rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter three

JOHN

He lived in a little cosy flat of 221b, not quite by himself, but not enough to not drive him completely mad. No one seemed to notice how thin he was getting, after all, no one did care really. It was hard to survive at 17 years old with a shitty job at a newspaper stand. Then again, how can one live at 120 pounds a week?
To pay the rent wouldn't be enough. He had tried to contact Harry, but the toning voicemail that was set in her phone was all that sounded.

He felt separated from the world, as the light of his hearts faded away, leaving him alone, empty, he felt like the crusts at the end of bread. No one or liked him, noticed him, or just found him plain disgusting. Which was quite upsetting really, John Watson was a handsome young lad, with what seemed like an everlasting stock of woollen sweaters. He was terribly fond of sweaters, although England wasn't particularly cold on most days.

He still felt empty, he did. He still felt the wounds that would never fade, for although they were not visible on the outside, but his pain still yearned and tugged on his skin.

The most terrible pain in not shown on the outside of the human body.

Abandoned pain. His own father disowning him, on the most unfortunate day. A day he was just so simply tired and sick of this messed up world, he just wanted to rest his worries. Could one more day hurt?
Could John have been aware that it was his last day of civilised protection?

He was so fucking angry at the world.

SHERLOCK

Mycroft burst into his room holding a party flyer in his hand. His facial features looked unamused as he saw sherlock sitting calming on his bed, solemnly reading. Thrusting the flyer onto the foot of his bed, Mycroft muttered a slight inaudible, " I'm certainly not going, someone needs to go"
Walking out the door, he lit a cigarette as disappeared around the corner.

Sherlock grabbed hold of the flyer.

It had information about where, what and when this "party was supposed to be held"

He smiled, technically, it was an invite to get away from reality. Away from what caused pain to the world. It wouldn't cause turmoil to his life. Or perhaps it would. They only way to find out was for him to go to the party.
Find out.

Or he could just leave, if it got dreary, dull. The usual.

On the other hand, anything had to be better than the fûcking unfair life that he had to put up with. Anything had to be better than the tedious task of "life". After all life was just one long, event, that stretched out in an elongated manner. To be fair, he thought, it was a plausible argument by any means.

He'd had to go.

***

It Was at least 10pm, the noise level increasing violently with every guest that entered the venue. It was only one hour into the party, and most people including Sherlock where drunk. Alcohol rose the Ferocity of the party, the dancers the music the drinks. The jubilation of fun and freedom. Ecstasy covered him, as he laughed and danced with people form people. He had gotten numbers, kisses, hugs and shots, within the close and eventful hours that occurred that day. Like every other party, the effects of the drugs wore off eventually, like how everything does. Through his shirt, you could see his ribcage that freakishly protruded and the stomach that caved in so deeply, it was like a crevasse. He ha forgotten what food had tasted like, only the taste of love, tablets and the metallic taste of his own blood. He tasted blood a lot. He saw a lot of blood. From his wrists, arms, checks and even the new cracks on his bone like fingers that spilled tears of blood as he clenched them, a he cried his years of blood. of sorrow.

Of the loneliness an pain that seems to swam him, day after day, year after year.

It wasn't very long when he collapsed onto the path, his legs giving away, his head hit the sharp gate spears and he felt no more.

JOHN:

"I'm going out!" he called to Mrs Hudson, walking out the door, and umbrella in one hand, book in the other.

The door rattled shut and he walked down the stairs and out into Baker St.

A black cab rode by, suddenly halting to a stop as John waved his arms around signalling to the driver to stop.
Getting into the cab, he communicated with the driver, who seemed to be extremely hard of hearing at that particular moment.

He arrived at his destination more than 20 minuets than he expected, sighing he stumbled out of the cab, as it sped off, Johns backside still in the seat of the car.
"What the fuck..." he muttered angrily to himself. Highly unimpressed he thought about how walking home would be the better idea.

He walked into the restaurant, huffing at the long line that was forming in front of him. The restaurant gave him a slightly sentimental feeling. He shrugged it off, straightening his many jumpers. He began to walk off with a large box of devious looking sushi.
He glanced at his watch, 12pm, strolling home, munching on his sushi, meanwhile.

It had taken him longer than expected to walk back home, because his watch now showed 12:56pm in gleaming digital numbers. He walked back Ito his flat when he swore he saw a crouched body shape, near the fancy condominiums that stood opposite the Baker St flats.

He walked over to the figure, it was a boy, he looked about 17ish years old. He lifted his tousled head, show brilliant green eyes, that look stunningly blue in darker light. He was beautiful,
charming,
captivating,
drunk,

and worst of all,

broken.

He was like broken violin. Broken without any tune.

"Help Me" he croaked before dropping his head back into his knees.
So he cared for him.
"I'll help you," he whispered softly to him, "I'll help you."

AN: sorry this chapter is really weird I just though you might want a break from all the swearing and depressing shit. anyway ermagerd okay stay cool and thanks for reading!!!! :)