Fic: "The Soul And Its Striptease"

[wave_of_sorrow]

Title: The Soul And Its Striptease
Author: wave_of_sorrow
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 494
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't claim. No money being made.
Summary: Love strips you bare, strips your very soul.
Spoilers/Warnings: mentions of drug use
A/N: Fill for a prompt at shkinkmeme Heavily inspired by U2's Window In The Skies.

 

Falling in love, whatever they may tell you, doesn’t happen gradually. It’s like pulling a trigger, firing a gun, like a bullet hitting you; it happens suddenly, knocks you off your feet, takes your breath away. Love, love isn’t easy, because it changes you, makes you act irrationally, makes you care. It strips away all your pretences and defences and what’s left, that’s you, pure and naked and imperfect. It strips you bare, strips your very soul. And if you’re lucky, someone will see beauty in your broken body, a strange kind of perfection in your cracked heart, patched and mismatched and fraying at the edges. And you’d think that’s where there story ends with “and they lived happily ever after”.

 

But it’s not that easy, nothing ever is when it comes to love. So here’s the thing, when Shakespeare said “love is blind” he was wrong. Love isn’t blind, is anything but, is blinding. Love, love is all kinds of things; breathtaking, golden, painful, beautiful, bitter, sweet, dark, bright, and all those things no one ever had words for anyway. And once you’ve found it, it’s hard to tear your eyes away again, almost like you stare at the sun to have something to remember when there’s none, and it renders you blind, makes black spots dance in front of your eyes. And sometimes, sometimes love makes you hate someone, makes you hate them for seeing beauty in you, for changing you, for loving you, for making you love them back. And so Holmes chooses his words carefully, viciously, aiming each and every syllable at Watson’s heart, sentences designed to hurt. And they do.

 

He wants to yell at Watson [can’t you see what love has done to me?], but the words dissolve in his mouth and stretch as a heavy silence between them. And sometimes when he’s lying awake at night he wishes the sky was just a little closer, wishes he could reach it from his bed, catch a shooting star, watch Watson eyes light up and sparkle again, say all the things he never dared to say. His laughter echoes hollowly, brokenly, in the emptiness of the night. He hisses; the cocaine burns. [can’t you see what love has done? what it’s doing to me?]

 

But you see, none of that really matters, because, maybe love doesn’t heal all wounds  [I know I hurt you, Watson, did everything but murder you and I, but… But what, Holmes? We’re left with nothing, nothing at all. We have this, us, love. That’s something, isn’t it? Yeah, that’s something.], but love leaves a window in the skies, a patch of bright blue on the darkest of days. And sometimes when they lie awake at night, Holmes’ head on Watson’s chest, Holmes can reach the sky from their bed, catch a shooting star, but he doesn’t, kisses Watson’s jaw instead.

 

So, yeah, love, isn’t easy, but the great things in life never really are.



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