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Jul. 11th, 2011 | 04:37 am
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: One sided Sherlock/John; implied John/Mary
Word Count: roughly 450
Summary: For Sherlock, dinner with John is more than just dinner. It's dinner with John. Plus a desire that doesn't plan on dieing down.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted~
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Link to el table
Here is the truth (and god help me, because I admit I lack the courage to say this out loud), the complete and honest truth:
Fact: When we are seated, we are eye level. While this may be an advantage for you (ha), I can't stand it. I cannot stand it because it means I see your eyes, the way its edges are crinkled from laughter and happiness, neither of which has been from me. I see your forehead, worn with age and lines from worry; worry, some moments from me, but mostly from worries I can never give you (and strangely enough, that is also most uncomforting). I see your lips, chapped and dry, except when you lick it; your tongue darting out, teasing, flickering momentarily, in my view.
It's too much, you have to understand. At eye level, you are too much because I don't just see you, warm and soft because of your jumper and the ambiance of the room. I see you as someone I would like-- I need-- to mark, to possess; not just in body (your eyes, I will forever captivate them; your lips, I will trap with mine) but also in mind (you may think about others, but only once you've worshipped me).
Why won't you make me? Leave, that is. Stop pinning me down your cheeky grin and tousled hair. Your fingers that smell like cigarettes (hypocrite), which trail carelessly along lips that smell like cigarettes (I recognize the brand and will buy a pack; to have one of your scents washed over me-- and on my lips, no less: divine). Make me leave you with your idiocy and ordinary dullness.
Or. Make me stay. Show me how this ordinary dullness is unique; explain to me how is it that you still shine, despite needing a good polish. Tell me why it devastates me, the thought of someone picking you up and polishing away your jagged edges, your temper and your puzzled frowns. Tell me-- for god's sake-- tell me I'm an idiot, but do it with your breathe against my ear, your groin pressed against my groin, your calloused fingers gripping my shirt.
This tableau of camaraderie is painful, John, I'd like you to know. I cannot do this. Not when we are seated down; not when there is a candle on the table. Not when someone else should be seated here, imagining kissing each and every blessed one of your fingertips.
Not when you are seated across me, laughing, being present, but thinking of doing that to her, once you leave me.