Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Fifty Six - Sometimes

A/N: Mucho trigger warning for suicidal thoughts and sadness everywhere sorry bout dat

Sherlock

He didn't ride the bus anymore. Instead, he woke up, every morning, at five, and walked to school. Like it was part of his religion.

Siger and he had moved house, as Violet wasn't alive to pay the bills anymore. He still received mail from their post office, though. It piled up, quickly. Sherlock put the unopened packages under his bed.

Some days, he would sit in the Audi and let whatever was left of John wash over him. He'd breathe in the scent until he ran out of air. Until he ran out of heroin.

Because that was all that remained. His mum left. His dad left. His brother left; John left. The narcotics never would. The pain wouldn't either, and Sherlock finally mastered, in those moments locked in the Audi, the art of feeling nothing.

That first night, the dark felt like dragging smoke, an impenetrable haze of dulled emotions and shock. John wasn't around anymore. Sherlock would never see him again. Not in this lifetime. The night had sounded like he was listening underwater, crickets being swallowed by the sea. Sherlock dreamed of the time that John kissed him behind his grandparents' van and he had felt special, for once. Beautiful.

Now everyone was gone. Sherlock's heart was broken and he didn't want to cut John with the shards by picking up the phone, speaking to him with his lips: pointed, like daggers. His arms: dotted, a Georges Seurat on the crook of his elbow, a twisted illustration.

It was for the better. The best thing about them; they could just... stop. No one would be the worse for it.

John

John didn't ride the bus anymore. Rory bought him a Nissan, and he drove in it constantly, because it didn't remind him of Sherlock. He didn't even want to go to school. His dad made him, even though it was fucking May 29th and the only good coming of that was nothing.

Rory went up to Baskerville, to grab anything Pickard hadn't destroyed. John had pleaded with him to come - pleaded, because Sherlock had answered none of his calls - but he had said that if Pickard saw him, he would have been dangerous, and Rory wanted nothing more than to keep John safe.

He came back three days later, sporting broken pastels and a ripped up drawing that faintly resembled a woman with warm brown eyes and alabastrine skin.

John already had a boombox. New clothes, and boots that didn't smell like him. And a new bookcase. And CDs, CDs, CDs. He could have recorded a thousand songs on those. Sometimes, he made mixed tapes. Sometimes, John played the one last song Sherlock recorded over so many times that he got tired of it.

One day, one frustrating day, he broke the last CD in half.

Sherlock

And it wasn't like there was anything else to do but fantasize. He had no friends. Moriarty still was a dick. Sally still hated him. Tuesday, there was a pep rally and someone threw a water balloon at the side of his head. He couldn't hear out of that ear for days.

He began to inventory all the possible ways he could top off - there were knives and pills and gallows made of his mother's belts. All Sherlock needed to do was to kick the chair out from under him. He could jump off a bridge, or, maybe, look straight down the barrel of a gun. If he detached himself from the thought, it almost started becoming a game. ("What is suicide?" Sherlock would say, the theme to Jeopardy clanging out of the speakers.)

Everyone died. Sherlock had nothing to live for. There was nothing anymore. Nothing except prescription pills and a syringe and a heart beat that didn't want to beat.