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8 posts tagged jw's story

10th December, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

Fuck.
That was an awful idea. I knew it was. Had known forever we shouldn’t do it. But we had just gotten to a point of such openness and vulnerability, and we’d been needing such comfort for so long, not to mention the fact that our bodies had started to have minds of their own…
Basically, because it sort of felt like we had already done it, a real life kiss was inevitable. I mean, he’s right that on some level we both wanted it, if we kept dreaming about it. But that doesn’t mean it was ever something that should have happened. He caught me at a weak moment. Not that he took advantage, he was being incredibly sweet and caring, it simply caught me off guard and affected me in a way I wasn’t expecting. And so we did something that we will regret. Or at least I will. I should have known better and not allowed it to happen.
Because, of course, the outcome was disastrous. I mean, there was no way he wasn’t going to Yow, for fuck’s sake. We knew that. He’d seemed unconcerned at the time so I didn’t push it, but then when it happened, it was, well, legitimately terrible.
They’d been getting progressively worse, clearly, but I hadn’t witnessed the last one. I wasn’t aware of the violence involved.
So what? You say. Aren’t you a military man? Can’t you handle a little violence? My response is: yes, I can, but not when the person with whom I share a life and just shared something incredibly intimate starts throwing the worst fit I’ve ever seen, screaming and cursing and crying and throwing himself and anything he can grab hold of across the room.
It got really nasty, let me tell you. He was still naked from the waist up and was looking to do as much damage as he could to the room, himself, and me. In desperation I locked him in the bathroom, until I heard him trashing the medicine cabinet and remembered my old-fashioned cutthroat razor. Then I burst in, grabbed him, and threw him face down on the bed. I sat on his legs and caught his hands behind his back. I thought about the pair of Lestrade’s handcuffs he’d nicked forever ago and kept in his dresser drawer, but I knew if I let him up he would come raging at me, so I made do with holding him down myself.
Until, that is, I realised he was convulsively sobbing into the duvet.

turnedupcoatcollar:

Fuck.

That was an awful idea. I knew it was. Had known forever we shouldn’t do it. But we had just gotten to a point of such openness and vulnerability, and we’d been needing such comfort for so long, not to mention the fact that our bodies had started to have minds of their own…

Basically, because it sort of felt like we had already done it, a real life kiss was inevitable. I mean, he’s right that on some level we both wanted it, if we kept dreaming about it. But that doesn’t mean it was ever something that should have happened. He caught me at a weak moment. Not that he took advantage, he was being incredibly sweet and caring, it simply caught me off guard and affected me in a way I wasn’t expecting. And so we did something that we will regret. Or at least I will. I should have known better and not allowed it to happen.

Because, of course, the outcome was disastrous. I mean, there was no way he wasn’t going to Yow, for fuck’s sake. We knew that. He’d seemed unconcerned at the time so I didn’t push it, but then when it happened, it was, well, legitimately terrible.

They’d been getting progressively worse, clearly, but I hadn’t witnessed the last one. I wasn’t aware of the violence involved.

So what? You say. Aren’t you a military man? Can’t you handle a little violence? My response is: yes, I can, but not when the person with whom I share a life and just shared something incredibly intimate starts throwing the worst fit I’ve ever seen, screaming and cursing and crying and throwing himself and anything he can grab hold of across the room.

It got really nasty, let me tell you. He was still naked from the waist up and was looking to do as much damage as he could to the room, himself, and me. In desperation I locked him in the bathroom, until I heard him trashing the medicine cabinet and remembered my old-fashioned cutthroat razor. Then I burst in, grabbed him, and threw him face down on the bed. I sat on his legs and caught his hands behind his back. I thought about the pair of Lestrade’s handcuffs he’d nicked forever ago and kept in his dresser drawer, but I knew if I let him up he would come raging at me, so I made do with holding him down myself.

Until, that is, I realised he was convulsively sobbing into the duvet.

