Sherlock

John was off that morning. Maybe it was the lack of sleep he had. Or the fact he slept with his sister at about 3:00 AM, judging by the intensity of the lavender scent he was wearing. He had walked to Sherlock's stop and was a tad breathless, shaking, and Sherlock had asked him what happened. All John did was crush Sherlock into him. Despite the fact it felt amazing, Sherlock was scared - what if John felt the bones jutting out of his torso?

It wasn't as if he'd had a good night either. The other day he'd met up with his dealer, Steven, who said he had the "harder stuff." Which, of course, ended with Sherlock buying a substantial amount of heroin. He'd read the same five comics over and over and over again to avoid taking the pills, but gave in at about two; he now didn't remember exactly how he felt when he stuck the syringe in for the first time. Maybe he had been thinking about his mum. Maybe he had been thinking about John.

He'd bitten his nails until they began to bleed, and he could've sworn in the shower a clump of brown hair was stuck in the drain. At least he ate. What did he eat? He didn't remember.

When Sherlock pulled on John's jacket when they got on the bus, John didn't even half-smile.

"John, are..." He felt strange asking.

"Yeah?" John turned to look at him.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Am I okay?" He turned away. "Now I am."

Sherlock tugged on his jacket again; he was obviously lying. "Are you sure?"

"Ye of little faith," John said, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I..."

John suddenly buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing hard.

"He thinks he can just hit her," Sherlock heard him whisper. "He thinks he can take away everyone I love. I'm going back to the Dilane's. I'm leaving this fucking town, and I'm never coming back."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at his shoulder, where John was hiding himself, and he laid his head atop John's. His hair smelled like sweat. Not refreshing, not amazing; it was a haphazard mix between perspiration, lavender and vanilla.

The boy in Sherlock's arms was nearly unrecognizable, quivering and angry. "Two in the morning," John growled into Sherlock's trench coat. "Guns, and he's screaming at Mum, and God, I thought he was turning around but he wasn't, he couldn't."

Sherlock pulled away once they were off the bus. "People will talk," he always said, and for once, John put his arm around Sherlock and said, "That's all they'll ever do." Sherlock could have kissed John then. In front of everybody. But he didn't.

Instead, he leaned onto John's locker and thought about touching him, and holding him, and wrapping him up in soft warmth. Which, Sherlock had a great imagination, so that was easy to do.

It seemed as if John wanted to say something, at their locker. His face was smushed against the locker door as he spoke. "I was going to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"About..."

"What."

"I haven't the faintest."

Sherlock wondered if John had stopped being grounded yet. He wanted to tell him that Violet had invited him over for dinner.

John

Where would he go this time?

Back to the Dilane's?

"Hi, um, remember when Pickard kicked me out for an entire year and you didn't turn me in? That was nice of you; quite Christian, and no, I'm not here to thank you, I was wondering if you still had that foldout couch." That'd be awkward.

Fuck.

Before Pickard, that word had just been a word. It was inscribed on bathroom walls and it was in books and TV shows.

The Doctor never said fuck.

The Joker never said fuck.

The only person that said fuck was occasionally the lady at Asda with the crazy hair and the annoying voice.

But then Pickard came, and it all switched. Fucking bitch. Don't fuck with me. Fuck me. Fuck you, bitch - where the fuck are my cigarettes?

John hadn't seen it coming.

Not when Pickard kicked him out.

He didn't see it coming because he never knew that there was anything to come - discipline was illegitimate at the age of fourteen. John was now turning seventeen soon, but it was the same basic idea. Pickard would do it. He'd do it again. Until John stopped.

Stopped what, exactly?

Stopped living.

John thought back to that day. It was one of those days in summer, where it was hot, and your flesh stuck to flesh. Humid. Boring.

John swore he could remember that outside was cooler than inside, but when he opened the plastered windows the air rushed in and it made him feel thirty times more sweltering. And he had this really cool typewriter.

He remembered that it was pitch black, and it was metal and it had this amazing typing noise that gave John this full feeling. Unfortunately, he had only about three sheets of paper and two cartridges of ink. He'd have to remind his mum to buy some stuff, which would inevitably end with more senseless typing.

And what was really embarrassing - really fucking embarrassing - was that he was asking for it. It was his fault.

Pickard had been watching TV all day. He'd gotten up at somewhere in between two and three. Not that John'd been paying attention; his was upstairs, typing.

Crch-lap. Zzzzt. Crchcrcrcrcrch lap-tap-tap.

His mum was rushing around as he lay on the couch drinking beer and watching some stupid American show, offering him all kinds of food and drink and honey, I think you might need an aspirin, you're getting a temperature, I'll make lemonade and soup.

John hated it when his mum was like that. Pickard had a temperature - 98.6. Like everyone else on this god forsaken rock, fuck, Mum, just make him a shrine, why don't you.

