DREAMS- Johnlock

DREAMS chapter fourteen

"I haven't got the money to pay for a funeral," John moaned into Sherlock's shoulder. "I haven't got the money for anything- Christ, I'm not even paying my tuition!" His words were heavy and laden with guilt, but the way his lips dragged themselves across Sherlock's naked torso told a different story.
"Mycroft will pay for it," he hummed in reply, his voice breaking as John's hands roamed his body freely. "Can we maybe not talk about this right now?" He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down ever so slightly.
"Yeah. Jesus, Sherlock, of course." His father's suicide was all the news could talk about. 'The tragic death of a loving father, friend, and husband has rocked the London area as officers Winchester and Novak release more information on the apparent suicide,' that stupid fucking news reporter said, her brown eyes brimming with fake tears. It had been more than a week. It had been more than a week, and no new information about the man himself had been released, only about his death. The Watson's hadn't been contacted to give interviews yet, but that insipid girl Sarah, his father's little toy, had. She would have been pretty, John supposed, had she not been wearing so much makeup and so little clothing. Her shirt dipped down far too low for John's comfort, her skirt barely covering her bum.
"I just don't understand why he would- why he would- kill... Himself," she shuddered through her sentence, thin shoulders quaking with forced emotion. "He was such a good man. All he could talk about at work was how much he missed his son, how well he was doing at Uni," she had let out a thick sob there, covering her mouth with a shaking hand. "Oh god, his poor children! And his wife!" But then the television was shut off, and John was coughing through a harsh laugh.
"'Oh god, his poor children!'" He had crowed, grin growing larger. That was only two days after his death. The news reporters had called Sarah, but not the man's children, or even his wife! Now it was January third, and John had given up on anything concerning his family happening on the news. Sherlock's hand found John's chin, pulling him away from the seemingly endless task of kissing the entirety of Sherlock's torso.
"Christ, John, do you have a phobia of mouths or something?" He whispered, nearly choking at John's answer.
"No, I'm just saving the best for last," he said innocently, flashing a cheeky grin. He dipped his face down close to Sherlock's, eyes flickering to the Cupid's bow lips before practically diving into them. Sherlock's eyes widened briefly, surprised by the sudden pressure against his mouth, but then he was kissing back, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment. Sherlock tasted like apples, and cold air, and a little bit like tea, and John loved it. It was intoxicating, it sent his mind spinning into a world where only they existed, tangled together, sweat slicking their skin. Sherlock pulled a hand through his hair, moving it away from his face, the dark curls falling back into place across his forehead. John grabbed at the hand that was coming to rest on his cheek and moved it to his stomach, the pinky finger barely brushing the button of his jeans. Sherlock's hands were cold. In a good way. In the way that made sparks fly through John's veins, the way that made excitement flood his body. Even the slightest brush of skin against skin could send his mind spiralling out of control, and his blood rushing downward.
"Excited, are we?" John had to bite back the sarcastic comment sitting in the back of his throat, instead letting out a breathy sigh and waiting for Sherlock's hand to slip further downward.
----
"Shit," John breathed, the word coming out as little more than a white cloud in the chilly afternoon air. Sherlock straightened John's black tie for the final time, brushed imaginary lint from his lapels, and stood back, admiring his well dressed friend.
"Just be thankful you didn't have to go to those dreadful candle light visuals," Mycroft commented off-handedly. "You're lucky I could work the media into believing that you were just too absolutely devastated to leave your dorm."
"And he is forever indebted to you, dear brother, but we have a funeral to get to and this is most definitely not the time for idle conversation!" Sherlock tugged the two men towards their waiting cab, ready to drive them to the funeral home. "Graham-" Sherlock started.
"Greg," John corrected.
"-Will be meeting us there," the taller man finished, scowling at John. John's nerves were shot. After spending five days planning the funeral with Mycroft, preparing (and rehearsing) an acceptable speech (that didn't include any comments about abuse or neglect), and getting suits fitted with Sherlock, it was understandable. His eyes (which were pale blue today) were ringed with circles dark enough to be bruises, and had lost their usual cheer. His hands shook incessantly, no matter what he did to prevent it, and he had dropped a few pounds from his daily rounds of vomiting. He wanted desperately to be invisible, to fade into the wallpaper and never come back, but unfortunately, that was impossible.