(via turned up coat collar)

11th October, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

“Because you dreamt that this happened and then woke up to find it had…?”
“Because I did this to myself when I was young, then I dreamt about doing it again, almost exactly as before, and here I find that I have. It’s virtually an exact replica.” He rinsed his hands quickly, then wiped a wet palm down his face and took a deep breath, still looking only into his eyes. I watched him stitch up his expression, from slack vulnerability to steely reserve, and the implication of it was as concerning as the words he’d just spoken. From lost to himself to lost to me in ten seconds flat.
“Sherlock…”
“Don’t pity me, John.” His eyes flicked to my reflection and gleamed sharply at me.
It was meant to stab but I parried it, held his gaze, and held my ground. “Empathy, Sherlock! For God’s sake. You have to allow me to feel for you—”
“I don’t have to do anything of the kind.” He swept past me, back into the bedroom. I followed.
“But you must know that I—”
“That you what?” He rounded on me so fast I almost bumped into him. I put my hands out towards his chest to stop myself, and he backed away from my touch. That hurt.
I barely took a breath before finishing my sentence. “—think very highly of you and care very deeply for you.”
He blinked. I bit my lips tight closed. We were both nonplussed by my statement for a moment. Then he grimaced as if in pain and turned away to curl up on his side of the bed.
“That is exactly why I’m afraid to tell you about my past.”
“But Sherlock…” I climbed onto the bed and moved to curl up right behind him.
“Don’t, John. Please.” Pleading. Pain. It made my heart thump hard.
“Don’t what?”
“I need you to stay at least a foot away from me right now.”
“Oh.” My chest hollowed out and I couldn’t quite breathe.
His head turned slightly toward me, as if he could hear my heart. “I said need, John. Not want. Do keep up.” The last sentence was almost gentle, and I realised what this was about. Yow prevention. My chest loosened slightly.

turnedupcoatcollar:

“Because you dreamt that this happened and then woke up to find it had…?”

“Because I did this to myself when I was young, then I dreamt about doing it again, almost exactly as before, and here I find that I have. It’s virtually an exact replica.” He rinsed his hands quickly, then wiped a wet palm down his face and took a deep breath, still looking only into his eyes. I watched him stitch up his expression, from slack vulnerability to steely reserve, and the implication of it was as concerning as the words he’d just spoken. From lost to himself to lost to me in ten seconds flat.

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t pity me, John.” His eyes flicked to my reflection and gleamed sharply at me.

It was meant to stab but I parried it, held his gaze, and held my ground. “Empathy, Sherlock! For God’s sake. You have to allow me to feel for you—”

“I don’t have to do anything of the kind.” He swept past me, back into the bedroom. I followed.

“But you must know that I—”

“That you what?” He rounded on me so fast I almost bumped into him. I put my hands out towards his chest to stop myself, and he backed away from my touch. That hurt.

I barely took a breath before finishing my sentence. “—think very highly of you and care very deeply for you.”

He blinked. I bit my lips tight closed. We were both nonplussed by my statement for a moment. Then he grimaced as if in pain and turned away to curl up on his side of the bed.

“That is exactly why I’m afraid to tell you about my past.”

“But Sherlock…” I climbed onto the bed and moved to curl up right behind him.

“Don’t, John. Please.” Pleading. Pain. It made my heart thump hard.

“Don’t what?”

“I need you to stay at least a foot away from me right now.”

“Oh.” My chest hollowed out and I couldn’t quite breathe.

His head turned slightly toward me, as if he could hear my heart. “I said need, John. Not want. Do keep up.” The last sentence was almost gentle, and I realised what this was about. Yow prevention. My chest loosened slightly.

(via turned up coat collar)

