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Drunken Letter Declaration

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Sherlock,

Yes, this is obviously a

Yes. I’m writing you a handwritten letter. Don’t get all “obviously” about it, ok?

This is my second third fifth draft. They didn’t all begin

I’m drunk (obviously). I’ve had too much. Lets’ see, I’ve had three four five draughts (haha! See my clever joke? Or are you the only funny one in this relationship?)

Don’t worry, I won’t be sending this letter. You won’t be reading this. Too messy for you, princess sorry, drama queenking.

Seriously, Sherlock why did you take off like that??? I thought we were beyond all that crap. It’s ok. No it’s not. I’m just venting.

You got scared and left—no big deal.

Except it IS a fucking big deal. Because you could’ve talked instead of fleeing. It’s ok. I understand. But it’s

Okay, here’s the truth. I’m pissed and I’m pissed-off.

Do you even know why I’m so fucking upset, you beautiful dickhead? (Apart from the fact that you left me by myself at your parents home in the middle of fucking nowhere! I didn’t even know the address so I could

Let me speel out. Fuck

Let me spell it out for you, genius genius. I’m upset because we’re at the part of the story where we’ve overcomed all the bloody obstacles. We’ve figured out our shit and we’re more than likely in fucking love with each other.In love. I think we know where we both stand. What was it you were saying? Ammo, a mast, amen. Whatever.

But you’re acting like there’s still a problem. Do you have ANY idea how bloody frustrating this is? (Just re-filled my glass, in case you’re interested. You know you’ve been missing for 12 hours now, eh? Prick.)

Yes. All it took was five minutes to destroy us, but we survived. It’s over now. (Well, not quite over… we both need a year decade of therapy). Which is why I stopped you by the way. I thought it would be a good idea to talk, you know? Do you seriously think I wanted to stop? You’ve mistaken my intentions.
I believe you misunderstood you shithead what I was trying to do.

 

Why the hell did you take off you? I’m so fucking mad right now. No one knows where you are. I checked your boltholes. Fuck. I could strangle you

Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t really want to strangle you. I want to make love to

This is all a BIG misunderstanding.

Christ! I could write a fucking dissertation on misunderstandings between us.

One more drink and I’ll tell you what I

Nevr mind. I’m not

 

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Dear Sherlock,

It’s me again. I started writing you a bunch of letters a few hours ago when I was quite drunk. I was pretty angry. See the crumbled up pages in the bin if you don’t believe me.

I’m actually still intoxicated but not mad. Okay, I’m still a bit mad because you’re not responding to my texts. You could at least let me know you’re okay.

The reason I’m writing you is because I don’t know what else to do. I’m scared that you’ve gone and done something stupid. I wish you would answer your fucking phone so I could give you a piece of my mind…

But really what I need is peace of mind. I need to know you’re okay. I need to know we’re okay.

And is writing you a letter like a needy lovesick teenager helping me get some peace? I don’t know. I’m going crazy here.

 

 

It’s now 3 hours later- I went to the pub. I was hoping I’d find you home when I got back.

 

 

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Dearest Sherlock,

I’m not really sure what happened but I realize it was probably partly my fault. I should’ve known this was

I should start by saying that I’ve been drinking a bit. Please ignore my texts.
(Actually, don’t ignore them. Please reply. I meant ignore my tone.)

Sherlock, my love

Sherlock, you know I love you. You know it. You are the most perceptive man alive. Newtonian intelligence. Had you been born in that era, gravity would be measured in Holmes.

For the record, this is what happened yesterday afternoon; We were sitting on your childhood bed at your parent’s place and you were showing me your plant taxonomy press and your watercolor paintings of poisonous plants.

And yes, I was blown away all over again. I didn’t even know you could draw so well! That’s what you do to me—all the time—blow me away! You amaze me. You make me feel alive. You give me a purpose. You make me feel grounded. So much so that my own private unit of gravity is Holmes (ha. I’m so funny).

You claimed that I pulled away from you faster than an ionic transfer of electrons or something stupid like that (sorry, but that was an absurd metaphor, Sherlock). I told you were wrong, that I was attracted to you, but you wouldn’t let me finish. You said I was confusing lust for adrenaline and that I couldn’t possibly be attracted to you. It’s not just the fucking danger thing, ok? It’s everything. It’s YOU. And that includes what’s beneath your fucking clothes. You’ve been driving me crazy for seven years, did you know that?

I’m so sorry about what happened in uni with that jerk that Trevor guy.

He said he’d have anyone but you. NOT ME. It wasn’t me who said that, Sherlock.

I’ll have no one but you. NO ONE BUT YOU.