----
The ride to the funeral home wasn't the worst part. Stepping out of the cab and being greeted by reporters and cameras and microphones was. It was bad enough that he was expected to show up to this god forsaken event, but to have to give these horrid people his time would practically kill him. Sherlock walked on one side of John, Mycroft on the other, both working to keep the reporters from getting a word in edgewise.
"Mr. Watson, what do you have to say about your father's sudden suicide?"
"Mr. Watson, how is your family taking this terrible turn of events?"
"Mr. Watson, do you believe that there is any chance that this was actually a murder?"
"Mr. Watson, why do you think he did it?"
"Mr. Watson, is there any message you would like the viewers to take away from this?"
"Mr. Watson, did your father seem to be... off, if you will, during your last visit?"
"Mr. Watson-"
"Mr. Watson-"
"Mr. Watso-"
"Mr. Wats-"
"Mr. Wat-"
"Mr. Wa-"
The heavy oak doors finally, finally, closed behind them, cutting off any further questions from the gobs of reporters. Half of their inquiries had already been hurled at him by the police when they brought him in for questioning. He had answered them all as truthfully as possible, because there were many which he simply couldn't answer, such as "did your father contact any other family members before his death?" and "why did he jump, John?" which was by far the most bloody ignorant question he had ever been asked. By the time John had reached the front pew, where his mother and sister would be sitting (assuming Harry bothered to show up), he was exhausted, and Sherlock had to straighten his tie again. Looking up towards the casket, he could see that his father's face was printed on a large piece of card stock propped against an easel next to vases upon vases of flower arrangements. There were people he had never seen in his life hovering around it, weeping, or hovering around him, bar the weeping. John hadn't said anything in over thirty minutes, and despite Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies, it was beginning to worry him. He could see the tension building up between John's shoulders, the muscles contracting, winding themselves tighter, so he reached forward from his position in the second pew back and rubbed small circles into the side of John's neck. The circles moved down, slowly, progressively growing harder, until Sherlock's hands were pushing into the space between John's shoulder blades with enough force to move the smaller body back and forth slightly.
"You're all knots back here, John," he muttered, brows furrowed in frustration. There were still distant family members filtering in through the closed oak doors, but his sister had yet to arrive. His mother was chatting quietly with the priest, who had placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her black dress went an inch or so past her knees, and the neck came up nearly to her chin in dark, translucent lace. John knew that the high neck was meant to cover up the green-yellow-purple finger shaped bruises and the long, shallow scar that ran nearly straight across her jugular. Her light blond hair fell in perfect corkscrews around her face, as it always had, even when there was blood caked in it. There were smudges of foundation that didn't quite match her fair skin beneath her right eye and across left cheek, where two more marks were. There was another mark, an older mark, and no matter what she did, she could never get the small circular burn scar to leave the underside of her chin. She could never get the smell of cigarettes to leave her nose, because of the time her husband had put one out there. Her bright blue eyes were watery and tired, her perfect smile tight and forced. With one last word to the priest, she caught John's gaze and smiled, a real one this time. The woman walked across the room to sit with her son, her movements stiff, robotic, as if she couldn't walk right. John realized then, that she really couldn't walk right, that she was making a true effort to keep from moving her hips too much, that one foot was made to barely touch the floor when she stepped forward with it. He noticed that she was wearing a pair of boots that were a bit too short to cover the ace bandage wrapped around her left ankle. Sherlock had noticed her limp as well, and stood to help her to her seat. She looked up at him gratefully, taking the offered arm with a small smile.
"What should I call you, love?" She asked politely, her soft voice decidedly too beautiful for such an occasion.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," he said.
"And how do you know my son, Mr. Holmes?"
"He's my dorm mate, mum," John said, meeting them halfway and taking his mother's other arm. He felt how frail she had become, how her hands were shaking just as much as his own, and nearly broke down then and there. They had only just reached their seats, John pulling her to his side and kissing the top of her head gently, Sherlock behind them with his hands on John's shoulders, when the doors flew open again, and his sister stumbled in, half drunk and staggering. Her girlfriend, Clara, was barely keeping her upright, and ended up having to practically drag Harry to the pew.
"Took you long enough," he grumbled, grimacing at the smell of alcohol on her skin.
"You're already getting enough dick for the both of us, no need to act like one too," Harry snapped, eliciting an indignant gasp from Clara.
"Harriet Watson, are you drunk?" Their mother chirped, thin eyebrows flying up.
