I don’t sleep well, but he does.  

What does he dream, I wonder? Have I ever wondered before?

It’s odd that sometimes you put your mouth on someone else’s mouth and suddenly you want to know eeeeevery siiiiingle last thing about them. 

Curious. 

It’s obsession for me on a level that’s impossible to describe, even to myself. When I try, I sound like Buffalo Bill from the Silence of the Lambs. 

Maybe that’s fitting. Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me...

Like a Symbiote, I want to crawl onto and into every inch of his skin, flex my fingers into his, breathe with his lungs, taste with his tongue. I want to settle in and feel the blood in our veins, feel the thrum of his pulse and the beat of his heart in our chest. I want to glare out at the world with his eyes so it knows I’m like a virus; in there so deep, it’s impossible to cure him. 

I carelessly own everyone of use to me -- pick and mix and throw them away. I don’t own Sebastian and I both admire that and feel driven insane by it. He doesn’t need me, he survived without me for five years, but he wants me (obviously) and he has a revenge hard on he still nurses every time Sherlock’s name comes up in conversation. He’s suave about it, however, that’s what makes him so gorgeously infuriating. He’s so fucking, deliciously suave. It manifests casually as a passing comment while he browses the papers. 

“I could just shoot him, you know, James.” 

“He has two ankles, I could just take out one.”

His voice is like posh British chocolate, deep, smooth and unhurried. He’ll card-count a man out of all his money and they’ll still line up to shake his hand at the end of the night. That’s the only kind of person that could continue to hold my attention. He will embrace you, knife you in the back and you’ll still thank him for it while he gently shushes you and lays you down. 

“Shh...”

That’s power. My favourite puppet. My favourite mask. My favourite sanctuary.

Helloo, me, it’s me again. 

Isn’t that from a Megadeth song? I think it is, but I can’t be bothered to go look. In any event, it goes -- this is a private entry, after all, my eyes only.

My game with Sherlock has begun on two levels, I drop him bread crumbs here and there for a larger gamble but woven through them I’ve left him a bit of a tantalizing personal mystery to play with. He doesn’t know it has anything to do with me yet but he will, in time. He just has to be a tiny bit clever about names to figure that out. 

Sebastian is in on it, of course. Sebastian is in on everything, even if he has nothing to do with it. Sebastian is annoying in a way I don’t want to abide, but I find myself frustratingly helpless to it. He knows me. Sometimes I’m surprised by how much and I shouldn’t be because he’s been working with me for so long. But things are different now. After this weekend, things are bizarrely different. Intimately different. Contently different. 

I’m not someone who feels contentment. I’m not conventionally affectionate. When I’m outwardly quiet, my brain remains a cacophony of noise -- ideas, mischief, music, a hundred different thoughts in a hundred different voices.

So why does all that quiet when I see him first thing in the morning in his glasses, his eyes still tired, jaw darkly scruffy, while he fiddles with his stupid coffee machine? It’s disgusting. I hate it. I hate him and I hate myself and I hate everything to do with his gross hunting cabin and his disgustingly attractive sense of humor and his cool, calm, unimpeded confidence. 

He’s awful. 

Sebastian Moran is awful. I can’t abide it. And yet here I sit in my living room while he talks to a bookie and smokes a cigarette on the balcony of my flat. I can see him through the door and he’s got the look on his face that tells me he thinks the man on the other end of the line is full of shit. Instead of plotting something lucrative, I’m plotting to throw his contact lenses away like I’ve been doing for YEARS now, just so he has to put his glasses on.

We both pretend we don’t know how they disappear. But we both know exactly how they disappear! We know! I know he knows, and he knows I know he knows and we continue this contact lenses charade.