rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter eighteen

I'll sleep,
I'll smile
but I won't eat
or stop the crying.
because I'm broken.
a.n

"I have my graduation next week."

John was stabbing a burnt piece of toast whilist staring at the tousle black haired boy in front of him.

"How disruptive."

"You are honestly the most ignorant bastard I have ever met."

"Love you too John."

"But won't you come? to my graduation?"

"Is there a reason?"

"are you fucking- " John inhaled sharply, "you faggot it's my graduation, you know, finishing high school?"

"Yes John," said Sherlock getting up, sliding his chair backwards, "yes I will go to your seemingly dull graduation."

"Lovely. I mean you would be graduating if you hadn't dropped out."

"I have reasons." and he disappeared into his room.

***

He just doesn't know.

***

He sat in his room, he would paint the walls a different colour every month, then chip away at the rainbow layers to create an amazing pattern of belonging and light.

He lay on his bed, counting everything he had, then curling up into a blanket and watching rom- coms and listening to pink floyd, and the Beatles and the smiths because they were nice songs. He would sing softly with the tape and smile because it reminded him of John. Then he frowned. And then he would realise that his lungs lacked oxygen and he would inhale.

He would play on his violin for hours without end. He would play from the time John left the house, to when he came back. They had a debate among the subject of Sherlock staying at home. Alone. And the imaginative range of things he could have done within the time. John had agreed for Sherlock to be alone as long as John checked his arms and legs, every evening. He was skinner than usual, his skin seemed to hang from his bones. Sometimes Sherlock would wake up screaming, and John would kiss his hair and tell him it was all okay. Someone he would tell him to "drown your demons."
But every time he did, Sherlock would respond to " But they know how to swim."

Other days he would just stare. And John would sigh. And cuddle him. Because he was too precious to cry.

"Have you ever been in love?" asked Sherlock one day, as he cradled him. No he wasn't a child.
Not at all.

"Yes." whispered John. "Right now."

"It's like you give them a piece of you. It makes you so vulnerable. You build up walls and defences and then suddenly this persona can walk in on your walls and break them down. No they are just like any other person in this world, except they love you. They can hurt you and kiss your wounds and hurt you again and fix you up. But it's like glass inside your heart. It's not a hurting that goes away over time, no - it's like soul hurt. it's not the imagination. It's not the mind. It is a real get inside you pain, rip you apart, sort of thing. And I hate it."

"That is why it makes it so amazing."

"You are so beautiful. John."

"Me? nah, you are."

An they kissed. It wasn't a kiss driven by disire or lust. It was soft and light. A beautiful.

"Don't ever leave me." John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock smiled a sad smile.

a.n : the love quote is based on Neil Gaimans quote.