"What gave me away, mum? The fact that I'm here, or that I'm obviously fucking wasted?" Her words came out as a rough sneer, making tears spring to their mother's eyes. John frowned at her and tucked the quivering blond woman closer to his side as she wept into his shoulder.
"Harry, you apologise to your mother right now!" Clara demanded, her dark skin flushing. She was beautiful, all chocolate skin and long legs, and she was a good person too. Clara was constantly getting Harry out of trouble, even when they weren't technically "dating".
"Sorry, mum," Harry mumbled, embarrassed now. She was dressed in a black pantsuit, with Clara in a long emerald silk dress.
"Oh, dear, you shouldn't have to be sorry today," the small blond woman cooed, her mood shifting dramatically. "But thank you anyway." John rolled his eyes and decided to ignore his family, turning to Clara instead, who sat next to Sherlock in the pew behind him.
"You look nice today, Clara," he said.
"Really? I wasn't sure that the colour suited me, and I didn't want to wear anything too bright, and-"
"Clara, it's lovely. Calm down," John interrupted, smiling a little. Clara had the self esteem of a dust particle, and was perfectly content to make fun of herself as long as it made someone else smile. Clara was more of a friend to John than anyone else he knew growing up, and the two were impossibly close. She was the closest thing he had ever had to a best friend, bar Sherlock, of course.
"Oh, I'm sorry, John. This should be about you and your family, but here I am, making it about me-"
"Clara, talk about yourself as much as you want, just please stop looking down on yourself like that!" John chided, taking one of Clara's small hands in his own. "It needs to stop before it gets serious. I don't want you hurting yourself." Clara blinked her big brown eyes slowly, and nodded, just once, because John had never snapped at her like that before. It made her uncomfortable, and a little bit nervous. But at the same time, she was the tiniest bit grateful, because John cared enough about her to want her to love herself.
"Okay," Clara murmured, biting her lip. "Okay. I won't say bad things about myself anymore."
"Good," John said, turning to face forward again. "If I hear this nonsense again, I will be very disappointed in you."
----
The service started only a few minutes later. First, the preacher spoke, then John's grandparents. There was lots of sad organ music, and plenty of hymns were sang, and then the coffin was being carried out to a long black Cadillac, and slid into the back. John knew he was expected to ride in the limousine, so he did, but not without Sherlock. Soft words of sorrow and support were spoken to the boys, most of which were about how great John's father was, how much he would be missed. John had to bite his tongue to keep back scoffs. It took all of his self restraint to save himself from saying something he would regret.
"I can't believe these people," John said to Sherlock as they climbed into the waiting car. "It's like he lead a double life or something."
"He probably did," Sherlock replied. "It's possible that he was ashamed of himself and tried to make up for that by being popular in the outside world."
"Yeah right," John quipped, leaning over to grab Sherlock's hand. "I don't think that man had an ounce of shame in his body that wasn't directed towards his family." Sherlock tugged his hand back from John, looking away. His mood had shifted dramatically at the touch, going from inquisitive and slightly irritated to cold, closed off, just like that. The shift worried John, seeing that Sherlock hadn't ever really acted this way around him. John could practically see the conflict pooling behind Sherlock's eyes. The rest of his family began climbing in with them, all chattering awkwardly. Harry went immediately for the bottle of champagne in the cooler at the back, Clara following her, while their mother and grandparents slid in across from the boys.
"What's wrong?" John asked, reaching for the chilly fingers again, and, again, having them snatched away.
"I hardly think 'dorm mates' hold hands, John," He whispered. His face had flushed slightly, turning a barely-there pink.
"Oh god, I said that, didn't I? I said we were dorm mates. Right. Um, attention-"
"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" Sherlock hissed, grabbing John's chin to silence him.
"I was just going to clear things up-"
"You will do no such thing," he continued, gripping John's chin a little tighter.
"Why?" John whispered, pulling Sherlock's hand away from his chin.
"Maybe I'm not ready yet!"
The whole car was quiet- even Harry had stopped struggling against Clara to listen. John could feel tears pricking at his eyes, his throat closing, his hands shaking.
"Okay," he said, leaning away from Sherlock, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Okay."
----
Sherlock didn't say another word on the ride to the cemetery, and although there were many, many things John could have said to him, he kept his mouth shut.
----
"Are you alright, John?" Harry asked as they scooted out of the limousine and onto the damp soil of the cemetery. "You're not upset because of what I said at the funeral home, are you? Because I was just joking, you know. You're not a dick. And I don't think you're gay, but it'd be bloody great if you were- I mean, I love you no matter what. You know that," she sighed, reaching a thin hand out to pat him on the shoulder. "Besides, if you were gay, I think that friend of yours would be rather happy."
