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Two Impossible Improbable Men

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The first time they made love it wasn’t soft and sweet, no murmured whispers or gliding caresses in a dimly lit bedroom. Let’s be honest and call it what it was.

It was fucking.

It was two grief stricken men pressed up against a wall and rutting frantically, wrists scraping against yanked down zippers and teeth sinking into jugular veins and lips. It was harsh breaths and ground out curses spilling into the darkness of their flat, the shadows making eye contact blessedly impossible.

It was a desperate attempt to feel something, anything, other than their own hearts breaking. They were pushing away ghosts—Mary, the baby, Mycroft. Two shattered men, attempting to lose and find themselves in the tang of blood and sweat and semen.

They were grasping at life.


The first time they completely bared their bodies to each other with the intent of sharing pleasure there was a dimly lit bedroom, but it wasn’t sweet or soft.

It was awkward.

It was buttons that refused to come undone, John’s watch snagging in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, noses that seemed to keep getting in the way as their teeth clacked together. It was stammered “May I?”s and surprised squeaks (Sherlock denies it, but that’s exactly the sound he made when blunt fingers traced the soft hair south of his navel, when chapped lips slid over the head of his cock). It was a knee to the side of John’s head as Sherlock convulsed blindly, John coming untouched mere seconds later against the duvet.   

It was a leap of faith, an apology, an answer to all the questions that had gone desperately unspoken. They were seizing control of their destinies, redefining their identities. Two men fumbling around each other’s jagged edges, twisting and turning the pieces until they fit together, creating a delicate mosaic out of the shards of their pasts.

They were rewriting their story.


The first time they woke up together they not only had a bedroom bathed in the rosy hues of sunrise, but also the fabled murmured whispers and gliding caresses. It was indeed soft and sweet.

It was also very real.

It was sleep soured mouths coming together, hints of the previous night’s curry and whiskey lingering on warm slick tongues. It was quick trips to the loo when full bladders grew too distracting and sticky spots missed in the previous night’s hasty cleanup. It was morning stubble reddening mouths and necks, sandpapery cheeks scratching against tender inner thighs. It was swollen lips sliding across sweat musky skin, lingering over mottled purple patches and red crescents dug into shoulders.

It was a stripping away of the pretenses and lies, leaving behind their hearts with all their glories and imperfections. They laid themselves open to each other, the long desired words of love and together and forever told in grasping fingers and shuddering moans. Two impossible improbable men eliminating everything that stood between them to come to the truth.

They were finally finding home.