rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter two

SHERLOCK

School was a mundane task that had to be fufilled. Usually, he would fly through school, get back his marks, which he would almost all the time pass with brilliant fucking flying colours. Not today. His brain was pretty much dying. The mirth that had engulfed him, more than 5 hours ago. It was back to the same occurance that happened to him, every single day.

Freak.

Gay

Insane

Retarded

Mentally Challenged

A special kind of special.

Stupid.

No one called him what he really was.

He strolled out of the classroom, not bothering about his work, that laid silently on his desk behind him. A girl bumped in him, touching his shoulder. Annoyed he flipped around to see the girl that he laxly remembered sleeping with.

She touched him on the shoulder softly.

"Hey," she said, "are you Sherlock?"

Not wanting to admit the unspeakable things he had done to the now forming audience that had settled around the girl, he softly choked up a confident "no."

"Pity," the girl said mockingly, "he was hot." And she stalked off her straight swaying blonde hair swinging around her hips. Sherlock furiously pinched himself. He didn't need pretty girls telling him he was beautiful, there was no actual point to it.

He had a dangerously fucking low self esteem, most likely brought on his self promoting and selfish brother, who he terribly despised. After all, who could not hate a boy, who had the ego of Jupiter?

He knew he was utterly insanel, a fuckwit, and both socially and mentally challenged. He didn't need the ego of his big brother or mansion wealthy dickfaces to tell him that.

But the one thing that bugged him was not the unbelievable fact that he was mental, depressed or insane, it was the fact that he was not gay.

He had slept with girls, fucked girls, but he couldn't get over the fact that people still called him gay

Sherlock Holmes was anything but gay.

Why couldn't they just accept that.

That was is problem.
His final problem.

JOHN

It rained, it was wet. The whole of the earth seemed to be hurting him, making him crumble, making it harder to put himself back together again. The wind lifted parts of him away, away into the world, The rain crawled up on him, shattering him to pieces, each and every drop. And the sun burned away what actually made up him. Or what used to be him.

He was left an empty shell. A crusted shell of an ancient grenade, recently exploded, relieving everything that once shielded him. Protected him

It does take much, much longer to put your self back together, than it does to break down, shake into fragments.
John Watson knew that. He knew that very very well.
But putting ones self together was the part that hurt.

He was alone, sitting on a bench, not even nearly 18 years old. His blond hair was messy and dirty, he still wore the matted clothes that covered his body since the terrifying and fateful day, the day he was left outside the crumbling house of his alcoholic father.

That was along time ago.

But to John it felt like yesterday. It was so clear and deeply etched inside his mind it would take him years so rid of the haunting memories that echoed in his head.
They were like demons. Crawling and poisoning his mind. It seemed impossible to phantom his thoughts inside his head.

SHERLOCK

He opened the door of the house that mainly belonged to Mycroft. He had inherited the enormous house, marking his territory, pretty much every corner, leaving Sherlock Two rooms. A minute bathroom and a bedroom.

Dropping his bags on the hinges of the door, he walked inside to see Mycroft on the couch, hugging; no kissing a girl that seemed way to young for his age. He looked up and glared at Sherlock, a sign to get out of there.

It was the 4th time this week, typical Mycroft.

He laid in bed and pondered around his thoughts.

Why?

Why him?

Why was he so fucking useless in this goddamned ungrateful world.

What was his purpose in life, if all he ever did were kiss, get drunk, take drugs and make unsuccessful attempts in suicide?
But then again, that was his choice. His choice to have amazing talent wasted. To wash away his looks. To erase his future that could have been like Mycrofts. Be he didn't want to be like Mycroft.

He couldn't take it anymore, he just couldn't.

He walked into the little bathroom, and hastily pulled out a razor that hid behind the mirror, behind tablets. He wondered why he went through so much trouble to hid them, after all, if Mycroft were to stumble across them, he wouldn't actually give two flying fucks.

He lifted up his sleeve, to show the scars that striped up his arm colouring it with faint red marks, welts and sores.

He sighed and took an deep breath.

(Trigger Warningish it's not too bad I think, but still it may affect some of you...)

He sliced across his wrist, beads of blood appeared, dotting his arm with a deep Crimson,
Worthless, he thought
The razor cut along his arm again-
Stupid.
As the razor cut open his arm for the third time, the blood on his wrist was now pooling to a infectious size.
Insane - he cut again once more
Mental
With a final hard slice that opened his arm deeply, he put down the razor, not bothering to be alarmed at the blood that was dripping down his arm, staining the carpet. He's wash that later.

He wiped away the concerning colour of red that covered his arm in a large area, pulled down his sleeve and went to eradicate the evidence that only Sherlock could have noticed. He walked back his room, as if nothing had happened.

His arm still ached. So did his heart.