Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty Six - Incident

Sherlock

John was off that morning. Maybe it was the lack of sleep he had. Or the fact he slept with his sister at about 3:00 AM, judging by the intensity of the lavender scent he was wearing. He had walked to Sherlock's stop and was a tad breathless, shaking, and Sherlock had asked him what happened. All John did was crush Sherlock into him. Despite the fact it felt amazing, Sherlock was scared - what if John felt the bones jutting out of his torso?

It wasn't as if he'd had a good night either. The other day he'd met up with his dealer, Steven, who said he had the "harder stuff." Which, of course, ended with Sherlock buying a substantial amount of heroin. He'd read the same five comics over and over and over again to avoid taking the pills, but gave in at about two; he now didn't remember exactly how he felt when he stuck the syringe in for the first time. Maybe he had been thinking about his mum. Maybe he had been thinking about John.

He'd bitten his nails until they began to bleed, and he could've sworn in the shower a clump of brown hair was stuck in the drain. At least he ate. What did he eat? He didn't remember.

When Sherlock pulled on John's jacket when they got on the bus, John didn't even half-smile.

"John, are..." He felt strange asking.

"Yeah?" John turned to look at him.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Am I okay?" He turned away. "Now I am."

Sherlock tugged on his jacket again; he was obviously lying. "Are you sure?"

"Ye of little faith," John said, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I..."

John suddenly buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing hard.

"He thinks he can just hit her," Sherlock heard him whisper. "He thinks he can take away everyone I love. I'm going back to the Dilane's. I'm leaving this fucking town, and I'm never coming back."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at his shoulder, where John was hiding himself, and he laid his head atop John's. His hair smelled like sweat. Not refreshing, not amazing; it was a haphazard mix between perspiration, lavender and vanilla.

The boy in Sherlock's arms was nearly unrecognizable, quivering and angry. "Two in the morning," John growled into Sherlock's trench coat. "Guns, and he's screaming at Mum, and God, I thought he was turning around but he wasn't, he couldn't."

Sherlock pulled away once they were off the bus. "People will talk," he always said, and for once, John put his arm around Sherlock and said, "That's all they'll ever do." Sherlock could have kissed John then. In front of everybody. But he didn't.

Instead, he leaned onto John's locker and thought about touching him, and holding him, and wrapping him up in soft warmth. Which, Sherlock had a great imagination, so that was easy to do.

It seemed as if John wanted to say something, at their locker. His face was smushed against the locker door as he spoke. "I was going to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"About..."

"What."

"I haven't the faintest."

Sherlock wondered if John had stopped being grounded yet. He wanted to tell him that Violet had invited him over for dinner.

John

Where would he go this time?

Back to the Dilane's?

"Hi, um, remember when Pickard kicked me out for an entire year and you didn't turn me in? That was nice of you; quite Christian, and no, I'm not here to thank you, I was wondering if you still had that foldout couch." That'd be awkward.