Sherlock's POV
That night, I hardly got any sleep at all. Not that sleep deprivation was abnormal for me, what with my parents fighting downstairs over lost house keys. Dad probably dropped them behind the couch as he typically did. But Mum wasn't catching on. I grabbed my pillow and pressed it against my face, inhaling the savory scent of cigarettes. John was at home right now, sleeping, his face more bruises than it was skin. I hated James. I hated him.
I wanted him gone.
I shoved my pillow off and got to my feet, scanning the room. I needed to creep out of the house and visit John, tell him I was sorry for not blocking James's punches. I finally settled on the window, and I grabbed my sheets. I tied one end to my bedpost and hung the other end from the window. Gritting my teeth, I slid cautiously down the sheets and landed on my feet, breathing the cool night air.
It was time to find John.
John's POV
I groaned as I shifted on my thin, lumpy mattress. It had been the worst day of my life. I hated it, hated James, hated myself for not fighting back. I sat up and brushed a single tear from my eye. I winced. Every single part of me was bruised, wounded, damaged. I hated it. I pushed myself out of bed and limped on wobbly knees to my window. I pushed it open and savored the cool air as it washed over my hot face. Downstairs, I heard Harry snoring and my parents washing dishes. Sherlock was probably asleep by now, forgetting all about my encounter with James. Or....was he? He'd yelled so loudly when James had thrown his first punch, and as James had continued throwing kicks and punches, his voice had risen to a squeak. He had stared at me miserably before carrying me slowly and cautiously to the nurse's office, and then he'd explained what had happened to the nurse. James, of course, had bribed another kid to lie and say HE attacked me, and the morons in the office had truly believed him. So now, James was off scot-free.
And now he could attack me again.
I sighed and rubbed my face with my hands, wincing as my fingers met my bruises and cuts. I finally let my hands fall to my side when my eyes began to water from the pain. I was breaking, and I knew it. James had smashed me with a hammer, and now I was slowly crumbling into tiny pieces.
I wondered if Sherlock felt the same way.
I scrunched up my toes on the carpet and gazed miserably out the window. Stars speckled the midnight sky, sparkling like miniature lamps. Their beauty nearly blinded me. I thought of the various constellations and theories behind them, how stars, so simple, so seemingly delicate, so gorgeous, were made out to be so complex. I watched them twinkle against the background of navy blue and waited. For what, I didn't know. Perhaps I was waiting for Sherlock to strode across the street and come inside, to encase me in a warm hug, to ease my pain and hatred and suffering.
"John."
