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is a bean pole. That was the first thing I first noticed about him. He greeted Sherlock with a massive bear hug in the lobby of New Scotland Yard. The man who greeted Sherlock seems excitable, like every single thing can send him off smiling massively. He laughs. With his tongue quite sticking out. It was disturbing. I expected Sherlock to look quite put out with the overt display of affection, but no. He was grinning his full on delighted grin, all his laugh lines sketched on his pale thin face. Along with the light splash of blush on his sharp cheekbones. When they got over the hugging, Sherlock introduced the man to me. We exchanged pleasantries.
His name is Victor Trevor.
He is an accomplished chef. Owns a gastro pub in Scotland and a restaurant in France.
Sherlock’s best friend in uni. Or so he says.
This smiling man is at least an inch taller than Sherlock, is of the same physique with Sherlock and has these expressive eyes, reinforced with bushy brows that gives the look of half pleading and half being a puppy. Strong jaws, thin lips and brushed up hair. He keeps on smiling though, like nothing is amiss with the world. It’s already grating on my nerves. He is also touchy. They were done hugging but still his hands were lingering on Sherlock’s waist, looking possessive and holy bloody hell, get your shit together Watson.
“Oh John, we are grabbing lunch. Do you want to come?” Trevor does not have the right to address me by my first name. Only my friends can call me that. I tried my very best not to scowl at him.
“I can’t come, sorry. The surgery called, emergency shift,” I swung my right arm to look at the watch latched on my wrist. “Needed to be there in 15.”
“That’s too bad. Well, I’ll be seeing you around then. Nice meeting you again John.” Victor Trevor waved, smiling again. His teeth are reflecting so much fluorescent light.
“You too, Trevor,” I waved while I was heading to the door of NSY. “See you later Sherlock.”
“Whoa John, slow down. It’s just us. Is something the matter?” Ah, the ever perceptive, and might I add perspiring, detective inspector. “You are taking this a tad bit seriously, mate.”
I did not answer. I can’t think of one. Should I tell him the jealousy eating since yesterday? Sherlock came home late that day. Turned out that Trevor and Sherlock decided to have a walk across London and when they got tired of walking, they hopped on a cab and headed for the area near their old university. They ate around there, trying out the new restaurants that were not there before. They also visited the local police station there as well, unfortunately, they do not have even a single interesting case. In consolation, Trevor brought Sherlock to his place and baked him a banoffee pie. It was his favourite, Sherlock said to me.
I did not know he love banoffee pie. That must be what is eating me. I did not know his favourite desert.
I sat on the field and just stopped thinking for a while. “Uhm, Do you know, er, Trevor?”
“What?”
I cleared my throat, gathered my knees to my chest and looked down at the grass beneath them. “Trevor. Victor Trevor,” I clarified.
I saw Greg’s shadow darkened the area I have been staring at and felt him settled beside me. He was panting loudly. We are getting quite old, him and I. We have just played a couple rounds and we are already gasping for air and are in need of a breather. What prompted me to look up, I will never know but the human brain has this gaze radar or some such thing so I guess that was it. So I lifted my head up and saw Greg smiling at me. Creepily.
“Greg,” He just continues on smiling. “What is it? Do I have something on my face?” Still no answer. “WHAT IS IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GREG.” It was then when Greg laid back, with his forearms behind his head and his eyes closed. He was still smiling. Smiling a shit eating grin. “And before you say it, no. I am not jealous.” Greg just snorted.
“I know him,” Greg answered after a beat, prompting me to look back at him. “Tall bloke?” Nod. “Long legs?” Nod. “Quite fit? Pert arse?” I reluctantly nodded. “He is Sherlock’s ex.” I sort of guessed that already and I was right. Hooray. Fucking Hooray. “I did not know what happened with them, you would not think that those two would ever break up if you’ve seen them together back then. Inseparable. Devoted to each other. Victor worshipped him. Sherlock loved being with him.” Greg was staring at me when he said that. I was looking at everything but him. “I told you, you know.” He said with conviction.
He was of course alluding to our conversation that happened a couple of months ago. It was on one of our pub nights. I was pissed. Greg was pissed. Our conversation that night turned from sex, boobs and women to theology, space, time traveling and existentialism. I told you we were pissed, absolutely pissed. I cannot exactly remember how we broached the subject. I might have poured my heart out to him, talked about the unrequited love I have for the one and only consulting detective.
