On the Outside Challenge: BBC Sherlock: Fanfic: On the Outside

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: On the Outside
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Mature
Length: 436
Warnings: Guro; Masturbation
Content Notes: Sherlock/John (one-sided); Angst; POV 1^st Person (Sherlock); reference to a scene from Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
Summary: I want to be inside you, John.
I see everything and delete most.

You delete nothing, except that which I would have you delete, and see nothing, except that which I would have you not see.

Me. In a sheet. Prick in hand. Screen stilled. Fist stilled.

You cough.

If you imagine me a freak, I beg to disagree. I am a thousand times more depraved than your mind can conjure. This leaking tip in my hand is that of the proverbial iceberg.

I want to be inside you, John.

Do you see? No, you don’t see.

Not hand or prick, mine. Not mouth or arse, yours.

The whole of me inside the whole of you.

Sherlock Holmes inside John Watson.

My fists moves.

Up and down.

At your insistence, I watched 374 minutes of film yesterday. I deleted 373 minutes, 30 seconds of what I saw.

Thirty seconds I kept.

This morning—like an addict—I searched for and found that thirty seconds.

The place is called Hoth. Delete.

It is a cold, barren, unforgiving world.

Someone is in distress. Another comes to the rescue. There is a beast.

The beast is called a Tauntaun. Delete.

The rescuer cuts the beast open from head to toe, removes the entrails, and places the one in distress inside the beast.

He says, “It will keep you warm.”

He says, “I though they smelled bad on the outside!” Delete.

You are the beast. I am the rescuer and the one in distress.

Do you see now?

Up and down.

Sherlock Holmes inside John Watson.

I cut you from head to toe, remove your entrails, and crawl inside you. 

It will keep me warm.

It will keep the cold, barren, unforgiving world on the outside.

I cut you open, remove your entrails, crawl inside you, and sew the flaps of your skin closed.

Like an autopsy.

No!

My fist stops. I whimper.

You are not the beast.

I cut you open, remove your entrails, crawl inside you, draw your skin closed, and go to work.

Filtering your air. Digesting your food. Pumping your blood.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

My fist pumps.

I would gladly trade this transport to be part of yours.

Surrounded.

Protected.

Inside.

John Watson.

I clean myself and dress.

Will my humiliation be protracted or swift? Profound or superficial?

“It’s all fine,” you say, chuckling. I deliberate on the exact pattern of vocal chord vibration that produces the soft, warm, sugar-coated sound. “Han Solo and Luke Skywalker? Utterly wankable.”

It is not all fine, John.

It is not all fine because I cannot delete what you do not see:

I am on the outside.