Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Thirty Seven - In Which One Passes

A/N: Sorry.

Sherlock

He wasn't sure what he thought of John's new haircut. He wasn't sure if he liked it, or if he hated it. It was different. It made him ache for those soft almost-curls, warm and fuzzy.

Sometimes, it seemed like John was trying to hide everything that was handsome about him from Sherlock. Like he was trying to look ugly.

That was something Siger would say.

He understood why John tried to be different, actually - because he was different, and he wasn't afraid to be. Or maybe he was afraid to be like everyone else. And that was how Sherlock felt, at least - he was attracted to that kind of view on things, and maybe that was why he liked John. Maybe John was the stimuli to Sherlock's head.

In the morning, Sherlock woke up, ready to burn up a sun. He'd gotten so high the night before that he swore that he'd passed out, but maybe he blacked. His head pounded, hard, making his entire body ache with the emptiness that heroin left. His skin itched, the room spun as he got up, and he nearly fell to his knees, gasping for air. His nose was burning like someone had lit it on fire for the night, and the vein in his arm was cold and irritated. Sherlock was tempted to pick at a scab that had formed on a puncture wound because it honestly felt like it was going to never stop hurting (that was super disgusting). It really fucking hurt.

Maybe John was right. He wasn't right, though. The drugs made him forget. And he fucking deserved this. For making John fall in love - Sherlock didn't have enough emotional capacity to like him as much as he wanted.

After dragging himself up, he stumbled through a door to the bathroom, feeling his stomach turn, and he fell to his knees at the toilet bowl. It seemed to go on forever. A porcelain vortex of toilet water and sewage that went on till the end of the world. He tried to hold it down, really, he did, but it rose to the edge of his throat, and then he was retching it all up with a finger down his acid-burned throat. He coughed as he hurled, and he swore he felt toilet water splash back and hit him in the cheek; it was a reminder. He wiped it off with a lazy flick of his finger, but he could still feel the ghost of the shame it gave him. When it was said and done, he felt so humiliated that it made him laugh; he slumped against a cabinet, holding his breath, trying not to cry.

And the thing was - he deserved it. He deserved it all. How could John bear to be around him? Why did he impose himself upon John when he was so fucked up?

Maybe he did drugs because his father hated him. Or maybe... deep down in Sherlock's heart, he felt that maybe it was because John loved him, and he needed John to back away.

Sherlock rolled back up and vomited the rest of the contents of his stomach. He was becoming scarily concave, but Sherlock didn't mind it. He knew he was ugly, even if he never admitted that to John; his stomach was just accentuating it. Maybe he'd die of malnutrition. More than anything, that made him feel relieved. Maybe it was wrong to think that way.

Sherlock stood up and washed his face until it was red and throbbing. Then he put on concealer so John couldn't see the circles and took some gel off the counter. He couldn't do it as well as his mum, but he messily threw a dollop in and reenacted her movements almost as it was last night. Now his usually curly hair was "sexy," tufted and tall, reaching for something.

His dad flipped at breakfast.

He tried to sneak out, but his mum said breakfast was not negotiable. His head was high, until Siger came downstairs, and looked up at him. His mum was upstairs, getting ready for work.

"You're fucking kidding," Siger said, "look at me, you freak... I said look!"

Sherlock tilted his head up but looked at his oatmeal.