Greg told me to just get out there, and tell Sherlock what I really feel. That the worst thing that could happen is me being rejected, Greg told me. I retaliated that it might ruin our friendship, yadda yadda. Greg did not think that that was what is going to ruin our friendship, but it is my bottling of my emotions that is going to end us. Come out clean, and if he rejects you, which is so unlikely because the man adores you, Greg said, then move on. Simple. You will own up and get it over it. At least you will have some closure on the matter if you decided to tell Sherlock. Greg stated sagely.
I should have listened, bloody hell. I might have the chance back then.
I nodded, sombrely. “I know.” I am feeling shitty. And worthless.
“It will be fine.” He clapped my back. “You will be fine.” And who am I to argue right? I’ll get past this. Sherlock and I will be alright. I stood up and headed for the benches.
It occurred to me that night that, I was just deluding myself with the idea of me having even a slight chance with Sherlock at all. And that was quite depressing.
Wishful thinking. Psh.
We seldom saw each other, Sherlock and I, those past few days. He was up and about around United Kingdom. I may or may not have been avoiding him by taking up double shifts in the surgery but whenever I was in the flat, Sherlock is not in it for the most of the time. He must be avoiding me as well. Or that he was just terribly occupied with Trevor. At some point, I learned they were in Edinburgh, Trevor must have brought Sherlock to his gastro pub and that they went down to Sussex and visited Sherlock’s childhood home. I don’t know which is worse really: him avoiding me or just him plainly forgetting about me.
Victor and I are currently having dinner at his restaurant.
He was appalled that I did not invite you.
Might as well get over here. To put a stop to his nagging.
SH
I was staring broodily, not really watching, at the telly even though it was on. I am not sulking, just so we are clear on that front. I am lounging on our sofa, questioning the entirety of humanity’s existence, when I received that text. Well, at least Sherlock’s going to have some food in his stomach.
It was kind of him to remember me, cheers.
Although, not sure if it’s a good idea.
JW
I might be disturbing you both.
You need to do a lot of catching up.
JW
There. That was not so bad. Sounds void of sentiments or anything.
Oh, my god. I am turning into a hormone driven fucking teenager.
Alright, have fun sulking.
SH
That. Was quite uncalled for.
“HEY!”
That was my overly enthusiastic greeting to Sherlock, paired with a quite disturbing full on grin, if I do not say so myself, when he entered my office. There was a noticeably John shaped absence when he stepped in and closed the door.
Sherlock eyed me warily. “Afternoon, Lestrade,” He sat on the chair opposite mine, his mile long legs stretched out in front of him and hands clasped behind his head. “Anything for me?”
I do, but I want Sherlock to grovel for it. “Nothing I could solve.”
“Never has there been a more blatant lie.”
“Shut it Holmes, or I am going to kick your arse so hard that you will land on the next block’s curb. Got that?” Sherlock just hummed. “So what really brings you here?”
“I am bored. John’s not always in the flat and everything going far too slowly for my liking.” It was our unspoken code. Too slow means that he is tempted to shoot up, so tempted, obviously so tempted that he opt to come to my office and just take the off chance of me having an odd case to distract his mind. That got me, actually. This kid is trying really hard and I am depriving him of mental stimulation. I shot my arm out, without removing my eyes from him, pulled a drawer and rifled through the files a couple of seconds. I then emerged with what I was intending to find and handed it over to Sherlock. The second I gave it to him, his face lit up like a Christmas tree, making him look a five year old with a new toy.
“That has been passed amongst the ranks, gave us all massive headaches. Should be a piece of cake for you,” I was absolutely stalling. I am thinking of a right time to bring up John.
“What is it Lestrade?” Sherlock’s head lifted up and looked at me straight into my eyes. “I can hear you thinking, it’s painful to witness.” Fortunately Sherlock the git spoke up, consequently taking the decision from me.
“Nothing,” I rose up from my really comfortable chair. I headed to the far wall adjacent to my table, with my favourite mug, the one with handcuffs designed on it and poured some of the coffee Sally brewed up for me in it. “I was just wondering why John’s not with you,” Dropped two cubes, stirred and immediately drank a quarter of the liquid. Good thing the insides of my mouth is a tad bit immune to hot liquids.
Sherlock frowned. “I don’t know. He was not in the flat when I got home last night. Did not even left a note.”
“Where were you last night in the first place?”
“I do not need to tell you anything I do outside of cases Lestrade.”
“Were you with Trevor?”
Sherlock spluttered a vague “What?” with eyes comically bugging out. “What does that have to do with anything?!” He said it, quite indignantly.
