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#but as the years went on #he realized that when they were saying 'i hope you die' #what it really meant was #'i love you'

Helena, 19. Not a flying toy

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(I Only Like You On The Internet)

(don't follow this idiot.)

SLYTHINDOR
{ wear }

currently watching: Fortysomething, Game of Thrones (Season 2), The Legend of Korra

currently (re) reading: Treasure Island, R.L. Stevenson

 sauntering vaguely downwards

1/1

"

Then Sherlock pushes himself up onto one elbow, and John—John has no idea what’s going to happen, which is strange, because John knows sex and John knows Sherlock and he is about 98% certain that those two don’t actually intersect and if they were to intersect it wouldn’t look anything like this. And then Sherlock twists, just a little, and kisses him, on the cheek.

He’s in love with me, John realizes.

Sherlock’s face is hot against his, and he is very, very still, and the yawning void at the center of John’s chest is slipping wider and wider. He moves, a little, his right knee dropping down to the mattress so he can shift his weight without hurting Sherlock, and then he turns his mouth to meet Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock makes a small, unhappy noise and the edges of the void crumble in and it swallows John up.

John knows that scraps of words are escaping him, but he can’t think clearly enough to know what they ought to be. Sherlock is alive and beneath him and unhappy, and somehow, that—that is the part that is agonizing, not Mike—not Molly—not the sniper—not the texts or the emails or the post-mortem photos or the grave, but Sherlock alive under his hands making sounds like John’s hurting him even though John knows he isn’t, John wouldn’t, John couldn’t, while Sherlock clutches spasmodically at his hair and Sherlock kisses him like he’s trying to crawl inside. John would—John would do anything for him. It isn’t really a new realization. It hurts anyway.

" —

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