Unexpected Friendships With The Unlikeliest Of People

Chapter 6: My Demons

Well, that was awkward.

Sam sat in homeroom as his leg rapidly tapped. There was something definitely off about the situation he had walked in on yesterday with Sherlock and his father. There was an old, familiar tension that made Sam uneasy as he walked home. He could have sworn he heard the same voice screaming profanity.

"Samuel Winchester," Mrs. Hudson called out just like she did every other day in the morning.

"Here," he told here without bothering to correct her. He had a friend to worry about.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson called followed by a silent pause. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's sick today," Killian told Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you Killian," she told him with a hint of doubt in her voice. Sherlock never missed a day of school. It didn't matter how crappy he felt or looked. He refused to go home.

Looks like Sam wasn't the only one suspicious.

-

"Displacement is the change in an object's position. The displacement of an object is defined as its change in position. Displacement has a magnitude and direction and is therefore a vector," Sam heard Mr. Metatron speak quickly. How was he supposed to learn this stuff he wasn't actually teaching it? Exams were two months away and he hadn't learned anything in this class at all.

Sam raised his hand.

"Mr. Winchester," Mr. Metatron asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Can you slow-"

"No," he interrupted and continued to speak quickly.

Sighing, Sam took out his notebook and started doodling. He sucked.

-

Mycroft made sure that his brother hadn't moved much. First off, he was bruised pretty badly. Secondly, he could rip his stitches.

Sherlock was sleeping quietly on the bed with the occasional quiet snore escaping the younger Holmes' mouth.

Mycroft slightly smiled. This was the best sleep Sherlock had had since he was eight. That small smile didn't last long, though, when he heard the familiar sound of a pick-up truck pulling into the driveway.

He was back.

"F*~k," Mycroft muttered as he panicked. What was he going to do? It's not like he could fight the guy. He was a twig!

The front door slammed which caused Sherlock to flinch and wake.

"Harley," Mycroft heard his mum say with a hint of fear in her voice. "What's-"

She was interrupted by the sound of his hand connecting with her face.

"Shut up you b*~°h," he spat out. "Where's Mycroft? I need to talk to him."

For f*~ks sake! Get your own da+n job! I'm not supposed to be the man of the house!

"I don't know," his mother quietly replied.

"Violet," Harley slurred with pure anger. He was obviously drunk. "Where. Is. Mycroft?"

"I don't know," was all she could force out. She may not be innocent, she sure as hell was guilty for beating her children, but she hadn't done that in years. If Harley was convicted of child abuse, there would be enough evidence to prove he did.

"I'm right here," Mycroft replied calmly as he made his way down the stairs. "What is it father?"

"Don't patronize me," he slurred, the smell of alcohol rushing up Mycroft's nose.

"I wasn't patronizing you. I asked what you needed."

"Where's my paycheck," he asked.

"You mean my paycheck?" Mycroft sassed. "You want a paycheck, get a job."

It was at this moment that Mycroft knew, he f*~ked up. It was too late now, though. And it was pretty obvious that no one else was going to say anything to him.

"You're dead," his father muttered.

-

Matt lay in bed. It was late at night, but something was wrong. He didn't have a good feeling. He didn't even know why he had this bad feeling.

The sound of someone throwing up pulled him from his thoughts.

He quietly walked over to the bathroom and peered through the cracked door. Who was getting sick? Were they alright?

What he saw was something he couldn't unsee. He ran back to the bedroom before he was spotted.

What did I just see?

-

Jim Moriarty sat in his room reading Romeo and Juliet. He didn't understand anything Shakespeare wrote down. What kind of english is this? Old english, dimwit.

"Jimmy," his younger brother asked as he peeped his head into the room.

"What is it, Brennan," he asked his younger brother.

"Is mommy OK?"

It took a minute for it to click in his mind what his brother was asking. He rushed to his mother's room.

"Brennan call 9-1-1," he called.

Brennan ran to the phone as fast as his little legs could carry him and dialed the number.

"9-1-1. Where is your emergency?"

"Something's wrong with my mommy," he told the operator.

"Can you tell me where you live?" The man on the other side of the line asked sweetly.

"My daddy said to not tell people where we live," he informed the man.

"It's OK. Can you tell me your address so that I can send someone to help your mommy?"

Hesitantly, Brennan gave the man his address.

"Is anyone else home with you besides your mom?"

"My big brother," he said. "I can get him if you want me to."

He ran off get his brother, but not before seeing his mother.

"Mummy," he cried.