“Everything,” I said with slight stern. “Now, did John know you were out with Trevor last night?”
“Of course he did. I texted him.”
“And what good does it do, John knowing what you are doing?” I am feeling pissed at Sherlock. For John. The man is cold and insensitive, but I never imagined in the life of me that he is this cold and insensitive to his one and only friend. I thought John was Sherlock’s only exception. Well. Apparently not.
“Informing him was not my intention but Victor fervently insisted on inviting John. So I did, but John declined. End of story.”
“Did you notice something different with John these past few days then? Especially from the day Victor arrived?” I am getting desperate, that is why asked those. I want them together, John and Sherlock. Plus, it is honestly painful to endure John’s pining, which was expressed in drunken conversations and stares from across the bloody room. I have no right to tell or even allude Sherlock about John’s unrequited feelings for him but come on. If this is the only way to help the guy then fine, I’ll do it.
“He has taken up more shifts in the surgery than usual, we haven’t talked lately well apart from our conversations through texts, plus his clockwork like reminders of ‘Eat some lunch.’ Or dinner, or breakfast, well I take it you grasped the idea, whenever he was not in the flat but that stopped also when I replied to it one time.” Sherlock has this look that suggests he was somewhere far away unreachable. His fingers, meeting at the tips, were placed beneath his chin.
“When was this? And what did you say?”
“It was a couple of days ago. I said he shouldn’t bother reminding me whilst Victor is in London because the man drags me to every establishment that as so much as serve fish and chips.”
“Did he reply then?”
“Of course he did. He apologised for bothering me. Then radio silence after that.”
I sat on my chair, imagining the situation with me and a-lot-more-oblivious Mycroft. Of course, that dismissal would have hurt me like a fucking jagged knife to my heart. I would not be surprised if John, who did not plan on avoiding Sherlock, was actively doing it already. Just when I was debating on whether I should wait for Sherlock to connect the ideas, to formulate the gossamer threads that are the matters of the heart or just say the truth to him bluntly, no holds barred, I heard him utter a soft “Oh.” breathlessly.
His eyes were open, his face was clear, as if he has the full knowledge of every single secret in this world when in truth he just unravelled what John was feeling. “I have hurt him,” He said, his baritone voice even deeper than usual. “He thinks I prefer Victor when obviously I do not.”
“Of course he bloody well thinks that because you preferring him does not show Sherlock,” I sound like a scolding parent. Truthfully, I look at Sherlock like a father would at his son. I am protective of the big baby, not just because I saw him at his lowest point and helped him get clean, but because there is this certain vulnerability and innocence in this man that turns on my paternal instincts. “You spent the half of this week gallivanting around London with Victor and when the man reminds you to eat because he cares for your wellbeing, you shut him down by essentially telling him that Victor is already taking care of you, you daft git!” I did not notice that I have stood up, trying to loom down at the still consulting detective. I may have raised my voice, just a little bit, I think.
Sherlock did not respond. He was just flipping the information over and over in his head, unable to comprehend the obvious. I was at the end of my long patience so I decided to just drop the bomb over him and be done with it. “The man’s in love with you Sherlock. So much. So much, so deeply that I just have to do something about it you know. Get him closure and all that because clearly you do not feel the same way, but it’s all fine Sherlock, the man’s alright with just being friends with you. He would rather just keep his feelings for you to himself and not risk your friendship tha—“
“Shut up Lestrade,” I stopped, I wanted to push it but then I saw his despondent face. “How long?” Those two words carry tons of indifference, trying to mask the starkness of curiosity that is pulsing in the sentence.
“I am not sure,” My brows knitted together in my effort to remember when exactly. “Around the time of your case about Adler and the dog in Baskerville, I think.” John realised he was in love with the idiot when he was, ironically, jealous as well, but then, he was. Of Irene.
The door swung open behind Sherlock without so much of a knock. Imagine our utter surprise when we saw the face of the one army doctor we were talking about by the door frame, with an aborted greeting on his lips. He took in our shocked pale faces. We were seemingly frozen, all three of us, like a tableau. John took in my guilty expression and Sherlock’s ashen face. He pointedly looked at us back and forth for a moment and then something must have clicked in his mind because his curious and questioning expression gradually transformed to something ugly. John came in the room, shut the door and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, bags sticking out in result, and took a deep calming breath. He inhaled for a couple more times. And when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“You shouldn’t have told him.” I see. So, it’s me, who is going to receive the lashing first.
“I am sorry. Truly. But—“
“It was not yours to tell Greg.”
