Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Fifty - Reckoning

John

The whole house was dark when John got home. Thank God, too - he felt radioactive. His hair. His clothes. Something would give it away.

He and Sherlock had just sat in the car after a while, half unclothed and wrapped into each other's arms. It wasn't even as if they'd gone too far, but they went way farther than John had been prepared for. He remembered how soft the curve of Sherlock's thigh was before it arched into his backside, and the way his spine seemed to ripple under John's hands. He felt whiplashed. He felt like he'd never touch Sherlock like that again.

Sherlock'd left a mark on his shoulder, but it had disappeared by now.

This was his mum's fault.

If she wasn't such a bitch, and he was allowed to have normal relationships, John wouldn't feel as if he had to hit a home run every time he stepped up to bat. And he wouldn't be making fucking baseball metaphors.

It hadn't been a home run, anyway. But still.

It was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, John couldn't imagine never doing it again. And he didn't have to. He just closed his eyes, and thought of Sherlock instead.

"Okay," John had said. "We need to go. Home."

"I don't want to..."

"We need to. We're going to have to, anyway."

Sherlock wouldn't stop holding John's hand. "It's just..." Sherlock started. "I don't feel like I ever want to say goodbye. I don't want to. And it's undoubtedly going to happen, I'm going to have to say goodbye..."

John swallowed. "God. You're so melodramatic. I'm going to see you at school tomorrow..."

"Shut up." Sherlock smiled, and raised an eyebrow. John wished he could do that.

"I'll see you. Tomorrow," John said, opening the door, and dropping Sherlock off. "I'll wait till you get inside."

Sherlock jumped out, and started walking, past the fence and up to the door. Then he disappeared into the house. John was afraid to leave him there, but then... there wasn't a noise. He saw a light turn on, and then the silhouette of a tall man, Sherlock's height. His dad. John wasn't expecting what he saw.

He'd been anticipating him shoving Sherlock into a wall, or striking him with a tire iron, or stabbing him to death. But all Siger did... was hug him. Siger just wrapped Sherlock into his arms and stayed that way.

John watched, curiously, waiting for things to turn bad, but Sherlock just pushed Siger away and his shadow moved up the stairs. John drove off.

As soon as he arrived in his home, he could hear fighting.

Pickard was yelling about something, and his mum was crying. John tiptoed through the house into his room, and then, into his bed.

Harry was on the ground, for some reason. Like the bed wasn't uncomfortable enough. She was sleeping through it all. I wonder how often I do that, John thought, as he stepped over her. He managed to swing on the bottom bunk without stepping on her, but instead, landed on the cat, who squawked. John pulled him up onto his lap, shushing him quietly and running his hand through the cat's fur.

Pickard shouted again - "my house" - and John jumped, along with the cat. Something crunched underneath him.

He pulled out a comic book from under his leg, ripping it in the process: X-men. It was torn and soggy, the pages crinkled and folded. Damn it, Harry... John thought, trying to smooth the comic out, but it was covered in some goop. The blanket felt wet, too. Like it was covered in lotion, or something... No, gel. With little bits of broken plastic. John pulled plastic out of the cat's tail, carefully, then wiped his hands on the fur. Scrooge smelled like hair product and nail polish, so John threw him out of bed so he could lie down and rest. When he did, however, something broken and sharp poked into his back. It felt like glass.

John sat back up, and picked up whatever it was, inspecting it. He felt something loom in the back of his throat, like something bad had happened, like something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was a disk, snapped in half, and John could faintly read Vanil Satur on one cracked side. John, turning it over in his hands, realized that it was his CD. Sherlock's. He put the disk down and let his eyes adjust to the dark as he looked around his bedroom...

Torn comic book pages.

Gel, slathered everywhere.

A cracked iPod...

Broken disks.

And the pastel drawing he was going to give to Sherlock... ripped to shreds. Torn into sixteenths.

John's headphones were snapped in half and hanging over the edge of the bed; his paints were empty, and his grapefruit box, where he kept everything, torn and mangled. John knew before he picked it up that it would be light as air. There was nothing in it. The lid was almost ripped in half, and someone had written on it with a dark, russet pastel crayon - one of the many pastels that Sherlock gave to him.

"do you think you can make a fool out of me this is my house do you think you can hore around in my neighborhood with some faggot and im not going to find out is that what you think? I know what you are and its over for you"

John stared at the box and tried to form the words into sentences - but he just couldn't get past the familiar spill of lowercase letters.

John's eyes shot open as he realized where exactly he recognized his handwriting from - from the notes. The notes, on John's textbooks, the ones Sherlock thought were Anderson's...

"It wasn't Harry," he whispered, softly. "He didn't want Harry. It was me. Oh, god..."

He put down the lid. Somewhere in the house, his mum was crying like she was never going to stop.