19th June, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

“It wasn’t for naught, you know. It wasn’t an experiment. It was to put Moran and them off the scent. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t let you know. You were the best alibi possible. If you believed it and were visibly suffering from it, no one would ever question that I was dead.”
“That sounds heartless.”
“You know I’m not.” His eyes glanced off mine as if to check.
“Yes.” I rolled up onto my side facing him, still not quite touching. “But being an invaluable aid in that way will never outweigh the sacrifice I was forced to make without knowing.”
“Without knowing what?” he met my eye, searchingly, but not without a hint of compassion.
“That it was a lie. That I was suffering over something that was not real.”
“It was real to you.”
“God yes, too much so.” I ran my hand through my hair trying to comb out the memories of grief.
“And it needed to be for that period of time. But I didn’t let it last any longer than necessary. In fact, I probably have ended your pain prematurely.”
“You sound like a torturer, assessing whether I’m broken yet.” My face took the shape of a mirthless grin.
His stayed completely serious. “But I’m the opposite. I tried to prevent the break. However, the reason for causing pain is still out there and I’m afraid we have jeopardized our chance to eradicate it by compromising my perfect alibi.”
I flopped back onto my back exhaling my exasperation. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. He was doing the same as he spoke. “Calculated risk, John. It means I’ve been calculating. Do enough calculations and the risk becomes negligible. I was paying attention. I wouldn’t have let it get too bad.”
I sat up at this, the weight of anger pulling on my gut, the acidic burn of resentment scouring my chest. He sat up next to me, looking at my face. I was looking at my hands.
“You didn’t drink yourself to death or shoot yourself, and you weren’t in more physical danger than usual. You can handle pain, John. You can live with it, not die from it.” He reached to put a hand on my shoulder, I jerked away from his grasp.
“But I shouldn’t have had to, Sherlock!” I turned my back on him, fuming, head in my hands.
“Don’t you understand?” He grabbed my shoulder from behind. His voice was not quite angry, but deep and urgent, faintly pleading, and again (not again) right at my ear. “I had to die for you, to save your life. You had to grieve for me to save mine.”

turnedupcoatcollar:

“It wasn’t for naught, you know. It wasn’t an experiment. It was to put Moran and them off the scent. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t let you know. You were the best alibi possible. If you believed it and were visibly suffering from it, no one would ever question that I was dead.”

“That sounds heartless.”

“You know I’m not.” His eyes glanced off mine as if to check.

“Yes.” I rolled up onto my side facing him, still not quite touching. “But being an invaluable aid in that way will never outweigh the sacrifice I was forced to make without knowing.”

“Without knowing what?” he met my eye, searchingly, but not without a hint of compassion.

“That it was a lie. That I was suffering over something that was not real.”

“It was real to you.”

“God yes, too much so.” I ran my hand through my hair trying to comb out the memories of grief.

“And it needed to be for that period of time. But I didn’t let it last any longer than necessary. In fact, I probably have ended your pain prematurely.”

“You sound like a torturer, assessing whether I’m broken yet.” My face took the shape of a mirthless grin.

His stayed completely serious. “But I’m the opposite. I tried to prevent the break. However, the reason for causing pain is still out there and I’m afraid we have jeopardized our chance to eradicate it by compromising my perfect alibi.”

I flopped back onto my back exhaling my exasperation. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. He was doing the same as he spoke. “Calculated risk, John. It means I’ve been calculating. Do enough calculations and the risk becomes negligible. I was paying attention. I wouldn’t have let it get too bad.”

I sat up at this, the weight of anger pulling on my gut, the acidic burn of resentment scouring my chest. He sat up next to me, looking at my face. I was looking at my hands.

“You didn’t drink yourself to death or shoot yourself, and you weren’t in more physical danger than usual. You can handle pain, John. You can live with it, not die from it.” He reached to put a hand on my shoulder, I jerked away from his grasp.

“But I shouldn’t have had to, Sherlock!” I turned my back on him, fuming, head in my hands.

“Don’t you understand?” He grabbed my shoulder from behind. His voice was not quite angry, but deep and urgent, faintly pleading, and again (not again) right at my ear. “I had to die for you, to save your life. You had to grieve for me to save mine.”

(via turned up coat collar)

13th June, 2012

apromptresponse:

When something has been burned you can see the catastrophe in its effect on the object. A house, say, will have large portions of it charred black with desiccated and half-missing beams, eaves falling, roof gaping in pieces. A book will clearly have the shape and color of its pages drastically altered, making it clearly no longer functional for its intended purpose. Burning something alters it beyond repair, incapacitating it forever because parts of it are no longer there.
When something is frozen, in contrast, it maintains all the outward appearance of functionality—nothing is physically lost in its change of state, it’s just no longer able to work. It has the look of potentially working, even if it cannot. Yet, because many times the damage freezing inflicts is not as deconstructive, sometimes, when frozen things thaw, they can resume their previous state of functionality. A tree encased in ice, for example, will not die but will remain dormant until conditions are such that it can thrive once more. However, if something is absolutely frozen to its core it will perish. It cannot come back from the dead.
I had assumed this last was the state of my heart until I was proven wrong by the conditions being right for it to leave its dormancy and learn to function again. Which is why the threat of burning it actually has me in a state of panic. If my heart had just gotten its frozen gears to start moving again, the last thing I could allow was a firestorm that would reduce them to a lump of metal before I even knew what this machine was capable of doing.
I’d been living just fine with a heart like a tree in winter—unmoving and unmoved, in a landscape devoid of light and warmth. I didn’t think anything of it, had gotten used to the barrenness, forgetting it was rooted in fertile soil and simply needed a change of season to make the sap run and the branches to bud and leaf. What a strange feeling when the light and warmth of his regard, his friendship, his trust, started to thaw me, and to bring a response from me in kind. (‘kind’. I have learned the importance of that word since. From him.)
I was as shocked as those around me, those who had known my frozen self. He, however, being the bringer of rebirth, had no idea that spring had never come to these parts before. He assumed it wasn’t a miracle he had performed.
As the new kid in town isn’t aware of the ghost story surrounding the abandoned house on the corner that everyone avoids and cheerily transforms it into a clubhouse, so John’s naïve warmth—not even warmth at first, simply his innocent curiosity of something others seemed to fear—thawed me on contact.
And so, I live my life in a state of being no longer frozen but not yet burned, simultaneously grateful to the tip of every leaf for this new season of sun, and afraid to my very core of the firestorm to come.

apromptresponse:

When something has been burned you can see the catastrophe in its effect on the object. A house, say, will have large portions of it charred black with desiccated and half-missing beams, eaves falling, roof gaping in pieces. A book will clearly have the shape and color of its pages drastically altered, making it clearly no longer functional for its intended purpose. Burning something alters it beyond repair, incapacitating it forever because parts of it are no longer there.

When something is frozen, in contrast, it maintains all the outward appearance of functionality—nothing is physically lost in its change of state, it’s just no longer able to work. It has the look of potentially working, even if it cannot. Yet, because many times the damage freezing inflicts is not as deconstructive, sometimes, when frozen things thaw, they can resume their previous state of functionality. A tree encased in ice, for example, will not die but will remain dormant until conditions are such that it can thrive once more. However, if something is absolutely frozen to its core it will perish. It cannot come back from the dead.

I had assumed this last was the state of my heart until I was proven wrong by the conditions being right for it to leave its dormancy and learn to function again. Which is why the threat of burning it actually has me in a state of panic. If my heart had just gotten its frozen gears to start moving again, the last thing I could allow was a firestorm that would reduce them to a lump of metal before I even knew what this machine was capable of doing.

I’d been living just fine with a heart like a tree in winter—unmoving and unmoved, in a landscape devoid of light and warmth. I didn’t think anything of it, had gotten used to the barrenness, forgetting it was rooted in fertile soil and simply needed a change of season to make the sap run and the branches to bud and leaf. What a strange feeling when the light and warmth of his regard, his friendship, his trust, started to thaw me, and to bring a response from me in kind. (‘kind’. I have learned the importance of that word since. From him.)

I was as shocked as those around me, those who had known my frozen self. He, however, being the bringer of rebirth, had no idea that spring had never come to these parts before. He assumed it wasn’t a miracle he had performed.

As the new kid in town isn’t aware of the ghost story surrounding the abandoned house on the corner that everyone avoids and cheerily transforms it into a clubhouse, so John’s naïve warmth—not even warmth at first, simply his innocent curiosity of something others seemed to fear—thawed me on contact.

And so, I live my life in a state of being no longer frozen but not yet burned, simultaneously grateful to the tip of every leaf for this new season of sun, and afraid to my very core of the firestorm to come.

