Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty One - Time

Sherlock

As Siger got worse, Sherlock got better - he didn't stop, but he forced himself to slowly ween himself off, inch by inch.

Siger seemed complacent when John came over. He saved his obscene drunkenness for later; for when he was crying his heart out.

Why

Did

She

Die

Instead

Of

You

Siger would say that, over and over, every syllable accentuated with merciless beatings. Mycroft was never at home anymore. He wanted to avoid watching his brother deteriorate, and Sherlock never, ever blamed him for that.

John

Sherlock was right. They were never alone.

John thought about sneaking out again, but the risk was incomprehensible, especially considering that somehow, it seemed that Pickard knew John knew. Maybe it was the negative energy that oozed from John's body whenever Pickard was in the room.

That didn't stop Pickard from constantly talking to Harry.

He also couldn't sneak out because it was so fucking cold out that John would probably lose both his ears to frostbite. Which his mum would notice.

She'd already noticed the new haircut instantly. "Greg's mum did it for me! She's a beautician, you know, and Greg thought it would be fairly amusing."

If John turned Sherlock to Greg, it sounded like one big lie instead of a billion small ones.

John imagined Greg's mum chatting him up as she cut his hair, as Greg watched. It was unsettling, a bit awkward, and maybe just... not good.

And John dreaded the thought of his mum finding Greg in a supermarket, and speaking to him. It wasn't likely, though. If you weren't living inside Baskerville since the dawn of time, then you were automatically an outsider.

Maybe that's why they never left Sherlock alone - because he didn't live here in the eighteen hundreds, and that was okay with him. But John could tell - ever since he started wearing that haircut to school, girls began swooning and boys talked to him. A few kids started to wear their hair the same way, even though it looked weird and awkward on them. Sherlock just looked stunning.

Even Molly and Jeanette thought so.

"Wow," Molly said.

"Your boyfriend looks like a punk rockstar," she'd said, with a smirk. She knew. He'd told her the second day of their mock relationship.

John didn't feel in the slightest bad when he answered, "Oh, no. He looks like Sherlock, with the volume turned up."

"Way up," she'd added.

Sherlock

They were never alone.

John tried to make the walk from the bus stop to their house last forever, and sometimes, they'd hang out on the porch a bit, but then it would be so cold they would simply have to go in.

Then Sherlock made soup with John, and they'd feed each other because they pretended they were too cold to move. They could always feel Siger watching, though, and that put Sherlock decisively on edge.

"Is your dad okay?"

"No, he's going through the grieving process. I was so fortunate to skip straight to acceptance."

"After you told me," John said with a sad chuckle, "I sorta began to cry."

"I cried, too. I just... there's no point in dwelling, you know? No point at all."

Later, Sherlock gave John an entire box of charcoal and pastels, and told him to make him something beautiful.

John

Wednesday nights were the worst.

Sherlock had fencing practice, so John went straight home, took a quick shower (using Sherlock's mum's conditioner), then tried to hide in his room all evening, reading.

Harry was home, and Emma had rushed her out of the living room around 7:30 because apparently, Pickard and her needed to "talk," and that required, you know, the living room.

John was sitting top bunk when Harry came in, sporting high waisted fishnets and a colorful belly shirt that said, "Fvck the Police." Her lavender scent had died away into cigarette smoke and pot and sweat and maybe even come. (What happened to Clara? John thought.)

Harry paced the room, chewing noisily on gum. "Can I come up?" she suddenly said.

"No."

"Please, Johnny," she begged, putting her hands in front of her nose. "Please."

John sighed in exasperation and moved over only slightly, so Harry could bounce in, folding her long, stocking adorned legs into herself.

"What're ya reading?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird."

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

Harry cut to the chase, leaning into John. "I know you have a boyfriend."

John looked up, furrowing his eyebrows, "I don't have a boyfriend, Harriet," he answered immediately, stone cold and annoyed.

"I already know," Harry said.

"I don't." He looked deeply into her eyes. Her face didn't give up a thing - living with Pickard had made them experts in the blank expressions department. They should have entered a family poker tournament or something...

"Danny told me," she explained. "Her younger sister goes to your highschool and she says that you're in pretty serious - Clara said that wasn't true, and Danny laughed at her."

John smiled. "Well," he said with a curt nod, "are you tellin' Mum?"

No need in avoiding the inevitable.

"Not yet."

John ignored the overwhelming sense of obligation he felt to push Harry off the bed. She'd throw a fit, then, and that would be bad.

"He'll make me leave," John spat. "And then I won't be here again and they'll be no one with you."

"I'm not going to say anything," Harry said begrudgingly. "But it ain't fair, John."

"What isn't fair?"

"That you get to leave all the time."

"You get to leave, too."

"Well, it's different with Dad. Way different."

John could see that. "Whaddya want me to do?" he said.

Harry was hopeful when she stared at him. And desperate. Absolutely soaking with desperation. Everything Harry ever said in this God forsaken house was desperate. As far as John was concerned, desperation was white noise. It was that fucking hope that got to him. But no. Sherlock had enough on his own plate.

"There isn't a shot in hell I'm taking you with me. Damn, Harry."

"Why not? I'll just hang with Myc."

"Myc isn't there," John huffed in exasperation. "He's off at the Club of Smart Pompous Arses."

Harry pouted.

"I can't help you," John spat. "I can't even help him."

She smirked gently, and said, "Well, then. Will you let me use your... stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Your tapes."

"They aren't mine."

"Your paints."

"It's pastel."

"Still."

John sighed. Harry probably had catalogued and labeled the entirety of his bed. The pineapple box that John kept was full of Sherlock related contraband - Harry probably had used it already. All of it.

"You have to put it all away when you're done," John said hastily, urgently. "And keep the pastels and charcoal nice. Put it all back when you're done," he enthused again. "Promise."

"Done," Harry said.

"And if Mum finds it, she'll take it all away. None of us'll have it."

"Okay, John," Harry yelled excitedly, pecking John's cheek.

"You could've just asked," John grumbled. "I would have let you use it."

"Liar," Harry said.

And she was right.

Sherlock

Wednesdays were the worst.

His dad ignored him throughout fencing practice, despite him winning almost all of his matches, and then when he got home, Siger was immediately yelling. "I told you to fucking go left!" he yelled. "That's why you lost, you..."

"Okay, sir," Sherlock replied softly.

"You mocking me?" His voice got three shades darker. "Are you mocking me?"

"No," Sherlock whispered, trembling.

"Just shut up and eat this." Siger slammed a mac and cheese easy dinner on the table before dismissing himself with a disgusted flick of the hand. As soon as Siger was gone, he ran to the bathroom with the dinner (if you could call it that) and flushed it down the toilet, so his stomach wouldn't have to do the same.

He honestly couldn't take it anymore. He was running out of time with John.

John

If Harry knew, it was only a matter of time. His mum would find a clue John had overlooked, or she'd find a pastel swept under a mattress. There would be something.

And there was nowhere to hide anymore. There were no crawl spaces, or closets that lead to Narnia that John could hide his secrets in; not in a pineapple box, not under his bed, not down the street at Sherlock's house.

John was running out of time with him.