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I have always had an active imagination even as a child. I would make up stories in my head. My whole fucking life had been in my head until I met Sherlock. At some point I realized the stories would need to come out. They had been in there for so long, growing and consuming my thoughts. It was only a matter of time.
In retrospect I should have not been surprised. The signs were there. Persistent unhappiness morphing into absolute melancholy. It wan't depression as Ellia had called it. No, this was different and no pills were going to quell the hunger and the thirst that rose up from the depths of my soul. I was on suicide watch after I had been shot. , which was silly. I wasn't going to end my life I was merely going to start it.
I haven't always been an idiot and a coward. At one time I like to think I was attractive, three continents Watson, maybe even close to hot. I fucking know I had been close to brilliance. It had been flickering inside me in school and in war. Embers lighting oh so hotly before dying down...waiting...the heat had been glorious. The glimpses into what could be....and the darkness...it came so quickly. It wasn't without warning. The sicky feeling of doubt, the repulsion at the thoughts that sprang from the depths of my subconscious. The darkness that I wanted to wrap my body around and lie with like a lover. And then I would sleep and when I would awake the fire would be gone. The embers of my soul covered with white ash.
The alcohol, drugs and even sex kept the embers dark and soon they were white and cold. I could begin my life. My mind was quiet. The cast of characters had left and in its place was a strange world of reality.Then I came home and the embers began to glow. I had a world filled with Sherlock Holmes. I could be brilliant and on fire. I could soar to heights and sink to the depths of darkness. It was all possible with him. And then he died.......and the embers once again became cold and white.
I awoke in the middle of the night feeling like I was crawling out of my skin...I was flushed....aroused....my heart was pounding in my throat my arousal was begging for attention. As Mary slept next to me softly snoring, i touched myself. I felt hotter and wetter than I could remember. I had touched myself recently. Mary and I had not been intimate in some months...not since his return. To be honest I could not remember the last time we had made love.
I began to stroke myself, my mind going to the darkest recesses of my subconscious. The place where I was naked on a leash, throat fucking strangers while he petted me and mumbled, "such a good pet, such a good bitch in heat". My breathing became labored as my release was near on a precipice as I felt the choking. Choking on the semen, hearing the deep familiar voice telling me to swallow it all and 'be a good pet'. Feeling the hot sticky mess dripping down my chin. I released and let myself fall into the deep valley below, shaking slightly as a rode it out.
I lied there quietly listening to the patterns of Mary's breathing until my own breathing matched hers. I awoke the next morning somewhat relaxed. The faint sweat smell of desire and arousal still on my fingers. I hesitated briefly before plunging the digits into my mouth and sucking softly. My body stirred. Mary had left for work and I was alone in the flat. I quickly plunged the wet fingers between my spread legs and began to stroke while I thought of him.
I was being fucked from behind. I was on all fours as he held my leash as he plowed me from behind. I heard him muttering, 'oh so tight, so fucking tight and wet for me'. I gasped as I felt wetness streaming down my inner thigh. i gasped as he pulled his warm fullness from me. A soft moan escaped my lips as he tugged on my leash, forcing my head up. 'Such a good pet.....you really are just a bitch in heat aren't you'. I gasped.
I lied in my bed waiting for my breathing to return to normal pushing the vivid imagery out of my mind. I was a sick fuck.