rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter nine

We're all gonna lose
The people we love,
Thats just how it is.
a.n

"Stop it!" John Watson cried out. " you're killing me!"

Sherlock lifted his bow from the violin strings. "Don't be so melodramatic."

"I'm not being melodramatic- another few minutes of that horrific cat wailing, and my heart would have leapt out of my chest and choked me, to make sure I didn't have to endure that horrendous noise any longer."

"It helps me think." Said Sherlock simply.

"Think?" Cried John, "think, how can anyone think with that abnormal racket around the house?"

"Oh shut up John," said Sherlock receding back to his chair as he placed the violin back into its case.

"Play something nice, not infernal white noise."

"No." And he continued screeching on his violin.
John retreated out of the room clamping his hands to his ears.
***

"I'm going out!" Announced Sherlock as he sat up brushing off the invisible specks of dust that decorated it.

"Where?" Asked John not looking up from his computer, as if this was a weekly occurrence.

"Party, close friend of mine." He was almost out the door.

"Hang wait, Sherlock!" He looked up from his paper, he was already at the stairs, but he was frozen. "Who said you could go?"

"Me, I don't need your permission."

And with a gentle flourish the keys sounded one last musical jingle and the door slammed shut.

I sound like a 40 year old mother. Good god.

He flicked on the televison, pressing channels after channels.

-men died afte-
-native animals be-
-effy don't yo-
-our brain to ge-

"Sod this" he said. He picked up a book and turned to his original page. Books were just so interesting things, so informative, so-
Different. So imaginative.
So on he read. About murders and crimes. About seething criminals wanting revenge, poison bubbling up inside th- his watch beeped.

10:00pm.

Three straight fucking hours. What the actual fuck. He thought slamming the book down, and getting up and stretching, and finally moving. Towards the kitchen remarkably.

The door opened. Sherlock swarmed into view
Actually, Sherlock staggered into view.

"Hello John!" He said dropping his keys to the floor holding his arms out. Something wasn't right.
"Come here, let me hug you."
John cautiously moved forwards as if he was going to break something. Sherlock firm arms wrapped around him, tightly. Too tightly.

"Sherlock are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine," he giggled "but I like you John"

"Erm, what?"

"Didn't you hear me?" He slurred pointing a wobbly finger to his chest. "I said I like you, you're something special, i just can't put my finger on it." He stumbled forwards, nearly toppling over John.

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Okay, just sit down" said John clearly worried about his state.

"I've got it!" He hollered "you're pretty John, too pretty, someone might want to take you away from me."

John obviously looked confused.

"Ugh John, why - why are you so sl-oow pretty boys aren't meant to be slow, especially you. My John."

"I think," stammered John, "lets get you into bed."

"With you?" Asked Sherlock hopefully.

"Erm, what NO!"

"C'mon John, you're pretty, I'm pretty, pretty boys together, and just look at those sparkling eyes, as bright as fire, as bright as - as, a blue topaz."

"Your similes are not working at this moment."

"God, why do pretty boys gotta be so mean?" He pouted and shook his head.

"I'm not mean, you're just drunk, and tired and I do not know what has gotten into your system."

"You sound like my mother."

"I know you've told me tha-"

"You'd make a good mother, so lets have babies"

"What the fuck no." John pulled Sherlock into his bed, and covered his body with a sheet.

"I want to have sex with you."

"Jesus christ Sherlock, I'm 17, you are 17. We are both 17. You are at school, I am at school. I am a man, you are a man. I have no idea how we are even going to have sex."

"You know," even his smile was cheeky, sexy.

No, no, no.

"No."

"Boring." And he flipped over and fell asleep.

The fuck was that.

***

Sherlock seemed fine the next day. And he tried not to bring about the subject especially at night. John tried to. So to both of them, that seemed fine. Absolutely fine.

They sat a a table, the sun shining through the blinds, the faint shadows of trees swaying outside.
The clatter of the mail box downstairs rattled and stopped. "Thats funny, the post doesn't usually come on Sundays" (see what I did there ahah)
John walked down the stairs. Only one little envelope, with neat cursive writing on it.
It was addressed to Sherlock. Bills of some sort. Though John as he handed it to him.

"Is it booby trapped?" Asked Sherlock not looking up from his papers.
"I uh, don't know."
"Cursive writing, darker and bolder, a man most likley, fountain pen, ugh, boring just a letter." He handed jt back to John.
"It could be important after all, there is not post on Sundays."
"Fine whatever." He opened it very carefully, as if it was a china statue, so fragile. His face went ghostly pale, and his chest stopped rising.

"No, no, no!" He screamed dropped the letter to the floor. "Fuck, shit, God, fuck, no, no."

"Whats wrong?"

"SHIT. NO. FUCK!"

"Sher- "

"Help me John."

Before he could answer, he let out an outrageous howl and dropped to the floor just like the letter. "No," his voice broke between the dangerous sobs that racked his body.

"No, no, no, not me..."

John lifted the letter off the floor.
It had two words.

I'm back
J.M

AN: dun dun daaaaaaaa
Who is J.M i think if you really are a sherly fan you'll know.
This is enjoyable, is it not?
-naomi