L'appel du Vide // Johnlock AU

Prologue

// Sherlock's POV //

"Sherlock, what ever happened to your face?" 

The familiar voice seemed to drone on as it spoke, the superior tone making me feel both irritated and haughty. I sighed with obvious arrogance, ignoring my older brother's question as I began navigating my way from the school building to our home. I decided on giving some sort of answer, so I settled on offering a shrug both in response and to make sure my bag wasn't falling off my shoulders. I could feel him shadowing me from behind, imagining the smirk that would leave his mouth and the tart remarks he would have to say of my idiocy and self-protection. 

Instead, a low, harsh tone was heard droning my name before continuing  on with a small rant. I turned when he spoke my name, and I could feel confusion spread across my bloodied features.

"Sherlock. I need an honest answer. You have a bloody upper lip and your shoulder is sore. You were obviously slammed into a wall by a larger body, now don't give me an idiotic response I just need the truthful one. Your nose is bleeding and I can tell that
soon you are to develop two black eyes. I don't want to have to truly look you over and deduce you, though I can easily tell you were beaten up. I think an infant could know within a second. Now, Sherlock, your answer?" 

His chin was sticking out and his stance was pompous. He had started out with a harsh tone, almost accusatory, but now he sounded calming, as if he were trying to reassure me. His buggy eyes were staring me down, waiting patiently for my answer. I looked him over quickly, college seemed to be treating him well. His plain white button up was tucked in, and he was wearing a black blazer with plain black slacks. His black shoes were polished and shiny, regardless of the muddy and rainy streets of our little town.

He hasn't told any of us what he's studying, but I could see through it all and I could tell he was pushing his way up the political ranks even if he was just a plain college student. Whatever it was he's studying, it is something only few are allowed to participate in and it does involve carrying a gun constantly.

I would think that his concern was a farce, was something he was faking to just get the answers, but I could read him just a tad better than he could fake, and unfortunately he was genuinely concerned. 

I let my eyes squint at him slightly, and I responded with a flouncing tone, "My dear brother, there is nothing to worry about. That school is full of idiots that cannot seem to fathom the stupidity of their malnourished brains, and they took it out on me somehow thinking that they could beat the brains out of me."  

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the honest truth. The main reason they had beat me up is because they saw me with my nicotine patches, and threatened to tell somebody of an authoritative figure. I decided to bargain with them, and told them that they could beat me up as long as they would stay quiet. 

I scratched my rough throat, not used to talking so much with in a whole day. I talked this morning with my personal student smuggler, fighting angrily for my patches. Then at lunch the kids discovered me in the nurses office, and pulled me away forcing me to bargain and almost beg for the secrecy they might offer me. I also may have insulted them a few times over for the better part of an hour, and now I was speaking with my brother. 

Mycroft's mouth was now agape, as if he was fighting to say something but refusing to say so, his eyes tracking my every move. I felt like he wouldn't say anything, but he then launched into a raging fit of words, a flurry of sentences so boring that I didn't bother paying any attention to them unless I felt like it. 

" - And you touched your throat, which is done only by a person who anticipates grave consequences, most often done by someone who is lying. I can see your nicotine patch on you forearms, Sherlock, I am not an idiot! How dare you go back to your repulsive behaviors, it is not only unhealthy but it can ruin your mind. And did you not know the simple fact that liars often respond with longer sentences, and that their voices - "

I groaned loudly, aggravated at his concern for my health, and began to angrily shout at him with my coarse voice. 

"Of course I know that, Mycroft! We always talk with longer sentences than normal people, don't you see? We are freaks, me more so than you! You have connections, you are in college and you are of such a highly respected platform in your life that you need to carry a gun! I am a mere secondary school student who can't even talk among his own pupils without being threatened to be killed! You can control yourself, I cannot. I am a repulsive human being with the thought process of a genius and I'm being forced to hide that and be silent! Everyone around me is my own age when I could already be with you and studying at multiple prime colleges!"

I ended with my voice cracking in angst, and I pressed my fingers to my temples. My head was throbbing in anger and also for the reasoning of the nicotine patches. Mycroft huffed in anger, before saying the few simple words that would make both of us instantly freeze in thought and motion. 

"I'll tell mummy."

Silence followed this quip, and I turned on my heel before walking off in a foul mood. I could hear the clicking of both our shoes on the paved sidewalks, our outfits both sharp and similar, the only difference being that mine had blood spotted on the shirt. My dark blue blazer was in my backpack, my white sleeves rolled up to my elbows. Mycroft quickly caught up with me, but didn't say anything or do anything but walk beside me. 

"You have two years." 

Those words rang in my ears, and it took a moment for me to realize  that somebody had actually spoken these words out loud, that they weren't really in my head. 

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked stiffly, keeping my head held high and keeping my strides long and proud as I continued to walk home by my shorter, older brother. 

"If you continue this... habit... then you are going to be sent off to a specialized school for children at your age in two years. I go there as a counselor sometimes, I have connections. It would only take a few words with my higher ups to get you in. It would really help, you know." 

I stayed quiet at this, already growing impatient at the thought of being taken away from my patches and drugs, and snorted bitterly. 

"You know I'm never going to last that long." My words were clipped, but the complete honesty in them rang loud and clear, making Mycroft's eyes dart my way. 

"I know, brother mine, but try." 

I was already a quiet child, never fitting in, a freak of nature. I only ever spoke to my family, because Mycroft understood, and my parents never minded. But now, I felt as if I should only speak in dire cases. I might as well already have been packed, seeing as my addiction had halfway taken over my life and helped me to be void of emotions. That specialized school had better be interesting. 

/////////

OH THE HORROR!

NO JOHN!

HOW DARE I!

I dared, and I did. 

Don't worry though, John will be in the next chapter. This is just a little bit of a backstory, from three and a half years ago in Sherlock's life. I'm aware how short this was, all the chapters will be at least four times longer, this is just something to help me get started.

This is my first fanfiction so please don't stab me in the face if you don't like something that doesn't pan out the way you want it to! >_<