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jack-moony · 4 years

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jack-moony · 7 years

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Aloft, 2014 - Claudia Llosa.

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jack-moony · 7 years

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jack-moony · 7 years

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jack-moony · 7 years

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I’ve found the First Risen. You should see him. He’s beautiful.

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jack-moony · 8 years

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jack-moony · 8 years

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jack-moony · 8 years

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“She was wrong, you know.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his microscope, only half-paying attention to what John is saying.

“I said she was wrong.”

“Who was wrong?” Sherlock asks absently, fiddling with one of the dials.

“Mary. She was wrong.”

The very air in the room seems to go still, and Sherlock blinks rapidly down at the slide, suddenly unable to remember why he was even looking at it to begin with. Slowly, he raises his head and finds John standing beside him, his hip against the edge of the table and his arms crossed. He’s looking down at Sherlock, and try as he might Sherlock can’t read a single thing from his expression.

He sits back in his chair and clears his throat, looking down at his hands. “Wrong about what?”

“You,” John says. “And me. Us.”

Sherlock swallows. “I don’t…I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Look at me.”

Sherlock doesn’t. He can’t. Because he knows why he wishes Mary had been wrong, but he doesn’t want to hear John’s theory because it will surely be the opposite of his own.

“Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. “John, I don’t want to talk about this.”

The beakers and test tubes on the table rattle slightly as John pushes away from it, and Sherlock counts the two steps he takes, and then, in a move he couldn’t have possibly predicted, John’s hands are cupping his face, tilting it upwards, and Sherlock’s eyes pop open, his breath leaving him in a rush.

“John, what–?”

“We’ve spent far too long not talking about this, Sherlock,” John says, and his eyes–blue, so so blue–are boring into Sherlock’s, and suddenly Sherlock can’t look away.

He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and his bottom lip trembles traitorously. John isn’t done surprising him, though, because his expression goes soft and he very gently traces his thumb along Sherlock’s lip.

“Can we please, just this once, be completely honest with each other?” John asks.

Sherlock’s hands begin to shake; he clenches them on his thighs for fear that if he doesn’t then he will touch John and he will surely cry. “I try always to be honest with you, John. You must know that.”

John shakes his head, and he looks almost sad. “Not about this. Neither of us has been honest about this.”

Sherlock abruptly stands, and John’s hands slide from his skin and burn as they go. He moves to shove past John, and John doesn’t stop him, which almost hurts more. But just as he’s reached the door to his bedroom he hears John’s voice.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I meant?”

Sherlock freezes with his hand wrapped around the cold metal of the doorknob. He doesn’t answer, but John goes on anyway.

“When I said Mary was wrong about us. Don’t you want to know what I meant?”

Sherlock shakes his head hard, but John, still standing in the kitchen obviously can’t see the motion.

“She was wrong because she said…she said she knew what we could become.”

Tears gather in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. His throat closes up, and his heart beats a shattering rhythm against his ribs. He’s not sure why he’s not just running out of the flat as fast as he possibly can.

“She was wrong because…” John stops, his voice breaking just the slightest bit, and Sherlock holds his breath. “Because it’s not about what we could become. It’s about what we already are, Sherlock. It’s…it’s what we always have been.”

Something in Sherlock’s chest seems to expand and contract all at once, suffocating him. It’s like he’s drowning but his insides are on fire. His breath comes out on a sob, and a second later there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and he gasps, spinning around.

John looks up at him, his own eyes wet with unshed tears, and his expression equal parts hopeful and terrified. “Isn’t it?” he whispers. “Have I got it wrong? I need you to tell me, Sherlock.”

For a moment Sherlock can’t speak, can’t make sense of the millions of words churning in his brain. He knows there’s something he has to say, but for the life of him he can’t string the words together in the right order.

John steps closer, his hand reaching tentatively for Sherlock’s face again, his fingers shaking as they trace lightly over one sharp cheekbone. “Please, Sherlock. Say it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, and the words that he needs flash behind his lids as if they’ve been hiding there all along.

“I love you,” he breathes, and then he’s being pulled, guided into a kiss that steals all of the air from his lungs and nudges its way past his lips, down his throat, and deep into his heart where it can never be taken away.

John’s hands slide up into his hair, clutching at him tightly, almost painfully, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He parts his lips and lets John ruin him as he’s always wanted him to.

“I love you,” John whispers into his mouth, the words broken and barely audible. “I love you, Sherlock, I love you so much.”

Sherlock breaks the kiss with a barely contained sob and surges forward, burying his face against the curve of John’s neck. “I’ve wanted this,” he says desperately, his voice muffled against heated skin. ��“I’ve wanted this for so long.”

John’s hands rub soothingly up and down his back, up into his hair, over his hip, along his ribs, anywhere he can reach. “Me too,” he says against Sherlock’s ear. “But we can stop wanting now and have.”

And that’s exactly what they do.

End

This is my version of events assuming that everything that happened in TFP is really what happened. If we are left without our Garridebs moment, I want to make up for it with this. Just tags below the cut.

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jack-moony · 8 years

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