The Sociopath Society

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

He’s unconscious on my bed... how awkward

John anxiously paced the space beside his bed, tugging at the corner of his jumper as he checked for any sign of change in Sherlock. None. John had removed the majority of the younger boy’s clothes so he could tend to the worst wounds as best as possible with his first aid kit. He sincerely hoped his parent’s didn’t decide to randomly walk in. Considering that Sherlock was on his bed near naked and unconscious. Not a good combo.

His sudden fainting at the door had been a bit of a shock for John. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to turn up so battered. Now John was worried. Very worried. More than worried, actually. John was quite frankly terrified for the younger boy’s health. He’d managed to bandage and clean most of the major wounds but two ribs were broken and there was nothing he could do about that.

Sighing softly John carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Making sure he didn’t disturb Sherlock. Almost subconsciously John began to run his hand almost comfortingly through Sherlock’s now rather messy black curls, staring down at the unconscious boy. He was almost unhealthily skinny, with his ribs well defined under pale skin. Here and there there were large scars that suggested to John that this wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been in this state. Along with these there were numerous small, almost perfectly straight cuts running up his arms. The sight of them sickened John. He knew exactly what they were from.

“John?” The croaking voice wrenched John’s eyes from the scars to the stunning eyes that had just flickered open.

“Sherlock,” John smiled softly, moving so his face was over the other boy’s. “What happened?”

“My father,” Sherlock’s reply was curt as he tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down by John.

“You need to rest.” John spoke softly, eyes ringed with concern. He decided not to press anymore on the matter concerning Sherlock’s father. “Stay here, I’ve got something for you.” He jumped, careful to keep an eye on Sherlock as he made his way over to his chest of drawers. After a bit of rummaging he found what he needed. A small, carefully bound package. Heading back to Sherlock he handed it over. “Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock looked at the present in confusion, perched on his elbows now. John guessed that he wasn’t sure why he’d been given it.

“Go on, open it,” John laughed, a soft smile on his lips. Sherlock arched an eyebrow slightly and winced as he shifted his position to unwrap the item. After doing so he proceeded to stare at the blue stripe scarf in his hands. An almost smile flashed across his face as he carefully wrapped it around his neck.

“It smells like you.” John chuckled at that comment, rolling his eyes. Trust Sherlock to say something like that rather than thank you. Not that John had expected one.

“I admit I wore it once or twice to see what it was like,” John tugged his hair. “I thought you might like it because your old one is a bit ragged.”

“I like it. But... I don’t have anything for you.” John so the genuinely worried look Sherlock so often held when it came to relationship. Fearing that he had done something wrong.

“I know. I don’t need anything from you.” John grinned mischievously as a thought crossed his mind. “Well there is one thing...” Not waiting for a reply John moved closer to Sherlock, pressing his lips to the other boy’s. Careful not to touch any of his injuries. Sherlock happily returned the skin and soon their lips were moving together passionately. John put his hands on both sides of Sherlock’s head, moving so he was hovering right above him. The kiss was better than the last one, if that was even possible, lips slightly parted and tongues occasionally touching. John closed his eyes and allowed the perfection of the moment to wash over him. The bliss. But eventually it had to be broken, Sherlock being the one to do so. He seemed out of breath from even a short kiss, eyes flickering open and closed. John moved over to lie next to him, checking the time. Midnight. Almost absentmindedly as he lay there one of his hands brushed along Sherlock’s arm. Felt the scars.

“What did you do to yourself, Sher?” John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were now closed.

“It was a stage I went through. It helped me escaped from my mind but I found other ways. Anyway, I realised emotions were pointless so it no longer helped with mental ‘grief’ or whatever.” Sherlock’s voice was little more than a whisper, exhausted and full of a pain yet still devoid of feelings. John frowned, shaking his head slightly.

“Get some sleep, Sher,” he gently kissed Sherlock on the cheek before getting up to find a mattress to sleep on.

“John?” John turned back to look at Sherlock whose voice sounded so weak. Vulnerable. “Can you... sleep next to me?”

John smiled, knowing what it meant and doubting it would happen again. He went back over to the bed and took up what little space was left, one arm moving to drape around Sherlock. Then he pulled the covers over them and let sleep claim him.