Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Five - Former Technicolor Dreamcoats

Sherlock

Sherlock fluffed up his pillow, staring into the emptiness of his bedroom. It was enormous. Bigger than Mycroft's. He hadn't time to adjust and scatter and crumple. He moved into this room but three days ago.

Violet had been buzzing all over the house this week. She looked like a queen. She was so pretty. Gorgeous, really, simple minded, but gorgeous. She was human, made Sherlock cookies and played piano with him. She was the one who made Sherlock eat. She was the one who kept him alive. He'd survive his father's tortures for her; the secret threats and shouting and yelling.

"Sherlock!" his mother called, popping her head in. She put one strand of hair behind her ears, and Sherlock was struck - for the ten-thousandth time - how beautiful his mother really was.

She was tall, stately, it seemed, shoulders straightened in absolute prowess. Her chest heaved with breathlessness, having just climbed the entirety of the stairs, breast completely supported by a slim body that curved purposefully and made her stand higher above the rest.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back. Sherlock looked quite like her, cheekbones thick, skin paler, hips smaller. Sherlock almost was her, except for the bright blue eyes he claimed. She had gorgeous brown ones, that looked like melted chocolate, and he just was flat. Flawed and flat. Sherlock liked to think his lips signified him, but that came from his dad, who had lips that were heavier than the weight he beared, Sherlock knew.

He was skinny, too skinny. He couldn't tell if that was relevant. Or, he could tell, but didn't address it. His mother did, often waking up at all hours to find Sherlock awake and starving. She made him a sandwich, and then stroked his hair as he fell unconscious.

He usually woke up screaming, and Mycroft had to grab him by the shoulders and yell, "You're here, Sherlock, wake up! Wake up!" Then, softer, "Siger isn't going to hurt you."

"Hello? Sherly, dear." His mom woke him from his daydream. Daymare.

"Yes?"

"They're ready," she said happily, "The lemonade, too."

His mum said that they were a privileged family, living in such grandiose circumstances, rich, powerful, happily married. She always saw the good, even when she tried to look for the bad. She was a blessing, and a curse. She liked singing, and cooking, and Sherlock, and Mycroft.

Siger just liked to scream at him. Then again, maybe Sherlock just had irrational paranoia.

His father had no moral compass, and Sherlock preferred to stay away from the subject of his ambiguity. He loved Sherlock, didn't he? He must.

Happily married, his mother was, and Sherlock would prefer it to stay that way.

John

John grumbled, shoving the keys into the ignition. He needed to buy groceries. All that was in the house was a box of chocolates and many beers. But this was Pickard's car; John didn't touch Pickard's car. John wasn't aware of the shadow following him, though, and he heard the hand slam on the window before he saw it.

"What the fuck're ya doin'?" his step-dad yelled, "Don't take my fuckin' car."

"I'm getting groceries-"

"Nah, you ain't," Pickard growled. "What the fuck? You're lying, aren't you? Going to a gay party with your sister?"

"N-no-"

"You fucking shit. Go." Pickard swigged his bottle, stumbling before hitting the vehicle. "Fucking go. I don't wanna see you in my house, faggot."

"Oh. Um." John turned on the car, and closed the door as Pickard kicked on the tire. "Fuck you," John growled, "Fuck you."

He hated this car; he hated the dirty thong in the front seat, the three year old coke bottles at his feet, the pants that were sticky with blood. And the way it smelled - like sweat - it made him cringe. So he got out, and shoved the keys into Pickard's chest.

"Piss off," John huffed, before running inside, giving his older sister a kiss, trying to avoid a shining bruise that her step-dad gave her.

"See ya," she said absently. She was painting her nails.

"Yeah. See ya," John said, throwing on his coat, "Put out the cat and make sure to eat something. There's a video of Babe that I stole from the lost and found in the library, and crackers." John paused. "I love you," he said, before walking out the door, wearing nothing but sweats and a jacket. She never said it back.

Sherlock

Violet, Sherlock's mum, said that they needed to go to the store to grab groceries. On the way home, as the sun was going down, the grass a shade of deep blue, Sherlock saw the boy, John, walking home with three grocery bags in his hands and nothing on except for sweats and a jacket. He didn't seem so technicolor in the darkness; just lonely.

A/N: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY PEAAAANUUTTTTSSSS!