"I'm not gay, Harry," John snapped, glancing up to see what Sherlock was doing, if he was watching, if he was listening. "Just leave me alone."
"Okay, okay," her hands flew up defensively, almost apologetically. She sighed. "Anyway, we have a parent to bury. Let's get on with it." She seemed to have sobered up fairly quickly, going from snide to somber in a manner of minutes. John was called over to the back of the hearse to pull the coffin from the open back doors, limping all the way. He tried to ignore it, he really did. That is, until a large hand found itself planted against the small of John's back, fingers splayed, and a familiar voice was whispering in his ear, the cold drawl coming as a surprise to the blond.
"Wouldn't want to forget your cane, now would we, John?" Sherlock breathed from behind John, his right hand holding the cane out for John to take. John grabbed the cane quickly and pulled away from Sherlock, struggling to hide his embarrassment. Though his limp had become more prominent in light of recent events, his cane was still often left unused. Sherlock's mouth pressed into a thin line, and he sighed heavily, clearly expecting John to say something to him. When the shorter man didn't utter a word of thanks, Sherlock sighed again, scratching at his forearm. John continued limping along, his steady gaze fixed upon the casket being slipped quietly from the back of the hearse. He was needed to help carry his father from the vehicle to the committal service, where he would be buried. John was expected to give another speech there, after throwing his handful of dirt into the grave. The pallbearers waited patiently for John to hobble to them so they would have enough men to carry the casket easily to the burial plot. John was only able to hold the casket with one hand, but they were lucky he was even helping at all. It took a few minuets to get the casket in place, and during this time, John was approached yet again by clueless relatives and family friends.
"He was a great man," was said at least four times. "I'm sorry for your loss," had been uttered nine times, and "I'm sure you'll miss him dearly," was said to John by three different women. Everyone sat down, the priest said a few words, and the casket began to lower into the ground. John's mother was the first of them to throw in her handful of dirt, then Harry. Finally, it was John's turn. He thrust his hand over the gaping tomb and dropped the fistful of soil unceremoniously. His movements had become stiff, practiced and careful as he moved to stand at the podium beside the grave. There was movement in his peripheral. He caught a flash of black hair and blue eyes, and something clicked in his mind, telling him that Sherlock had left. John felt his shoulders sag. Of course Sherlock had fled. That was just like him, to leave at such an awful time, but John couldn't find it in himself to care very much. He took a deep breath to ready himself, waited for the small crowd of people to quiet down. Hands shaking, palms sweaty, he opened his mouth to speak.
"My father," he started, already feeling anger well up in his belly. "My father was a good man," this is such a joke, he told himself. His father was not a good man. With each honey laced lie that spilled from his mouth, John's composure slipped. He gripped the podium until his knuckles turned white, until he lost the feeling in his finger tips. He took a glance at his mother as he spoke, saw the finger shaped bruises on her throat, the translucency of her skin. He could feel his sentence trail off as he told a story about a game of hide and seek that had never been finished, because his father had gone to the bar in the middle of it and forgot to find Harry.
"I- um. I can't," he stuttered, words coming out choppy. "I can't do this. This is such a joke!" He laughed hoarsely, his throat closing around a breath, prohibiting him from inhaling. "I'm going to do something now that many of you won't be pleased with," another harsh laugh broke free from his mouth, a mad giddiness toying at the corners of his mind. "But frankly, all of you need to see it!" He took off his suit jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. "It's funny to me, honestly, to see how many of you assholes have never paid enough attention to him to know anything about him!" He was babbling by now, a bitter grin spreading across his pale face. "I've been so careful today! Fuck it! He's dead! I don't have to be scared of him anymore!" He dropped his shirt and turned his back to the crowd. "You want to know what he was really like? Take a look at his family!" There was a collective gasp from the crowd, shocked whispers beginning to grow louder. John's chest was heaving, his shoulders shaking. His heart was beating too quickly for his lungs to keep up with. His fingers were freezing, and he wasn't sure it was from the cold air, because the rest of his body was practically on fire. Black spots began to prick at the edges of his vision, and his feet felt a little numb. John's legs gave out beneath him, and suddenly, there were a pair of warm arms around him. He could hear the snap snap snap of the reporters' cameras faintly, but the pounding of his heart was loud in his ears. There was something draped across his naked shoulders, covering the scarred skin, and he was pulled upwards by his armpits. He stumbled over his feet as he was herded towards a waiting cab. The warm arm from before snaked itself around his waist, pulling him close. John looked up to see Sherlock's body pressed against his, faint concern playing on his sharp features.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"I don't really know," John said breathlessly. "I can't- really breathe." His chest was too tight. The thump thump thump of his heart was growing faster at an alarming rate. He was practically clinging to Sherlock. His feet had effectively stopped working. Sherlock stooped down and lifted John into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest.
