Sherlock

When it was Sunday dinner, Siger told Mycroft and Sherlock to go on without him. "I have a headache," he said. 

"What did you do, brother?" Mycroft asked as they cut across the lawn.

"What did I do?"

"Yes, what did you do? When I passed Siger's room, he was muttering about you. Something about... sentiment."

"Oh?" Sherlock said. He hadn't done anything - not since the hair, and Sherlock had a feeling that that was in remission. Maybe Siger knew about yesterday, somehow. 

Then again, they never did anything Sherlock's parents told him specifically not to do... His dad just said not to make anyone pregnant, and then, it was impossible to impregnate John. His mum said not to have sex until marriage, and John and he certainly hadn't had sex.

Anyway, they hadn't gone that far. John didn't touch him anywhere you couldn't show on the telly. Sherlock wished he had.

 He might never have the opportunity to let John touch him that way again.

That morning, Anderson had watched Sherlock get on the bus with his tongue on his top lip, but all Sherlock did was brush his wild hair out of his eyes and wait for John to come on. When he did, John grinned, and Sherlock pulled him almost into his lap by his jumper. It was hard to concentrate on the people looking at them when John was kissing him into the bus seat. He looked so cute today. Instead of his usual - flannel, or a indie rock T-shirt, he was wearing a sweater that was too baggy and went past his hands.

John followed him to gym. "Tell me if anyone takes your clothes," John said. "I'll brutally murder them for you."

Sherlock smiled. "Yeah." 

Nobody stole his clothes.

Graham already knew what had happened from people in another class, and he stayed with Sherlock while he was changing. "Gonna fucking ruin them if they touch your stuff, swear to God... I'm done with their shit. Bastards." Graham proceeded to kick a locker until he was jumping on one foot, cradling his other.

"Heard you broke up with Vikki," Sherlock said, faking disinterest. He hadn't heard. He'd deduced. It was obvious, from the way Lestrade held his head, from the lack of a bracelet he'd had on earlier that week. 

Graham shot him a look. "Did she tell you?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock drawled. "Secrets wouldn't be any fun if people didn't keep them."

Graham changed the subject as quickly as possible. He said he would never let Sherlock walk alone to lunch again. Sherlock was thankful for that small justice.

"They're all bloody Commies," Greg growled.

Sherlock nodded and laughed.

Later, when it was afternoon, Sherlock told John that he couldn't come over; he had an errand to run. 

Sherlock got in his dad's Mustang and drove it out to get a license. If his mum was here, she would've accompanied him. She wasn't, though, so Sherlock had to pass the test by himself. He got his permit earlier that year, when he took the written test, but his dad hadn't let him take the driven one, because he couldn't drive a stick.

If Siger came back from work early, Sherlock would get the beating of a lifetime. That didn't matter, though, Sherlock was going to take this test and he was going to ace it.

Sherlock passed the test on the first try with flying colors. He'd even parallel parked the car, which was the most prideful feeling he'd ever experienced. Sherlock made his hair extra crazy for when he got his picture taken. 

He drove home in the car, parked it in the drive, and strolled inside while it was still light outside - only to find Siger waiting, reading a book.

He looked up slowly, eased off his reading glasses, and he frowned when he put the book down. He was staring at Sherlock while he was uneasily climbing up the stairs.

"Come here," Siger whispered.

Sherlock stopped as he was going up, and turned to face him.

"Where's Mycroft," Sherlock said. His voice was flat.

"At a friend's," Siger replied. His voice was poisonous. "Speaking of, where have you been?"

He smelled of alcohol. Sherlock gulped.

"I said, where have you been?" 

"I received my driver's license."

Siger stood, and stumbled towards Sherlock. "Do you know why the Mustang was covered with a cloth?" He approached slowly, and took a swig out the water bottle at his side."Because that was the car Violet died in."

"I thought Mum would want me-"

"No. No. When I said you couldn't get a license, I meant it. And you deliberately disobeyed my wishes. Deliberately. It's like you want to get a beating."

"I-"

"Where's the fucking license."

"Why?"

"I said, where is it?"

"Why?"

Siger took three huge strides up the stairs. "I said," and then his hand flicked across Sherlock's face. "Where is it?"

Sherlock felt blood well in his cheek, but despite that, he looked Siger directly in the eyes and said, "No."

"What?" Another step.

"No."

There was a hand on Sherlock's neck, squeezing. He could feel a whimper gathering behind his lips.

"I'll try again. What?"

"No," Sherlock gasped. He felt his toes part from the floor, and felt his neck crack and shift under Siger's grip.

"I'm really fucking tired, today, William," Siger whispered, beginning to push Sherlock into his bedroom. "I had a really hard day at work. I feed you. I give you everything, son," Siger hissed. "I provide for your problem, which, in and of itself, you should be thanking me on your hands and knees for..."

Sherlock gurgled, struggling under his father's grip. He really didn't want anything to happen. He didn't want to be punished. It wasn't fair. "No," Sherlock gasped. "Stop."

"And then," Siger continued, slinging him onto the King-sized bed, "I hear my boy's been driving around in my dead wife's car. Now, excuse me, but-" There was a thwack to Sherlock's face, and his head snapped left. "-I don't care about your opinion."

"Please," Sherlock said. He spat blood into Siger's mattress.

"We can save each other a lot more time and pain. Give me the license."

When Sherlock didn't speak, Siger bent him over.

"License."

"No," Sherlock whispered, trembling. Siger's lips curled - and then, he was tugging at Sherlock's trousers and poising his arm. It came down with the force of an earthquake, and Sherlock clenched onto the bed sheets, tears gathering in his eyes. Not from the pain, but from the shock.