“I know, but listen to me John. It was—”
“How could I when you specifically disregard my telling you not to breathe a word to him?!” John’s face was frantic, glowing with quiet rage and indignation.
“I cannot just stand by the side lines and watch John, you know I can’t.”
“Don’t.” John held up a finger, and my mouth automatically shuts up. His head was down. I am breathing more heavily now. I waited. Sherlock, miraculously was just sitting there silently and was refraining from exacerbating the situation by opening his goddamn mouth.
When John’s head bobbed up, we were presented with a disconsolate face and dejected eyes.
“We will never talk about, or so much allude, to this again. Neither here nor there,” I was torn. I wanted to clarify the air among us. That I was just doing what I think was right and was for the best for them both but I cannot think straight. I feel nauseous. “Got it?”
Neither of us replied, but John took our silence as an affirmative. He nodded once, sharply. He then made a manoeuvre and headed out. Although the man was angry, seething angry, especially with me, he did not slam the door. The soft snick of the knob confirmed it. The closing of the door must have awaken Sherlock in a trance because he shot up suddenly, followed John out the door and before I knew it, I was alone. With only a cold cup of coffee to keep me company.
I was kicking my legs as far out as they can to cover more ground. I am bloody flying, just to catch up to John. I dodged people to get in the lift but it was full already so I quickly changed phase and headed to the stairs. I climbed down, skipping a couple of flights as I go. My mind was racing, so many threads at once, bouncing back and forth in my palace’s walls.
John would assumed the worst of the situation. Of course he would. I would probably as well, should I had the same information which was delivered entirely in the wrong way. I am annoyed with him. I am, as you would notice, not fond or conversations or just anything that would involve human interactions, but I would have us talk this through, if I were in his situation. I would not clam up and just let it be. I would fight tooth and nail to have myself be heard. But I cannot blame him. It was his own way of protecting himself. John would rather not go through all the talking, because scraping scabs would only delay the healing and leaves high probability of scaring. Or some such shit. This untimely acquisition of John data is threatening to dismantle the entirety of my organised bank of information. Focus! Quickly, my mind engaged the action associated with it, which was compartmentalisation of numerous racing thoughts from each other. I need to concentrate and be able to make a list of places where John might have headed.
Surgery.
Sarah.
Harry.
Pub.
221b.
Bart’s.
Those came up as soon as I thought of it.
He will not go back to the surgery since, he just came from there. He cannot be heading to Sarah’s because the woman is still at work and frankly, her relationship with John is non-existent. Of course he could head to the pub but John is not fond of drinking by himself and since he is I think, a tad bit angry at his drinking buddy, which is Lestrade, he would be alone. So no on the pub, then. He will not go to Bart’s because he only steps foot in there when yours truly is there in the first place.
Surgery
Sarah
Harry
Pub.
221b
Bart’s.
That just leaves our flat and Harry’s.
When John is pissed off and does not want to say hurtful things, he prefers to go out and get some air as he poetically put it. He whispers his frustrations to the bustling city, pours out all his anger by stomping hardly on the ground as he takes a step and lets the ugly countenance be swept off of his face by the cold wind. So when he comes back, he has a clear mind and absolute stance on the matter. I do not think he will be in our flat though. He might head over to Harry’s but of course he would need to pack all his essentials before he could head off there, so in effect, he will still need to head back to 221b. Eventually.
I decided to head to Regent’s Park and sit there for just a while but then, after half an hour, I got bored. I flagged a cab and headed straight back to Baker Street. I was not expecting John to be there frankly, so imagine my surprise, although I did not let it show on my face, when I saw him casually sitting on the couch, watching the telly. I tried for nonchalance. I went to the kitchen, intending to make a cuppa. Black with a splash of milk for John and black with two sugars for myself. I placed the cuppa in front of him. He reached for it without sparing a glance at me or the cup. He blew on the surface. I sat beside him. Quite closely that what can be considered is comfortable. I leaned back, closed my eyes and just let the telly drone on and on in the background, flooding my brain with mindless chatter. I waited. Patiently. Painstakingly.
John turned the telly off after the show he has been watching ended. Both our teas long gone. My head was resting at the back of the sofa, my legs stretched in front of me. I do not know how to proceed really, fortunately John made the leap for the both of us.
“I am sorry,” said John softly. Well, that wasn’t any leap. More like a step back.
“What for?”