(via A Prompt Response)

24th May, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

We had settled in on our separate sides of the bed, more than a foot apart, and I’d turned out the light when I heard:
“It helps you to be able to check that I’m real, doesn’t it?” His voice was soft but resonant, and felt very close in the dark.
Shit. Nothing is secret.
“…yes. It does. Do you mind?” I was so quiet I was practically mouthing the words.
“Not at all.”
“It’s just that my dreams have been so vivid, and waking from them, it’s hard to tell…”
“I know.” I had to keep myself from reaching out to ground his voice.
“I need to know I’m not crazy.” I felt crazy inside just saying this.
“It’s all right. You aren’t. I’m not going to disappear.” I realized I’d been holding my breath, needing to hear his words perfectly, to let them sink into my psyche so that I wouldn’t be anxious all the time.
“…At least, not without telling you where I’m headed first.”
That made me let out my breath with a tiny chuckle mixed in. Then I took in enough air to give actual voice to my last statement: “Thanks, Sherlock.”
“You’re welcome, John.” I could still feel his name in my mouth when i heard my own come from his. They were the last words we each said before we fell asleep.

turnedupcoatcollar:

We had settled in on our separate sides of the bed, more than a foot apart, and I’d turned out the light when I heard:

“It helps you to be able to check that I’m real, doesn’t it?” His voice was soft but resonant, and felt very close in the dark.

Shit. Nothing is secret.

“…yes. It does. Do you mind?” I was so quiet I was practically mouthing the words.

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that my dreams have been so vivid, and waking from them, it’s hard to tell…”

“I know.” I had to keep myself from reaching out to ground his voice.

“I need to know I’m not crazy.” I felt crazy inside just saying this.

“It’s all right. You aren’t. I’m not going to disappear.” I realized I’d been holding my breath, needing to hear his words perfectly, to let them sink into my psyche so that I wouldn’t be anxious all the time.

“…At least, not without telling you where I’m headed first.”

That made me let out my breath with a tiny chuckle mixed in. Then I took in enough air to give actual voice to my last statement: “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome, John.” I could still feel his name in my mouth when i heard my own come from his. They were the last words we each said before we fell asleep.

(via turned up coat collar)

30th April, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

I tried to contain my anxiety around the nightmares and focus on understanding everything else that had been going on.
“So what changed tonight that I caught you out?” He seemed to allow some tension to ease in him, hearing this question.
“I was just climbing onto the bed when you stirred. No time to jump off again.”
“You’d had time to take away my gun.”
“I’m guessing it was the slight noise I made setting it on the dresser that woke you.”
“Why’d you take it from me?”
“I wasn’t sure how you’d reacted to my text.”
“Meaning…?”
“I was…forgive me John, but I couldn’t be sure of your state of mind. Whether hearing from me had unhinged you or not. I had no gauge for how quickly you might resort to violence. I couldn’t risk it.”
I sat up sharply. “Sherlock, you had NO. RIGHT.” I stopped until my voice wouldn’t shake. He propped himself on his elbow and looked at me with an intentionally blank face. It was infuriating. “Taking my gun. Or scaring the piss out of me. or texting me back, or sleeping in my bed, or breaking into the flat, or hiding from me this whole time, I—”
“My bed, actually. And my flat as well.”
“Shut. UP!!” His eyes grew wide at the anger in my voice. I stood up, outraged at his apparent nonchalance. “You are not God, Sherlock! You are not allowed to go about treating the world like you made it and the rest of us just live in it. Do you have any idea how all this feels to me right now??” I was quivering. Not just my hand, my whole body.
His eyes narrowed and I knew what was coming. “More than an ‘idea’. I know that you are quite shaken by the surprise of me showing up, that was clear from your face going white earlier and the stress lines remaining around your eyes. I know you are angry with me for deceiving you, my nose and your trembling are evidence of that. I know you are hurt because I stayed away when you were clearly not well, your tone of voice and how it catches in your throat makes that one abundantly clear. And you are embarrassed by my frequent presence in the flat and this bed. The first one makes you feel stupid, the second makes you feel…uncomfortable. Possibly because of your latent homophobia (it’s all right, everyone internalizes some of it), more likely, the state of your nights.”
“All right, stop. That’s enough.” I turned from him, still shaking, but keeping my voice level.
“No, I don’t think it is.” He sat up and leaned forward. His voice dropped pitch and slowed slightly. “You’re afraid I’ll think less of you because you are plagued by nightmares. Nothing could be further from the truth. The thing I disapprove of is this: your fear that they will take hold of you is unfounded, yet you continue to conflate reality and dreaming which is not helping your state of mind. Nor is the fact that you clearly prefer the latter. It’s making things much worse than you’ll admit. Couple that with your drinking and your gun fixation and this whole situation is verging on very Not Good, John.”
I balled my shaking fists up but kept them at my sides and said levelly, “Fuck you, Sherlock. You are not my therapist.” I turned back in time to see all sternness wiped from his face, leaving something that looked like wistfulness.
“No. I’m not. I’m your friend.” His voice caught on the last word as he reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist. The contact shocked me and I jerked, but he didn’t let go. He pulled me back till I was bumping up against the edge of the bed and still he didn’t let go. I gave in and sat down, my hand resting on the bed beside me. He held on, tracing his thumb slowly in a circle round my wrist bone (the protruding pisiform bone) as my body calmed itself to stillness. My heart, however, sped up slightly.

