“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
― Pablo Neruda
"Can we just go home? I’m cold, Sher-"
"Here, take my coat"
"Are you sure?"
"Thank you… It smells good. You smell so good…”
"Shut up, John. I’m trying to think"
There’s a saying somewhere about the heart growing fonder when someone has been away.
Sherlock was not one to keep up with such idioms, and he was quite sure that he did not have a heart.
But things have changed, and time has passed.
At first, he thought the phantom pain in his chest had been a side effect from the fall; something psychosomatic, possibly from the stress of all that’s happened since then. It wasn’t until a cold evening in Siberia amid the civil twilight that Sherlock realized, as he stood over the body of one of Moriarty’s top snipers, that the ache was because he missed John. He missed John, he needed John, he wanted John to be able to look at him at the end of this ordeal and say ‘it’s alright. You aren’t a killer, you are wonderful. You are extraordinary. You are brilliant.’
‘You are Sherlock, and I love you.’
For Sherlock loved John. x
Since I’m not doing the angstlock book anymore, I thought I’d start posting the pages I did do for it. So here’s two of them =)