Listen, Sherlock, it was nice…more than nice—when you touched me. I keep replaying it in my mind and I’m sure if I have one more drink, I’ll tear up just thinking about it.

It happened so suddenly. First you took my hand and kissed each finger and then my palm. You unbuttoned your shirt and placed my palm over your heart. You pushed me down on your tiny childhood bed and buried your entire face under my jumper… You listened to my heart and then I felt the tip of your tongue on my nipple. You kissed me all over my chest and I couldn’t even see you. Hell, it was the most goddamn sweetest thing I’ve ever experienced. But here’s the thing, it was also the most goddamn erotic thing too. See, it’s always like that with you isn’t it? Weird combinations. Sweet and erotic.

Bossy and vulnerable is another odd combination that comes to mind. You remember when you were teaching me how to waltz? There was a bunch of wedding planning stuff on the table and you grabbed a sample flower from Mary’s headpiece and tucked it behind my ear. This was to indicate I was the girl and I was supposed to let you lead me. Then you’d place the flower behind your ear when you thought I was ready to take the lead. You were so bossy, yet you would look at me so wistfully. If we’d both done what we wanted to do; if we’d kissed then, what do you think would’ve happened?

And our my stag-do. Yeah-I was pretty drunk then too. I’d have done it that night, Sherlock. I’d have made love to you. I should have. Why did we even answer the bloody door? I guess at the time I was relieved… I thought I’d been saved from making a mistake. Now in hindsight I realize it was bloody Lestrade who had sent that nurse to stop things before anything happened. He was so mad at me later when he got us out of jail. I should’ve known how much he was in love with you too.

Anyway, I’m rambling. The reason I asked you to stop when you slid your hand underneath my pants was because I thought we should talk.

I’m not repelled by your touch you great big idiot. I crave it. I fantasize about it.

 

I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve touched you in my mind a thousand times. We’ve had sex. All in my head. You’re my biggest fantasy.

And this isn’t new. Remember when you were solving the Solitary Cyclist case (the one you wouldn’t let me publish on my blog). I was waiting for you in 221B (because you asked me to come over, remember? It was inconvenient, I was supposed to be picking a pram before the store closed—but here I was sitting in my chair waiting for you instead. Yeah. That says a lot in hindsight.)

And then you came in, a tornado of words and ideas (John, we will have to go back tonight and climb the spruce tree again!) and for a second I literally felt all my feel good chemicals simultaneously overflow my blood stream. I was amused, awed, ready for danger… all my senses awake.

 

And then you spiralled in front of me with a pair of scissors, you dropped to my feet and asked me ordered me to remove the sap that had glued your hair together at the base of your neck. You rested your elbows on my thighs and looked at me like a sweet little angel, your eyelashes framing the masterpiece your fucking eyes are.

What colour are your eyes anyway? I love them.

Funny story. I once picked up a paint chip in a store because it reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to see what colour they called it. You know what it was? Pistachio Sorbet—I kid you not. As you know, Pistachio is my favourite nut (you're my favourite nut). I still have that chip in my bedside table I think.

Anyway, I stared at your lips. I think I was so obvious. Surely you knew what I was thinking? There you were, nestled between my legs, humming with nervous energy, your lips slightly parted… well—I stopped breathing when you bent your head low to present me the nape of your neck. My body thought hoped you were going to do something else, you know? (A blow job, Sherlock… just in case you didn’t know. )

Oh, let me tell you I’ve replayed that one in my mind a few times. It’s a Recycled Fantasy. Good for me, I recycle… I’m doing my part to help the environment
It’s a great fantasy. You have no fucking idea how often I’ve jerked off to that one.

One more drink and I’ll share the details if you want.

Ok, had another drink I want to tell you and I think you need to hear this because this is quite the opposite of pulling away like an electron transfer—am I making sense? I rarely really want to tell you.

It’s so incredibly sexy and vivid in my mind. It’s beautiful because I fucking love you and It might not come out as hot and powerful when I write it down, but it’s beautiful because it’s you and me finally intimate

Here it goes… So, yeah, as I said, in my mind you’re all talkative and excited about the case. You drop to your knees in front of me, except this time it’s not to have stuff removed from your hair. You unzip my jeans and ask “May I?” very formally. Don’t ask me why. Maybe you being polite is another fantasy of mine. Haha.

Your mouth wraps slick around my cock and your lips find the perfect suction (Because you deduced it. Yes, I even fantasize about the “deduction thing”). When you take me deep, I need all my will power not to fuck your mouth.

Sometimes you smile. Or you smile with your eyes. Or you try to talk but it’s hard to have the last word when your mouth is full of me, hmm? You end up moaning and gasping and the sound vibrates against my shaft. Your breath is warm against my crotch and

Jesus.