turnedupcoatcollar:

I tried to contain my anxiety around the nightmares and focus on understanding everything else that had been going on.

“So what changed tonight that I caught you out?” He seemed to allow some tension to ease in him, hearing this question.

“I was just climbing onto the bed when you stirred. No time to jump off again.”

“You’d had time to take away my gun.”

“I’m guessing it was the slight noise I made setting it on the dresser that woke you.”

“Why’d you take it from me?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d reacted to my text.”

“Meaning…?”

“I was…forgive me John, but I couldn’t be sure of your state of mind. Whether hearing from me had unhinged you or not. I had no gauge for how quickly you might resort to violence. I couldn’t risk it.”

I sat up sharply. “Sherlock, you had NO. RIGHT.” I stopped until my voice wouldn’t shake. He propped himself on his elbow and looked at me with an intentionally blank face. It was infuriating. “Taking my gun. Or scaring the piss out of me. or texting me back, or sleeping in my bed, or breaking into the flat, or hiding from me this whole time, I—”

“My bed, actually. And my flat as well.”

“Shut. UP!!” His eyes grew wide at the anger in my voice. I stood up, outraged at his apparent nonchalance. “You are not God, Sherlock! You are not allowed to go about treating the world like you made it and the rest of us just live in it. Do you have any idea how all this feels to me right now??” I was quivering. Not just my hand, my whole body.

His eyes narrowed and I knew what was coming. “More than an ‘idea’. I know that you are quite shaken by the surprise of me showing up, that was clear from your face going white earlier and the stress lines remaining around your eyes. I know you are angry with me for deceiving you, my nose and your trembling are evidence of that. I know you are hurt because I stayed away when you were clearly not well, your tone of voice and how it catches in your throat makes that one abundantly clear. And you are embarrassed by my frequent presence in the flat and this bed. The first one makes you feel stupid, the second makes you feel…uncomfortable. Possibly because of your latent homophobia (it’s all right, everyone internalizes some of it), more likely, the state of your nights.”

“All right, stop. That’s enough.” I turned from him, still shaking, but keeping my voice level.

“No, I don’t think it is.” He sat up and leaned forward. His voice dropped pitch and slowed slightly. “You’re afraid I’ll think less of you because you are plagued by nightmares. Nothing could be further from the truth. The thing I disapprove of is this: your fear that they will take hold of you is unfounded, yet you continue to conflate reality and dreaming which is not helping your state of mind. Nor is the fact that you clearly prefer the latter. It’s making things much worse than you’ll admit. Couple that with your drinking and your gun fixation and this whole situation is verging on very Not Good, John.”

I balled my shaking fists up but kept them at my sides and said levelly, “Fuck you, Sherlock. You are not my therapist.” I turned back in time to see all sternness wiped from his face, leaving something that looked like wistfulness.

“No. I’m not. I’m your friend.” His voice caught on the last word as he reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist. The contact shocked me and I jerked, but he didn’t let go. He pulled me back till I was bumping up against the edge of the bed and still he didn’t let go. I gave in and sat down, my hand resting on the bed beside me. He held on, tracing his thumb slowly in a circle round my wrist bone (the protruding pisiform bone) as my body calmed itself to stillness. My heart, however, sped up slightly.

