//flash back//
It is cold. So cold. It wraps itself around Sherlock - sufforcating him. He ignores it, as he does his mother who calls up the stairs, telling him his dinner is ready.
"Dinner!" She shouts again, this time Sherlock moves, trudging down the stairs.
The table is set, Mycroft stands proudly over it, even though he is capable of much more intelligent things than laying down some cutlery. He seems... innocent?
The four of them are seated around the table, facing each another, eating in silence.
Sherlock tips his head up in a sigh; the sigh becomes a scream.
Blood slides down, creating a pool upon the wooden surface of their dinner table.
Nobody else reacts.
Sherlock can't see its face, just the shoe laces scraping over their food.
Everyone stares at Sherlock.
The rope burns into it's neck, it's head lolls down against it's chest.
Sherlock still screams. It creates a fire in his stomach, scratching his lungs. Why does nobody else care?
He looks down, his hands are coated in liquid blood. He is not bleeding. His clothes are splattered, flecks of scarlet paint clutters them. He is still not bleeding.
Sherlock flicks open his eyes groggily, checking his hands, but they are clean. No blood.
A dream? A hallucination?
He's sprawled across the sofa, his limbs ache, his head aches. No, his head pounds, it drums. It screams. Mycroft is clung to Sherlock's arm, very much asleep.
Ugh. Why is he here, on the sofa? He feels awful, disgusting, heavy. Why is Mycroft here? The world spins hazily. What happened?
He's not bleeding, but there's an abnormal wound on the inner section of his arm. There's only one; it's enough for Sherlock to remember the events of last night.
YOU ARE READING
Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)
FanfictionCOMPLETE Sherlock is the schools very own sociopath: manic, unruly and unstable, constantly wired. John is a seemingly ordinary student, his priorities are supposedly straight and his average intelligence and kindness earns him respect from his pee...