And when you look at me, it becomes too much. In your eyes, I see that it’s so much more than friction and delicious static. It’s you and I

Usually at this point I come so hard my feet slam down on the mattress as if I’m landing a bloody aeroplane on the runway.

To tell you the truth, it’s not just the fact that I’ve just been blown that gets me off so hard and fast, it’s also the power you have over me. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Having me helpless while I come all over your face. I’d have to remove cum from your hair instead of sap.

You know, I think it’s therapeutic writing about you giving me a blow job. I’m surprised Ella never suggested it.

In all seriousness, Sherlock, I’m just trying to show you just how much I don’t mind you touching me. But that’s nothing compared to how much I want to touch you, my precious twat.

Yeah, I want to touch you. I want to see you lose control. I want you to feel just how much you are loved by me.

I picture it in my mind all the time. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting image; Your face wearing an expression of ecstasy when I go down on you; Your curls damp on your forehead as you’re about to come; You saying my name in that incredible voice of yours.

Here’s another little secret. If I can’t fall asleep, I make love to you in my head. I usually start by unwrapping you from your bathrobe like I’m unveiling a rare piece of art. Your clothes are mysteriously gone after I do that (it’s a fantasy, I skip steps, but don’t think I wouldn’t take pleasure in undressing you slowly either). Your pale skin is flushed and I bend down to kiss your lips.

To tell you the truth, sometimes that’s all I need to come. Other times I let it go on a bit longer…

I slowly kiss you everywhere as if I’m not desperate. I run my tongue down the soft skin of your inner thigh. You shudder. I put my hands on you and my touch calms you. (I imagine that you don’t have much experience. I’m not sure. That’s another reason why I thought we should talk). I use my mouth and my fingers to make you come. My eyes are fixed on your face the entire time.

Christ, I can only imagine how sexy that would be. You have no idea how much I want to see your face when you come. I’d give millions! (I’d need a loan, but it would be worth it).

But I screwed up, didn’t I? I could’ve maybe seen your expression for free? I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should’ve let you continue. Maybe we didn’t really need to talk. Maybe you were just more comfortable communicating that way.

I’m worried about you tonight. Are you alone somewhere, thinking that you are too different to be loved? (when in fact you are cherished revered?)

People have been trying to keep us apart for years, haven’t they? Now the only hurdle in the way is our own bloody insecurities.

You remember way back when the rumours about us being a couple were running rampant? Once, when I was by myself in Tesco, I overheard someone say, “Isn’t that John Watson? He’s not very good looking… a bit soft around the middle. Looks older. Sherlock Holmes could do a lot better.”

And for months years—even despite the fact that we weren’t even a couple—I thought they were right. I thought you could do better than me. I still think that sometimes.

I’m not as brave as you think I am. Maybe I stopped you because I might’ve been trying to keep that little part of me safe. I don’t want you to break my heart again. Maybe I got scared. You know how you told me about the self-hypnotic trance you put yourself in to figure out Moriarty’s return? You said in your subconscious I blamed you for killing “my wife”? Well, in a way that was a bit true because when you died I grieved you like I had lost my spouse.

I shouldn’t have stopped you. I regret it now.

But the bottom line is, we are two people who have strong feelings for each other and I think they’re strong enough that we should go ahead and share everything in our lives; including our bodies. My daughter becomes your daughter. Your parents become mine. Your brother is now my brother haha maybe not.
We make our own little family unit.

If I polish off the rest of this bottle, I might even have the courage to ask you to marry me. Wouldn’t that give me peace of mind? If we were husbands you’d have to tell me everything and there’d be no more taking off by yourself. I’d be by your side always.

There would be no more keeping me in the dark to protect me. There would be no more dating for me and I would no longer keep things inside.

Would you Sherlock? Would you marry me? (yeah, you’re right my lovely detective, the bottle is now empty). Will you marry me?

Aren’t I the sappy drunk? I suppose we need to fix things before I propose? (By the way, that’d go a lot quicker if you came out of hiding, Sherlock.)

I guess I’m getting ahead of myself here. There’s no need to rush things. Let’s not overthink this. I know you’ll come back soon. You always do.

Maybe we could just go for a long walk. I’ll apologize, you’ll apologize. We’ll talk. And probably laugh a bit too. I might take your hand in mine while we walk. I’ve often felt like doing that.

There’s no need to make a big deal out of this, Sherlock. Let’s just start with a walk, okay?

Goodnight, Sherlock.

Yours always (and I mean that),
John

P.S. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to go ahead and sleep in your bed. I miss you.

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