(via turned up coat collar)

22nd April, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

[how do I even begin to type this all out?]
It took me forever to fall asleep again. Couldn’t stop running possibilities and eventualities over in my mind, convinced I was inches away from either madness or death, not allowing myself to fall victim to the obvious text ruse, knowing that I would give up my sanity in a heartbeat for it to be true.
I woke up a couple hours later in what felt like a fever, my senses tingling, everything tensed, dead sure I had a gun pointed at my head. Possibly my own. I moved my hand slowly under my pillow and didn’t find it, so that became a reality to deal with. Soon, however, it was clear to me that the assassin was actually on the bed, not far from me, but not within reach. The bed was trembling, just slightly, as if someone was holding a difficult position for longer than their muscles were used to.
Good. Let them sweat.
If I wasn’t dead already, I had to assume this person wanted some sort of confrontation. Or maybe just didn’t like shooting people in the back. I appreciated having a fighting chance, though I was pretty sure they must have known I was awake and alert.
I wondered for a moment if this was simply a minion, keeping me captive until the person in charge made their entrance. And then I remembered that real people don’t tend to have nemeses and criminal masterminds don’t grow on trees. And I was wasting time, what little patience this killer seemed to have wasn’t going to last long.
I’d already kicked the covers off in my sleep and my body was ready to spring—good old fight or flight response—so I decided to go for broke and risk incomplete incapacitation in the hopes of at least disarming the intruder.So, since I was curled up on my side, I swung my legs out and back in a sweeping motion across the bed behind me.I made solid contact and was gratified to know that I’d been right, they had been tensed in a half kneeling, half crouching position. Once they were bowled over I reared my leg up and slammed it down onto their chest, knocking the wind out of them. They rolled off the bed onto the floor as I scrambled up and leaped on top of their kneeling form, executing a choke hold round their neck from behind.
“Where’s my gun.”
“John—” They weezed.
“Don’t speak, just point. Where’s my gun?” An arm flailed toward the dresser across the room. I could see the barrel gleam in the low light from the bathroom. So it had never been in play, then. Odd.
“John, please.” A whisper. A hand came up and tapped my shoulder, as if tapping out from a wrestling match. I was gauging how to get the gun without laying myself open to attack, short of dragging him across the room with me. The hand moved to pull my forearm off his adam’s apple enough to find his voice. All my adrenaline was in effect and though he was taller, I definitely had the advantage— he wasn’t breathing. I loosened my grip slightly if only to give me time to decide the next move.
A cough, and then: “John, for God’s sake, get off me.”
His voice.
My God.

turnedupcoatcollar:

[how do I even begin to type this all out?]

It took me forever to fall asleep again. Couldn’t stop running possibilities and eventualities over in my mind, convinced I was inches away from either madness or death, not allowing myself to fall victim to the obvious text ruse, knowing that I would give up my sanity in a heartbeat for it to be true.

I woke up a couple hours later in what felt like a fever, my senses tingling, everything tensed, dead sure I had a gun pointed at my head. Possibly my own. I moved my hand slowly under my pillow and didn’t find it, so that became a reality to deal with. Soon, however, it was clear to me that the assassin was actually on the bed, not far from me, but not within reach. The bed was trembling, just slightly, as if someone was holding a difficult position for longer than their muscles were used to.

Good. Let them sweat.

If I wasn’t dead already, I had to assume this person wanted some sort of confrontation. Or maybe just didn’t like shooting people in the back. I appreciated having a fighting chance, though I was pretty sure they must have known I was awake and alert.

I wondered for a moment if this was simply a minion, keeping me captive until the person in charge made their entrance. And then I remembered that real people don’t tend to have nemeses and criminal masterminds don’t grow on trees. And I was wasting time, what little patience this killer seemed to have wasn’t going to last long.

I’d already kicked the covers off in my sleep and my body was ready to spring—good old fight or flight response—so I decided to go for broke and risk incomplete incapacitation in the hopes of at least disarming the intruder.So, since I was curled up on my side, I swung my legs out and back in a sweeping motion across the bed behind me.I made solid contact and was gratified to know that I’d been right, they had been tensed in a half kneeling, half crouching position. Once they were bowled over I reared my leg up and slammed it down onto their chest, knocking the wind out of them. They rolled off the bed onto the floor as I scrambled up and leaped on top of their kneeling form, executing a choke hold round their neck from behind.