So instead of sitting through that embarrassing, horrendous display of relentless submission, John was upstairs in their old house, typing out song lyrics.

A Bittersweet Symphony.

God knows why.

He heard Pickard complaining.

"What the fuck is that noise?" and "Fucking shut him up, Emma!"

He heard his mum come up the stairs, and poke her head in. "Pickard isn't feeling too good today," she said, quietly, "Put that away, please." She looked pale and anxious. John hated it when she looked that way.

He waited for his mum to disappear before staring at his typewriter. Out of spite (or stupidity), he pressed a letter.

I

Crch-lap.

Dead silent. There was not a stir in that house, like the entire world had gone standstill and the air became thicker.

TS

Crch-crch lap-tap.

John waited a moment before filling his lungs with sticky air and jerking his chin into the air.

A BITTER

SWEET

SYMPHOONY

THAT'S LY

HYFE

Pickard was up the stairs so quickly John swore he flew. In John's head, he did. In John's head, when Pickard touched his typewriter it exploded into a million bits, like a time bomb ticking down. Pickard was on him, screaming, FAGGOT and FUCK and FAT and John was so out of it all he did was bury himself in the bed as Pickard screamed.

FAT and FUCK and FAGGOT. And YOU FAGGOT, I WARNED YOU, EMMA.

"I hate you," John whispered, "I hate. You. I hate you," and he heard his mum standing in the doorway and he realized he was exactly like her, always, he'd hide and cower and he wished Pickard was drunk so he couldn't hit him quite as hard as he was now.

FAT and FUCK and FAGGOT and JUST A FAG BEGGING FOR IT, FUCKING BEGGING FOR IT.

"I hate you," John said louder, beginning to shake, "I hate you. I hate you."

FUCK THIS.

"I hate you."

FUCK YOU.

"Fuck you."

FUCK ALL OF YOU.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?

John wasn't sure what to do when he saw Pickard wind up his arm. Nothing froze; time was normal and it came as suddenly as it would have otherwise. His mum screamed, and John rolled out of bed and pushed his way through all that godforsaken pain - "Fuck," he said, "you," and tripped and fell on his back when Pickard grabbed him.

FAT and FAGGOT and YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY? I OWN YOU.

I OWN YOU.

John scrambled up, holding his jaw in one hand, screaming from the pain, thinking, I don't want to die, not at fourteen, no. He ran down the stairs with his mother and Pickard trailing behind. John fell against the banister, tripping down the stairs, and practically fell out the door. He got out and kept on running, always running, run, God, run.

And John had nowhere to run to.

If he'd known what was going to happen, he would've kissed his sister. If he'd known, he would have asked to gather his belongings and his iPod. If he'd known, he might've run back in and fell to his knees, even if he was crying and bleeding. He would've taken off Pickard's shoes and kissed his feet.

If John'd known, he would have begged and he would've screamed and cried. He would've done something, and it wouldn't have mattered to him. He would have laid on the floor and let Pickard assault him, he would've been relentlessly submissive. Anything, he would have done.

If that was what Pickard wanted now - for him to surrender himself - he'd do it in a heartbeat.

He hoped Pickard couldn't see that.

John hoped no one could remember what he'd been before Pickard tore him open.

Sherlock

John never looked at anyone during any classes. It was like he just ceased to be alive.

On the bus, Sherlock tugged on his jacket. He didn't want to ask, because he didn't want to coerce John into doing anything he didn't want to, so all Sherlock said was, "Are you alright, John? You're looking a bit ill."

John nodded into his chest.

When it was time to get off, Sherlock realized he needed to tell John something. "Stop the bus!" he yelled, and he jumped up to follow him.

"Sherlock," John said, smiling weakly.

"I just jumped off to tell you that my mother invited you for dinner."

"Oh," John replied. "I'm not grounded. Well. I mean."

"So shall I tell her you'll be coming?"

"Sure, I guess, um... Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"I just..." John stepped forward, close enough for Sherlock to be able to lean down and kiss him.

"John? Is everything alright, which I know it's not, I'm just asking because it's what most emotionally inclined people would say."

John nodded gently. "I need to ask you if you think... if you think I'm not good enough. Because I know... I know that I'm boring. And I'm not speaking. And you... You probably..."

"John." Sherlock walked forward. "I could never care about any of that."

"Sherlock?" John said. He was shivering. "Do you still want to? Do you still miss me?"

Sherlock nodded briskly.

John nodded likewise and said, "I'm just tired."

A/N: writing that was so hard on me OMG it tore me open like JOHN YOU'RE HURTING EVERYONE IN YOUR LIFE DUMMY OH THE ANGST AND LETS NOT EVEN MENTION SHERLOCK WHO IS A MESS OKAY plz leave a vote and or comment