"Focus on my heartbeat," Sherlock murmured, ducking into the cab. He pulled John's body onto his lap, kept his head held tight against his chest. John pressed his nose into Sherlock's neck, his ear against Sherlock's shoulder. Steady breathing became easier, and John's chest loosened. Sherlock's head found John's and stayed there for the ride back to Uni, where they were greeted by more cameras. Flashes went off and John huddled himself closer to Sherlock, who spat profanities at the reporters like they were sewer rats.
----
By the time they reached their dorm room, John was shaking again. Sherlock sat him down on the bed and rubbed a hand through his hair, pacing.
"That's going to be all over the news," Sherlock spat, thumping their television with a fist. "I can't believe you did that. Now you're going to have even more press on your back, John. Do you know how hard it's going to be to get to class every day? Or, God forbid, go for coffee? There's going to be speculation about this-" he gestured between them, voice growing tight,"and if there's anything going on here, and it's going to be constant! We will never, ever catch a break!"
"Are you saying I did the wrong thing?" John asked, feeling his chest tighten again.
"It was stupid," Sherlock muttered.
"Would you rather I had driven myself mad lying about him? Would you rather people tell me every fucking day how fantastic of a person he was? Or how sorry they feel for me, now that he's dead?" John was seething by now, and although he could barely breathe, his words were laced with venom. Sherlock didn't reply. He stopped pacing, and had leaned forward onto the bed, his weight on his hands, bent at the waist.
"I don't think you understand the severity of the situation," he hissed, towering over John. "You will not get any peace for at least three months. The police will be up your ass with questions about the abuse. The fucking press will be all over this!" John slid off of the bed, his small fists clenched at his sides.
"Fuck you," he said quietly, voice quivering. "Fuck you, fuck you! This is bloody stupid!" He threw his hands in the air. "This is just like you, Sherlock! I'm in obvious distress right now, and you're worried about the press? What about me? Are you even remotely concerned about how I feel right now? Or, I don't know, maybe about how I could just die from guilt, knowing that my family is going to be put through hell because of what I just did?"
Sherlock stood up from his position at the foot of the bed. Jaw clenched, he took one step, then another, and another towards John, backing him up into the wall. Sherlock planted a steady hand on either side of John's head, anchoring him into place. John turned his head to the side, resolutely refusing to look at Sherlock. He tilted his chin up, anger turning his eyes a cold, dark grey.
"Just hit me," he said, voice coming out in a wavering growl. "You know you want to. Hit me!" Sherlock could feel John's small body shaking. His fear sparked guilt in Sherlock's belly, a kind that he'd seldom felt before. "Why aren't you moving? Hit me, god damn it!" He was screaming now, his eyes welling up with tears. "Fucking hit me! Get it over with!" He slid down the wall, legs folding beneath him. Sherlock went down with him, wrapping his arms around the smaller man. John couldn't make his mouth stop moving. "Hit me," he sobbed. "Just hit me."
"No, John, stop it," Sherlock said, feeling panicky now. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, be normal now. Stop crying, I love you, be normal." His arms wrapped around John, pulling him close. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, feel the itchy sticky panic on his skin. John wouldn't stop crying, those painful, painful words still cascading from his quivering lips. "Stop it. I'm sorry, I'm not going to hit you. I'm sorry, John. Please, stop."
----
Normal didn't come back to John until several hours later, when he was lying in his skivvies on the dorm room floor, itchy sticky something drying on their skin. The air smelled stale and dead, their flesh stained with the salt of sweat and tears. Hickeys bloomed like dying flowers on Sherlock's lily white skin, mirroring John's own.
"Be normal," Sherlock whispered into John's mouth, their swollen lips brushing, John's dark, sad eyes blinking up at him. "Be normal, I love you, please be normal."

A/N- here's eight months of writing for you. It's probably really shitty, sorry.