rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter one

SHERLOCK

It was his 5th party of the week. His watch beamed 2 am as he was offered another round of a powdery white substance. He couldn't think with the light, smoke and noise. The air hung around with the slight scent of alcohol and God knows what else. As the white substance entered his lungs and filled his body, his brain seemed to be buzzing with energy and elation. Sherlock smiled to himself as the hand of some random girl pulled him into a room. He somewhat felt an euphoric feeling that he wouldn't feel anywhere else, perhaps it was the drugs or just the thought that he was accepted here. No one called him a freak, just beautiful and the one who was good with girls.

By the time of 4am, most people were either asleep, spawled on the floor or gone, back at home, trying to catch the sleep that had slipped away through the time of the party. Clothes were placed everywhere around the room, that Sherlock mostly hoped were shirts and pants. Getting up, out of the tight embrace of some girl, he began searching for his white shirt, he found it crumpled up a few meters way from his feet. As he put it over his head, sadness and a faintly nostalgic feeling washed over him like a violent spray of water. Bending down, he placed a soft kiss on the girls cheek, like a butterfly, very faintly. He picked up his coat and walked out the door. Pity he didn't even know the girls name. She was very pretty. As he walked along the stoned footpath of the dark starry streets of London, the happiness that he had felt beforehand, died away, leaving him so empty, so alone. He was so sleep deprived and yet, he did not feel the need to sleep, or eat. He only wanted one thing. To party. The real world was too boring and dull, as he put it, to enjoy many things. His head was throbbing and dizziness overtook him. He fell to the ground clutching his knees.
What had become of him.

JOHN

He'd packed up his books and walk out the door, everyone crashing into him, thinking about the vitality of food. The clock hadn't seemed to have moved its hands, the hands stuck on 11:26 snailing painfully by, second by second, minute by minute. He was vaguely unaware of the professor that had to shout his name to get his attention.
"John, John!"
He looked up, into the grey eyes that were half shielded but the thick horn rimmed glasses that sat on his face.
"Are you going to pay attention, or sit there like the brainless gawping fish you are?"
A sound of laughter erupted around the room like a chain of events.
John felt the hotness of his cheeks as a light red colour creeped up his cheeks making him look flushed with embarrassment.

"Hey John!" whispered a boy who sat half way across the room, away from him. How he knew him or even got away with speaking to him is still unknown to this day. But John had bigger problems. "Hey John," continued the boy "who you gonna hang out with, your mum?" The class sniggered and a reddish hue coloured his cheeks. They very well knew that Johns mother was long dead, a long time ago. But they put pressure on that wound because they knew it would cause John anguish. That was their only goal. Pain. He hated that word. The boy didn't get to finish,
The bell had rung.

He sat by him self, buried in a book, his blond head turned away from the whispers of the group behind him. They engaged in a (in what johns opinion, a more or less human) conversation taking about all the people they hooked up with and the jealously ridden fun they had.

John had never felt that. The happiness that stayed with you until the your very last day. All his life, John had felt like he was never wanted, his father abused him, he didn't have what most people had and treasured. "Friends"

SHERLOCK

His head was throbbing, blood dropped down his arm like a tiny, red river. He groaned in pain as he sat up, brushing the microscopic bits of gravel off his arm that had previously marked their territory inside Sherlocks arm. It looked about 6am when he trudged into his, (or mainly Mycroft's) house, slamming the door swearing his fucking head off. Drunk and upset, he threw around a bowl, targeting it inside the damp and cold fireplace, the delicate pieces clattering to the floor with a slightly comical "tink!"Grabbing his hair in frustration he slammed his wrist down, and collapsed into the couch. His wrist was still bleeding, it dropped onto the carpet, staining it with splashes of red blood.

He jerked awake, pushing his hair to the side and glancing at the clock. The clock shined 8:21 am and Sherlock grimaced.

"fuck..." he muttered to himself, getting up and pulling on a pair socks and a simple set of clothes that showed observer that, at that particular time and day, Sherlock Holmes could not be fucking bothered to ware something nice and different for school, because he was so bloody drunk and wasted that he could certainly not think straight. He walked out the door, lighting a cigarette as he did.

JOHN
He walked back into class, shoving through the many body's that seemed to be collapsing on him ever step he took. The shoulders of the human civilisation that seemed to dominate the hallways, Pushing and shoving. . He finally reached his seat, and opened his binder that in one way, seemed to hold his life together. That's how fragile his life seemed to be holding together at that moment, on the brink of extinction, death, suicide. One word, and he'd be gone. Forever.

As the final bell rung around the school, he collected his papers and filed them into neat piles inside his binder. He ignored his C- and shuffled out the door. A large weight fell into his side. "Aye, what the fuck mate, what where ya goin, dickhead!"

Personally, John thought that was a bit uncalled for, after all the dickhead had bumped into John, not vise versa. He was fucking confused about what had just happened. Outside the gates, the stone footpath was the only thing that seems to keep his mind off home. He didn't want to go home, he was so fucking scared. His father was probably drunk flying mugs and glass all over the place, already beating up Harry, his older sister. . He walked up the deteriorating steps of his house that may as well be crumbling, he touched the bruises on his arm, over the cheap sweaters that layered his upper body and kept him warm.

He opened the door to see a different sight. A mug flying towards his face, dodging the mug, it whizzed past his ear, slicing it open. He touched the bloody mass and dropped his bag on the floor. The sight was absolutely horrendous. Harry, was curled up in a ball, blood pooling in an alarming way at her elbow. His father rushed at him, holding a knife and broken beer bottle, thrusting it threateningly at his face. Behind the rage of his father that hovered pretty much at his face, he could just see Harry, mouthing, go, get out.

"Fucking shit'ead" screamed John father. "Get the fuck out, and go die!" John made no intention to move."Get the fuck out before I kill you myself!"

Tears welded up inside his eyes, gradually getting much more vicious and on the danger of spilling out. But he did not want his father to see him cry. Nor did he think that his father meant those words. Or perhaps he did. He never actually found out because the next thing he knew, he was on the doorstep, tears spilling over his cheeks, a deep graze along his face and no were to go.

AN: AN: HEY GUYS!!! First chapter! yay! how is it IVE never really wrote a FANFICTION before so I'm arghh how am I going plz tell me ily :) XD
sorry guys this chapter is so clicheeeeeee omg sorryanyway second chapter obviously. I've deleted Jawn n Sherlock for a bit, but I'll put it up again.

eventually...

anyway thanks for reading and I'll try to write 1.5 parts each night.

until next time, keep reading! -naomi