Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty Nine - One Last Night

John

"You can't fucking do this!"

"I'm afraid we can."

"You can't fucking-"

"We have to. We're bound by the law."

"No, I'm eighteen! I have rights, I'm a citizen of the bloody UK-"

"You falsified information on the contract that gave you permission to rent this flat. Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you are seventeen years old. You're still under Emma Trout's roof, and you ran away... a week and a half ago?"

"What?" John was disbelieving although he knew what the copper was saying was true.

"You no longer can rent this apartment."

"The hell I don't! I'm suing!"

"For what? You falsified information."

"For obstruction of justice!"

"That's not..."

"To hell with you. To hell with it all."

"John..."

"Don't call me that. You don't understand. We can't go back. We won't."

"You can, and you will."

"Fuck. Fuck you."

"Mr. Watson."

"I'm not fucking leaving! You can't take this away!"

"Mr. Watson... Christ, why are you..."

"Shut up!"

"John, back away. I'm going to call security if you..."

"Fuck you!"

"Mr. Watson, step away."

"You can't just rip everything away!"

"Mr. Watson!"

"You can't make me leave him again! You can't let me drive him home in the morning... and make pretend that it's okay... and then leave him to this unknowable, inexplicable fate that he will never tell me about. You can't make me, and if you do, I swear to God. I swear, I swear I will-"

"JOHN," Sherlock suddenly shouted.

John looked up, cheeks red and tearstained.

"John," he whispered. "It's alright. It's fine."

John shook his head. "No," he kept on whispering. "No."

Sherlock stood, and took the cop's hand. "Good day," he said, and then, nodded at Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting absolutely shellshocked. Then, "Let's go." Sherlock walked out the door, not sure if John was following, not sure if that mattered.

When they'd left the building, John crushed his body to Sherlock's chest. Like he wanted a permanent embossment of Sherlock on him. A tattoo of how Sherlock felt to the touch. He kept on saying that he was sorry, so sorry, it was his fault. It was his fault. Why was it always his fault? What did God do this for? Why? Why?

They got into Pickard's truck and drove until the sun disappeared. The second times were always shorter. Equally as painful. John didn't notice when they were close to Baskerville again, but he stopped before the exit anyway.

"This was a mistake," he kept on yelling.

"It wasn't."

"It was. You know why I did this? For a broken arm."

"I don't know, John."

"This was because you couldn't bear to tell me what was wrong."

"What?"