“For the sentiments. I feel. For you,” John shrugged. “It’s an inconvenience.” I just hummed, acknowledging his answer although, I did not reply. John ought to say his piece first before I could get to mine. “Such an inconvenience that your Work is being neglected. I only have myself to blame for that. I am terribly sorry, for that I mean.” John was looking at me directly with determined eyes that was saying, we should not talk about it. Water under the bridge Sherlock. But I cannot. I found it hard to just chuck the problem out of the window and be done with it.
“You had no right to be jealous.” That was more cuttingly blunt that I intended to. John flinched.
“Of course Sherlock, I get it,” His voice hauntingly quiet and sombre. “Can we please just spare ourselves and stop all this?” He gestured between us and the entirety of the flat. I am not sure what he was asking though, was he referring to this conversation or to our friendship? “I’ll just go up to my room now. I’m tired.” My hand shot out before I could think about it and grabbed his forearm firmly.
“You had no right to be jealous of Victor,” I said quietly and with deliberate slowness. “When,” I pulled him gently, so that he was standing in the space between my legs. “I was only helping,” My hold slid from his arms to his hands. I was staring at the image of his hands in mine. It felt incredible, just right. As if I was meant to do hold his hand all my life. I am riveted. “A friend—“ John snorted at that. “Organise his wedding.”
John’s hand stilled in mine. “Well, not really organise because the preparations were already finished. More like helping him complete it.” I looked up to see his reaction. He was still, deathly still and was pale. His eyes were glazed, obviously processing what I just told him. I gave him time to take it all in with the pace he was comfortable with.
After quite some time, finally John cleared his throat. “Uhm, friend?” He asked uncertainly, with a dash of understated hope. I nodded. “His wedding?” I nodded again. “His wedding with a fiancé who is not you?”
I nodded again. “Well of course, it would be awkward to ask me as his best man if I was to be his groom.” A beam of enlightenment lit John’s face up quite noticeably. “And I am sure that Darcy would feel quite offended with you assuming her to be a man.” I pointed out.
“Uhm.” John said unintelligibly. I was still holding both of his hands in mine, intertwining and releasing it alternately.
“I deduced that he was going to marry when we were in Edinburgh. He brought me to his gastro pub. There we ate and just reminisced, catching up with each other’s lives. But I must have blurted out then and there, whilst he was in the middle of telling his story on how he bought his first business venture, I asked, ‘When?’ and he understood immediately. He said a fortnight from that day. All preparations were done, it was just the best man missing. I must have this blank but trying to understand look on my face because he laughed and said, ‘Yes, I am, in every actuality, asking you to be my best man’. I almost declined you know, because I did not expect anyone to invite me, much less ask me to be their best man but here was Victor, so I said yes,” I paused and looked up to John.
“We went to Sussex because Victor happened to mention to his parents that he was visiting me. His parents, who are incredibly fond of me,” John opened his mouth, a question already on his lips. “And no, I do not know why, but they kept on asking about me to Victor and Victor, annoyed as hell that his parents cannot stop asking about me, brought me to Sussex. They were still the kind people as I remembered them to be. The Trevors, I mean, especially Victor’s parents. It was, I daresay, nice, to be around them after a long time,” I finally noticed that John has been standing this whole time (I blame the captivating image of both our hands in each other’s) so I tugged at his hand, to get John’s attention and pat my lap. John muttered a negative, moving to sit beside me.
“Don’t be stubborn John,” I said sternly. John acquiesced, but not without conveying his annoyance at my insistence. I widen the space between my legs so that John can squeeze himself in. When he settled in, I wrapped my arms around his waist firmly and spoke in a quiet voice. “Victor invited you, because he knows I would have wanted you to be there,” John dropped his head on my shoulder. In turn I rested my cheek at the top of his hair. “It was an introductory dinner of some sort between Darcy and me because Victor wanted us to meet officially before and not on the wedding proper.
“Darcy works in an international bank as their financial analyst. She said it was boring but she happens to enjoy it. She was not, this typical too good to be true, kind of lady to be honest. She believes strongly in her beliefs, and will do everything she can to make you see the point of things in her perspective which can be completely different but she listens carefully, with respect, to another’s opinion and understands them. She is a comic book nerd. She loves Deadpool and Aquaman and Harley Quinn. Her music taste spreads across, from Birdy and DJ Khaled to Imagine Dragons and In This Moment. She is an avid film theatre goer and obviously she loves films, just one of the many aspects that I found she was similar with Victor, especially those which are gory and gruesome, can have violent deaths or none, but she has this soft spot for romantic comedy. She is well read, and it has been only recently that she got away from the posh and stuffy, Darcy’s words not mine, classics to the chick lit and young adult books. They both love to travel and explore the world. They’ve been to New Zealand, Africa, California and Singapore already. They are planning on going to Machu Pichu for their honeymoon.
