rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter ten

we
would have,
should have,
but did not.
a.n

AN: omh i have a terrible writers block so please excuse me for my horrid writing omG, ok by :D

She is beautiful for her age.
He is beautiful for his age.

It was like a long, long time ago. Scores and scores, decades, centuries. Even a millennium or so.
He died of cancer.
All of them died of shattered hearts shattered like glass.
In a secluded way, they all died.
Oh the many metaphorical deaths that day.

It is impelled on a slab of solid stone. "Siger Holmes 1937-2008."
Two heart broken children, and a demoralised mother.
"William?" Asks the lady, her voice as smooth as silk.
The lady is his mother.
"Sherlock. And yes, what is it?"
She hesitates for a second, only for a second, taken back by the abrupt correction, nevertheless, waves it away. "Are you okay?"
"Yes." He snaps, suddenly wishes he could change his tone by the look of hurt on her face.
"Okay, Sherlock."
"Okay."

"Don't be a dick Mycroft."
"I needn't to be, brother dear, it comes naturally."
"Is it like a sudden impulse now?"
"I daresay, yes."
"Fuck off," he quips, "fat ass." he adds before sitting down.
"Grow up." He retaliates just as nastily.
"Why are you here?" He asks fiddling with the strings of his violin.
"I came to visit mother, of course, certainly not you."
"I feel greatly touched." Says Sherlock theatrically placing his hand over his heart.
"There are many other things my eyes would fall upon before they looked at you, little brother."
"It is lovely how no matter how much we terribly despise each other, you still call me, 'little brother, or brother mine, or brother dear." Smirks Sherlock.
"Tenderly affection for one, brother mine." He twirls his umbrella and walks away.
"Fucking shithead." Mutters Sherlock not quite under his breath.
"Language, Mr Sherlock fucking Holmes."
Thats as close as they'll ever get.

Three men come into the house. Holding rifles as long as their arm, they look like they are struggling to hold on to them.
But that doesn't stop them from rapidly shooting into Violet Holmes, bullet after bullet until she is just a bloody mess of ragged patches of clothing and a arrangement of tangled mess of legs and arms.

He's just screaming, and screaming. Mycroft, just standing there, tears rolling down his face, and Sherlock is just screaming. There are the three men, standing there and another appears just out of the doorway behind them.
He mutters something incoherent and gestures towards the fallen lady.
And he is just screaming...
He loved her too much.
The two boys crouched down, both of them, quivering like beached fish, setting their hands behind their heads, cowering before them. They had guns pointing at them at them.
Mycroft never cried,
Sherlock would never scream.

He is only twelve years old. And he is screaming.

Screaming because not only has he watched his father deteriorate right before his very eyes, he has seem his mother, blow to smithereens as they pound bullets into her, long after she has crossed the grave.

He just sits there screaming, as if screaming would scare them away, bring back his mother.

She was just too beautiful.

And he loved her too much.

He is screaming because he has no-one. Absolutely no-one. His brother - a selfish bastard, his father dead. The only person he thought every cared about him, gone, within four bullets she is gone, gone like a forgotten wrappers of a sweet, gone like the rubbish bags on the side of the curb. And he is gone.

And he is broken.

Because he has seen things - terrible, horrible things. He has felt things. Things that have festered inside him, second after second.

So he is broken.

So he is useless in this world. What is the point of living, when there is nothing to live for?

There is nothing he can do, or nor will be able to.
The man doesn't seem very much older than him. He looks too - young, about nineteen years of age, the same age as Mycroft.

The unknown man smirks at the little boy and says in a voice, almost as soft as his mothers, strong in an accent, but not as conforting, he can sense the death lurking inside the voice. The softness of his voice.

He is pretty. Like himself.

And he says him name is James, but he much rather prefers Jim,

But he had just killed his fucking mother.

So he is so fucking irrelevant right now.

But he is not. He killed his fucking mother.

He killed her.

Literately killed.

Dead.

So he keeps screaming, until a warm hand covers his mouth. His screams are muffled.
"You're next." The, what Sherlock can only describe as 'soft' man, grins and drags him into the cellar.

It hurts.

He asks him questions that he does not have the answers to.

If he doesn't answer, he is responded with a blow.

To the head, his back, his arms, any bit of revealing tender skin.

He just sits there, with lashes on the side of his cheek, lacerations on both sides of his calves, bruises decorating his arms and surrounding his eyes, that seemed translucent at the time.

And it just hurts even more.

He cam hear the daunting screams of his brother echoing through the walls, one dull thump, followed consecutively by a rally of screams.

He is only twelve.

And it hurts.

He will stay awake 'till darkness pulls him under.

And he does.

Then his wish of darkness pulls him under. Away. Away from pain.

And he awakes with a gasp that wakes John too.

And he is screaming.

***

AN: wtF is this.
And yesh sherlock gets um...

r
ra...
*ahem*
rap...
wrapped up into a blanket.
you get the idea ahem
This is horrid im so sareeh I'm honestly seething rn okay
it will not leave me
mah fuckin writers block wilL nawt leAVE mE like wTf whY
its like
"Hi naomi, im going to fuckin haunt you bc you didn't feed ur fuckin goLDfisH andnowtheyaredyingofstarvation. so fuc yeah bitch"

Like nO
*sighs rapidly*