rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter twelve

In case you didn't know I'm extremely happy you're alive.
a.n

JOHN

He painted anything that seemed beautiful, he painted flowers and trees and the unnoticed beauty in strangers. He painted with a brush so slim and sleek, the water of different hues, the page a spectrum of many colours. He painted the descending steps of stairwells, the rough texture of rope, the slimness of the bullets inside a gun, the thinness of yellowing parchment. The way John painted was almost poetic, the pictures seemed to burst with paragraphs of creativity and love, and mixed emotions.
He dipped the brush into the water, the translucent blue turning a light bluish green, not quite aqua, not quite as strong, just softer with softer and quieter tones. The water looked alot like Sherlocks eyes. He painted Sherlock eyes, not his broken eyes, not the sad, angry, broken eyes that he wears underneath, but the happy, joyful, bliss eyes that he wears as a mask.The eyes seem to smile on their own, no coloured needed. But once the green and blue were added, they seemed so freakishly life like.
It tricked him into thinking Sherlock was okay, he was happy, that he needn't to worry, at least anymore.

SHERLOCK

He saw things. He wondered whether they are figures of his delirious imagination or just simply his demons planting false memories inside it
Every living particle in his body aches with pain, and there was nothing that could comfort him. Not even John. So he clutched his body, his entire body racking with sobs that took over his body. Every breath he
took brought pain to his body, every second of every day.
"Just stop!" He screams finally.
The lock clicked in his door, and Sherlock hoped it was John, he had waited all day to see his shinning that same his that tiny ray of hope, a little beam of hope that made him stay alive for just that little bit longer. Where no footsteps are ascending up the stairs, Sherlock casually removed the sheet from his bed and walked down the stairs. There is no shadow, no body, no person. Only a letter with the careful writing of his name Sherlock.
He opened the letter.
He gasped as he saw the contents. Inside was a picture of his mother, with Mycroft (he almost snorted), His father, and of course himself. He was about eight then, Mycroft looking about 56 at the age of 15.
Within seconds of plainly smiling at the photgraph, it sets alight curling slightly as he drops it, startled by the flames.
There was a sequence of words.

Did you miss me? Do you miss your mummy? Will you miss John when he's mine, because I really can't wait to see his skin on my wall, his lovely skin, and hair, and vast collection of jumpers! I mean you'll miss him right? John Watson, your best friend, your lover. But most importantly, did you miss me? Because I've missed you Mr Sherlock Holmes. I've missed you deeply.
j.m

He dropped the letter exactly how he did with the pervious letter he had sent him and the photograph. Was Moriarty going to kill John Watson?
He was too percious, he shouldn't believe him, and he couldn't but he still did. He glanced at the mirror that hung near the door way. What was he? Who was he? He looked terrible his skin had an unearthly pallor to it. John door opened to Sherlock sitting on the ground with the letter next to him, tears down his face.
"Sherlock are-"
Before John could finish, the boy slid into his arms and sobbed.

An: okay im sorry its short urgh im a shitty person okay im sorry forgive me ew