaporated. Had just left. 

And now, after a year and a-half of Sherlock being back, being here, someone was threatening him again. They'd been through so much already. Moriarty, The Fall, Eurus....

Especially Eurus. Seeing as she'd almost killed John. But they'd gone through it together. And now Sherlock was back to hiding things from John.

John rolled onto his back and closed his eyes tightly. Some how he always ended up here at night. Thinking about "The Fall". About how it felt to watch Sherlock fall off that building. And to see him there on the ground...

John shuddered and tears prickled at his eyes. He pressed his palm against them and let out a ragged breath. He fucking hated Sherlock. He hated him to no extent. He fucking hated Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

John turned back onto his side and held back the need to punch his pillow. He swallows and kept his eyes closed. He knew he wouldn't sleep. He never did anymore.

Because of Sherlock. And because of the war. And because of the fall. 

He fucking hated Sherlock Holmes. 

But he loved him even more.