“They are in love John. It was pouring out of their skins. I can smell it from the both of them and I can see it in their eyes. At that moment, I wanted you to be there, because I can’t help but easily imagine the both of us looking like that; so in love, it was quite nauseating,” I paused, only noticing the dryness in my throat. I swallowed to push back the need to drink water. “So I asked Victor, and Darcy if I could invite you. They agreed enthusiastically but Darcy said not to mention her in my text. I don’t know why but I guess she wanted to spring on you as well, since she asked Victor not to mention her to me. I just now realised what that must have implied when it was only Victor and I having dinner.”
John stood up, headed to the kitchen, and brought back a glass of water. After drinking the whole thing, I held the cup to John, who put it on the table. He then came back and unceremoniously draped himself on me, my arms ended up wounding around John. It was comforting, his weight on my lap and his head on my shoulder, facing my neck, breathing me in. I dropped a kiss on his head before proceeding. “I was so jealous of them John, I wanted something like that. But I was happy for Victor because he found happiness in Darcy and vice versa.”
I am not used to this, feeling and expressing. Sentiments, in general really because it goes against all what I have been standing for. Caring is not an advantage, but if I do not tell John right now what I feel, I might burst. So with a hardened resolve, I swallowed and braced myself. “I have loved you from the beginning,” I felt John’s breathing halt. “But it was just recently that I realised what I was feeling,” John pulled back, staring straight through me. “I was naïve John. The moment Victor asked about you, I lit up, and told your stories with much noticeable vigour than before. ‘How long are you two together then?’ Victor asked, cutting through my story, which annoyed me. ‘We’ve been living together for a couple of years now.’ I said, matter-of-factly. Victor hummed, ‘But before living together, how long were you together then?’ I said, we have just met when we moved in together. ‘Well Sherlock, you move fast.’ Victor said. ‘Moving in immediately? Must be true love..’ I was confused because what in the god’s name is he talking about. And then it just hit me with a freight train. Love, John. I have been in loved you from the very start and I did not notice it. ME! All those urges to drive away your girlfriends, as petty as it may sound, the impulses to kiss your cheek or just hug you from behind whilst you are cooking breakfast or my urges to just hold one of your gloveless hands in mine, give you my other glove so you can wear it on your free hand whilst I tuck the other in my coat to warm it up..” John’s eyes gleam with melancholy.
I realised we were both cowards.
We were afraid of taking the jump off the ledge of uncertainty just because we, do not wish to jeopardise the relationship that means a lot to the both of us. We could have done these things and so much more. Images of cuddling in the sofa, dropping a kiss or two on each other’s cheek whenever we passed each other, eating on separate takeaways but feeding each other, my head on his lap, his hands carding through hair, kissing a sleeping John on the cheek, waking up with John and many more flashed at the back of my mind. I stared back at John, trying to convey all the longing, trepidation, love, lust, regret, happiness, uncertainty, worry and willingness I feel in that gaze. Just then John swooped down and kissed me, a hand carding through my hair whilst the other gripped the back of my neck. It was just a light pressing of mouths together (I’ll be gentle, it says) with a tad bit of pressure (I’ll catch you, it says)in the middle. I kissed back, taking his soft petal of a lower lip in mine, nibbling. He gasped when he felt my tongue against his lip and I took advantage of it in order to dive in. Lick. Taste. Explore. Eliciting a moan from John is decidedly in the top part of my list I am most proud of achieving. It was exhilarating. My heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of my chest. Kissing John is oblivion and existence, drowning and breathing. He is enthralling. It was terrifying.
Our lips detached and we stare into each other. When John spoke, his voice was hoarse. It was incredibly sexy. “I can’t believe this is what I was missing, you bastard” He gave me a peck on the lips and rested his a hand above my chest. “Should have told me at least.” John smiled, tight lipped. His eyes was just a shy away from tearing up.
I held that hand close to my heart, hoping that John will feel the beating of my, I thought, non-existent heart and that he will understand.
It’s been yours all along.
Take care of it, please.
I do not know what to do.
I am scared of this.
Hold me and don’t ever let go.
“I won’t.” John whispered.
And that is good enough for me.
He is tall, dark and fucking gorgeous.
I, John Watson, am bursting.
Of the love I have for this man.