"Try again, William," Siger yelled. "Try again."

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "No."

The smack was sharp this time, and it made a cracking noise. Sherlock whimpered, "No, stop, don't-"

"License!" Sherlock's father shouted, forcing Sherlock down. Sparks flew when he felt the familiarity of Siger's palm, thrashing him senseless.

"No," Sherlock hissed, as Siger's hand came down again. He clenched his body as he began to think, cutting himself off from the physical pain; he couldn't fight back if he wasn't concentrated. 

Use the energy from his next punch to roll out of his grip. Stand up, kick in a pressure point, which will render him motionless in one leg. Then, when he tries to get up, punch him swiftly in the neck. He will fall, unable to get up, and then... run. 

There was nothing else to do but run. Sherlock had nowhere to go, but anywhere was better than there, even without the drugs, even... without John. His father was drunk, uncoordinated, and Sherlock was maddened by rage - made stronger by it. He was done. He was done with Siger's anger, his useless victim blaming. He was done with it all, and he was going to show that to Siger, he was going to prove that. 

When he brought a hand down on Sherlock, he rolled with it, falling off the bed and snapping into an upright position. He drop kicked Siger in the knee, which was received with a pained cry and a strained glance to Sherlock's jaw. 

Sherlock hadn't anticipated Siger doing that. He hadn't thought about what would subsequently happen if Siger fought back.

Sherlock stumbled.

And that was his mistake.

John

John had the door closed when he took a bath, but his mum still found it necessary to talk to him. John was scrubbing at his head while she spoke.

"Ever heard of Gerald Tracy?" she called. "From church?"

"Oh, uhm... no?" John said. They hadn't gone to church in four years. "No, I don't think I do."

"Well, she had a daughter. Named Danni," John's mum said, "and she's pregnant."

John turned of the faucet. "Yeah?"

"She got involved with a black boy in the neighborhood. Mr. Tracy is having a fit."

"Yeah?"

"So it made me think..."

John pulled out of the bathtub, and wrapped a towel around him while getting dressed.

"It made me think that I'm so lucky," his mum explained.

"That you didn't get involved with a black boy?" John retorted dryly.

"No, no. That's not it. I mean you."

"Me?" John was done with his shower, but he didn't want to give his mother eye contact during this conversation, so he stayed in the bathroom.

"Yeah. Yeah, you. That you're smart. You don't get involved."

"In what?"

"Girls."

"Sure don't," John said with a smile. 

"You've stayed away from them. That's smart, John. And unlike your sister, you are also smart about... the other ones."

John walked out. His mum was at the stove, watching him leave. "And also brave. You're braver than I ever was. I haven't been alone since the eighth grade."

"You act like there's two types of boys. The ones that are smart, and the ones girls like," John said, as he walked into his room.

"That isn't far from the truth, John. You'll see, when you're older..." she followed John, and tried to put a hand on his shoulder. John stepped back. 

They heard Pickard's truck pull into the driveway. John pushed past her, and quickly jumped into bed, curling the blanket around him.

He stayed that way until eleven o'clock at night. 

Until the storm hit.

It exploded across the sky, letting buckets of water fall upon them, drenching them in violent torrents. It was the full package, too, lightning struck across the sky, and there was a leak in the goddamned roof - fuck April and its showers. The thunder clapped, and John hid under his blankets in an attempt to muffle the sound. He wished he could run away from the storm and never come back.

He wished Sherlock was up against him, touching his waist, his breath quiet against the shell of his ear, running his fingers through John's hair, like he always did.

John got up to make himself a drink of water, followed by three thunderclaps in rapid succession, and what sounded like a yell. 

It happened again, except in fours. The yell sounded... inhuman. Like a cat. 

Then it happened again. 

And again.

"John," the wind screamed. His window was shaking. It was trembling, buckling against the howling air current. "John," it called. "John, please."

"Let me in, John, please!"

John turned, slowly, eyebrows scrunched, to see a shadow in the window. Sopping wet curls, cradling a limb that was awkwardly splayed. John slowly walked to the window, praying that no one could hear him open it. The rain and wind made him cringe away, but then he saw the boy, eyes a piercing blue, lips forming words that couldn't be heard over the roaring wind.

It was Sherlock, deathly pale and shaking. His eyes were full of terror, and his arm was wrapped tightly, rain soaking him through and through.

"Help me," he said, before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell down into the mud with a splash.

"Sherlock!" John yelled into the freezing air. "Sherlock, answer me!"

John stepped back, tripping over his own legs. Fuck, he thought, fucking fuck. He fumbled for his jacket, pulling a random pair of boots from under his bed (Pickard's, evidently), and running out his room. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Sherlock, shit," he repeated. 

He should've written a note, or something... he shouldn't have grabbed Pickard's car keys off the shelf and he shouldn't have put two pairs of underwear into a plastic bag. 

He shouldn't have run out into the rain, and he shouldn't have called out for him. John shouldn't have found Sherlock, and he shouldn't have begun crying when he saw Sherlock's arm, jutting out of the socket. He shouldn't have seen his face, crumpled and broken and bloodied, full of swollen skin and mangled facial features.

What he shouldn't have done was picked him up and carried him, Sherlock's head bent back into the pouring rain, blood dripping from his wet, slimy curls. John shouldn't have carried him into Pickard's car, and laid him in the passenger seat. He shouldn't have started the car. He shouldn't have driven away in it.

But that's what John did.

A/N: I hate cliffies, don't you? I'm sorry this is so awfully written, oh me goosh. Leave a vote or a comment, if you fancy. Bai, loves, heh.