Unspoken (Johnlock)

Unspoken

I sit and stare intently into the fire place until my vision is obscured with coloured spots. Wisps of smoke escape and strive for freedom, rising into the haven the chimney provides; leaving the flat we call home. Called home.

We. John and I.

The man of which I speak is sat across from me, glass of whiskey in hand and a dazed smile softening his features. These days they are often contorted with stress, boredom - a cohort of things he doesn't tell me but I know anyway. For now, however, John is at ease.

I don't allow myself to think of this and instead bring my own glass of drink to my lips, tipping it down my throat just to taste its familiar burn. The ache reminds me painfully of the same ache in my chest, the one that has lingered since I watched the only person I've ever wanted to stay in my life leave.

Except he never really left. John never leaves completely. Him being sprawled less than a metre in front of me, toes mere inches from my own, reminds me of this.

In the glow of the fire his face is different. Although I've seen it in the exact same lighting countless times before, it seems changed. I observe the creases present, the withered lines that deepen as time goes on but only grow more beautiful to me. The crinkles around his eyes show as a smile forms, lips curling upwards, unrestrained thanks to the release of inhibition alcohol provides.

"You're thinking," he says, and I have to remind myself not to drop my gaze to his lips.

"Always, I'm afraid."

He exhales, not quite a laugh but close enough that the consequent tingle of pride threatens to colour my cheeks.

"Very funny. But then you always are."

"Not a compliment I can say I've frequently received," I deflect. My cheeks flare; John's words are known to have that effect.

"Mm, well you're receiving it now. Not said it before because your ego is already big enough," he takes another sip of alcohol, "but you make me laugh." He shuts his eyes - grin still on his face, whiskey still in hand - and I inhale slowly to detach myself. My cheeks can redden if they wish but I will not allow my heart to race or my pulse to quicken anymore; I promised myself.

"Thank you, John." 

The conversation, if it can be called that, dies and I force my eyes back to watching sparks of the fire, only for them to be pulled to John against my will. His jumper is askew and his shirt collar is creased, but instead of aggravation, it sends a wave of something unknown through me. Perhaps affection. It makes my fingers itch to reach forward and straighten the clothing, to fasten the button of his shirt slowly and look into his dark eyes as I do so. But I don't. I'm afraid of what might happen. My hands, untrustworthy, would betray me and find themselves on his cheeks, his jaw, his waist, and all the other areas of John I have forbidden myself to consider.

I am in a desert and John is my oasis, a mirage always just out of reach both in my mind and in reality.

He opens his eyes and I am sated, his smile is all I need to be home. The tilt of the head and his tired blinks cause my heart to tremble.

"You're staring," he tells me, because it's true.

"I'm thinking."

"Hm, always are."

"Thinking?"

"Staring." I feel my breath stop at this but manage to let out a laugh. Contentment is dangerous. He is too close and I know he will regret saying that tomorrow.