A/N: i have become addicted to second person and low-key 3rd season Sherlock POV pining angst so here's some of that good shit

God Sherlock is fucking gay

It might be too late for that. Pretense.

You've deluded yourself into believing it'll get better if you say a prayer each night, like love can be quelled with a whisper in the dark. It might be too late; your faith in God, in him, is erroneous.

But still you stand there and pretend it isn't your fault. You trace the dips in his face with a familiarity. You retread the path you once took knowing where it ends up, and you are faithful in your naïveté. Something about love is destructively simple; absentmindedly bumbling along in blissful ignorance. You thought you could divorce yourself from a love so consuming that it turned you inside out, destroyed you and recreated you. (Like you could ever stop loving him.) Foolish and futile. That's how it is, that's how it always will be.

There's something so devastating about falling back into him again. You love him like it's gonna kill you if you don't. You love him. It's gonna kill you, either way.

He's a cyanide capsule, he's a gunshot wound, you're leaking blood and ink and emotion, you're made out of water-damaged paper and childish stitching and tired clichés.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

You think it constantly. Hoping he can read your fucking mind. You're waiting for the day he understands the gravity of your emotion, and the correlation between gravity and the fall. Knowing he never can is driving you insane in every way it's possible to drive someone insane. You want to kiss him until your lips are sore, Jesus. You want him with his fingers in your hair. You want him in between your legs. You want him so fucking bad that every time he looks at her you can feel salt under your skin, coals in your stomach. You know him but you can never know him like she does. It's a competition and every fucking time you lose. The game is over but you never go home.

There's nothing worse than knowing you can't hurt him like he hurts you. At least, then. Then you would know he has loved you as much. But you don't think he could love anyone that much - there's something so thoroughly superficial about what you used to know love to be. The definition changed from subservience to something vastly more destructive.

You were never one to call love malicious, or sadistic. Now you're not so sure.

Fuck me up, Jesus Christ, you think.

(I want you to.)