rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter seventeen

Um guys, i don't even know.
I have a slight feeling Ecstasy isn't going in the right direction.

It's like 4:32 am and I'm just breathing.
breathing boring guys. Let me tell you that.
My writing is failing me guys
and I'm just staring at this screen blankly, words flying inside my skull at a indecipherable rate and it doesn't help the fact that my extremely slooow brain cannot simply contemplate it's complexity.

and I'm like no, get your shit together.

okay carry on lil ones

and I'm sorry for my writing again.
as usual okay.

I've lost everyone
I've lost you
I've lost everything
what's the point of living anymore
if I've lost what's worth living for
n.a

||JOHN||

"Let's play a game."

It was seven minutes to nine and even so, they laid there, huddled within the blankets, curling into each others warmth. It felt so comfortable a peaceful, that to John, it was quite out of the ordinary that Sherlock would suddenly ask if he wanted to play a game.

He said it so causally, in the context. He could of meant "Do you want to play a game?" as in "Do you want to play monopoly, or scrabble, or Cluodo?"
But referring to the current situation, the "game" that had been suggested was most likely going to be one of those rarity of an occasion, where moments of uncontrollable doubt slipped out and into the night, of store brought brownies, hot chocolate and vanilla.

"Do you want to play a game?"

He had asked this question again.

Of course John couldn't refuse. Being John and all.

"Yeah. Why not."

Sherlock sighed as if he wanted John to decline his sweet offer of a "game". He got up and in an uncoordinated walk, he went out door.

He came back less than two minutes later with two bottles of expensive looking wine in his hands. John must have looked surprised, because Sherlock heaved a sigh again and said,
"Honestly John, does it not look so blandly obvious? two bottles, and my suggestion of a game, and the possible hindrance that will affect us tomorrow."

"so... we're going to get drunk?"

"There's a game I used to play, at parties, there were two bottles, depending on the number of people playing; in this case; two, we ask questions, if the other person has attempted or achieved the same obstacle as you, you drink, and vise versa, technically the aim is to not get drunk. And you do so by having a really shitty life."

"Sounds like I'm going to win then." laughed John.

"You'd be surprised."

"You start then."

Sherlock raised a suspicious looking eyebrow before sliding a bottle in front of John.

They started of with unimportant questions, questions of very early childhood, where they innocently sat on swings, slid down slides and prattled about incoherent things. They were questions like: "did you play on the swings at Elizabeth Park?"
or "Did you ever want an X-box"

Questions that did very little harm.

The more they drank, the more the questions began to get deeper. They were spoken within the slurred voices of the two boys that sat on the carpeted floor.

"Did your father ever abuse you." John said it like a statement. So plain, so simple. He stated it.

"No." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Did yours?"

"Countlessly. Next."

Sherlock eyed him with a worried look.

"Have you taken drugs?"

"Once." slurred John, taking another swig from the bottle. "I know you have."

Sherlock smiled. It was like as if instantly, Johns whole world lit up leaving him in a state that warmed his from his toes.

"Do you like cake?"

"Very much." laughed Sherlock. "But only if it's vanilla cake. Only vanilla cake."

"I thought you don't eat." said John, his words forming sentence that were almost inaudible.

"Eating? Eatings boring, weight you down, distracts you from the important things."

"Fair enough."

They were so drunk, for John, it was hard to contemplate the voices inside his head.

"Do you have unnoticeable scars?"

"On my shoulder where dad used to hit me." said John quietly.

"Are you homo?" said John, alcohol lining his every word.

"Very."

"Good."

John collided into him, their bodies a tangled mess upon the floor. Sherlock was just so beautiful. And he knew it.

This kiss was endless.

John couldn't remember falling asleep that night.