“Where’s my gun.”

“John—” They weezed.

“Don’t speak, just point. Where’s my gun?” An arm flailed toward the dresser across the room. I could see the barrel gleam in the low light from the bathroom. So it had never been in play, then. Odd.

“John, please.” A whisper. A hand came up and tapped my shoulder, as if tapping out from a wrestling match. I was gauging how to get the gun without laying myself open to attack, short of dragging him across the room with me. The hand moved to pull my forearm off his adam’s apple enough to find his voice. All my adrenaline was in effect and though he was taller, I definitely had the advantage— he wasn’t breathing. I loosened my grip slightly if only to give me time to decide the next move.

A cough, and then: “John, for God’s sake, get off me.”

His voice.

My God.

(via turned up coat collar)

20th April, 2012

turnedupcoatcollar:

Must have fallen asleep. Woke up feeling achy and thinking about that text. The number wasn’t one in my phone, but it wasn’t blocked. I tried calling it just now. It rang out and went to an automated voice mailbox. I almost left a message, but I didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction of hearing me address him.
There is no way it’s really him. Could it be one of Moriarty’s men got a hold of SH’s old phone number and has just been waiting for me to weaken to the point of contacting it? I wonder if they are surprised how long it took.
Because, believe me, I’ve thought about it. So many times. I have a large assortment of texts in my drafts folder that I’ve refrained from sending.
I don’t know what happened last night/this morning (yesterday? what time is it?) that brought me to the point of actually doing so. Maybe I really am getting sick. Maybe it was just the repetition of such an illusory situation—the comfortable feeling of taking care of each other in bed—that wore down my resistance and had me reaching out to his phantom limb. His phone.
But if it’s them, why wouldn’t the reply be from his own number? And why no signature? One or the other maybe, but not both. I know he used all sorts of phones, especially mine when it was more handy than his (or even when it wasn’t) but no matter which phone he used he virtually always signed off with -SH.
The one time he didn’t was when … well, when we had been having a row, and in anger I asked him something very personal, which I shouldn’t have done over text but did, and he responded with just one word: You.
And then the argument was over. I apologized and never brought it up again.
Somehow that was the first time I had ever felt as though he was completely focused on me. Not my actions or reactions, not my thoughts, not what he wanted from me. Just me, as a person. Perversely, this could only have happened when we weren’t in each other’s presence. And it mostly felt so personal because he didn’t feel the need to name himself, or me, in his response.

turnedupcoatcollar:

Must have fallen asleep. Woke up feeling achy and thinking about that text. The number wasn’t one in my phone, but it wasn’t blocked. I tried calling it just now. It rang out and went to an automated voice mailbox. I almost left a message, but I didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction of hearing me address him.

There is no way it’s really him. Could it be one of Moriarty’s men got a hold of SH’s old phone number and has just been waiting for me to weaken to the point of contacting it? I wonder if they are surprised how long it took.

Because, believe me, I’ve thought about it. So many times. I have a large assortment of texts in my drafts folder that I’ve refrained from sending.

I don’t know what happened last night/this morning (yesterday? what time is it?) that brought me to the point of actually doing so. Maybe I really am getting sick. Maybe it was just the repetition of such an illusory situation—the comfortable feeling of taking care of each other in bed—that wore down my resistance and had me reaching out to his phantom limb. His phone.

But if it’s them, why wouldn’t the reply be from his own number? And why no signature? One or the other maybe, but not both. I know he used all sorts of phones, especially mine when it was more handy than his (or even when it wasn’t) but no matter which phone he used he virtually always signed off with -SH.

The one time he didn’t was when … well, when we had been having a row, and in anger I asked him something very personal, which I shouldn’t have done over text but did, and he responded with just one word: You.

And then the argument was over. I apologized and never brought it up again.

Somehow that was the first time I had ever felt as though he was completely focused on me. Not my actions or reactions, not my thoughts, not what he wanted from me. Just me, as a person. Perversely, this could only have happened when we weren’t in each other’s presence. And it mostly felt so personal because he didn’t feel the need to name himself, or me, in his response.

(via turned up coat collar)