Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Thirty Nine - Feeling and Falling

John

The next day, when John got on the bus, Sherlock was sitting with Lestrade, and God... his face. Fifty shades of purple, eye crusted with blood, lips cracked and cheeks blue. The only normal skin he had was gray, and peeling. There were scabs littering his face, and John couldn't be sure if they were self inflicted.

He was obviously bored out of his mind - his headphones were back in his ears. Greg was chatting Mycroft up and every once in a while, his ears would perk. His eyes only appeared once, when John was about to sit down - but he made sure to let John know that their moment of eye contact was nothing.

John sat down to a girl named Jeanette, who had dark brown eyes and dark brown hair. She never really talked to him, but was always kind. She seemed like the kind of girl that never judged, but also couldn't resist a good snog. "Hey, Jean," he said, and she smiled at him. He felt guilt bubble in the back of his throat, but he had to move on, and the best way to do that was to get a rebound. Maybe she'd feel the same under his lips as he did, if he breathed the air in like he did when Sherlock kissed him. Maybe her skin would turn pale and porcelain when he touched her for the first time. Maybe, if John had her, she would be like him. John rubbed his leg, hard, and she looked down at it.

"You alright, mate?" Her face tilted towards him.

"Yeah," John laughed awkwardly.

"Had a rough night? You and Sherlock-"

"There is no me and Sherlock," John coughed, cutting her off.

"We can talk about it."

"Nah."

"Okay, then." Her smile was curt and small when John touched her.

"Hey, um," he said, "Look. I'm not really gay. Those are just rumors."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was this whole thing, with Moriarty, you know..."

"He's an ass," she said. "Fucking gawping at me all the time."

"Really?" John said, way too enthusiastically. "He, I swear to God, is a fucking creep. He spread this rumor that I was dating Sherlock, when all we are, really, is friends."

"Oh, really? I thought you two were at it."

"No, ew," John said with a smile. "He's really awesome, but uh, we aren't involved."

"Cool. So that means you're unattached?"

"Yep. You?"

Her smile was coy, and cute. "Yeah."

"Okay, then," John laughed.

Sherlock

Sherlock tried not to look up when John came on the bus; it was much too painful. He looked alright. His hair had stopped being out of control, due to his mother's haircut, but his eyes were darker than usual when Sherlock caught the way they looked in the light. He sat down with a girl named Jeanette.

They talked, and Sherlock listened with keen ears.

"Cool," Jeanette said. It sounded like she was smirking. "So that means you're unattached?"

"Yep."

He didn't allow his heart to "crumble" or "die" or "fall into an ache so dark and deep that it sucked the light out of his shattered soul," he just let it go as John's moving on and his moving forward. He'd lied when he said he'd stop the drugs. He needed them much more than he'd originally thought, but John leaving helped because now, he could take less of it and draw it out so he spent less money.

When he was at his locker, John came up behind him. "Hey, John, we can't talk-"

"It isn't that," John said softly. "I want to know if I'm invited to the funeral service."

Sherlock hung up his trench coat. "There won't be a funeral service."

"No? Why are you in school, anyway? Shouldn't you be with Mycroft?"

"I'm not entitled to tell you anything."

"I wasn't... I... just. When is the service?"

"There isn't one. We're burying her ourselves."

"But-"

"John."

"She was my parent, too," John said, "and she would want-"

"No. John. I won't be requiring you any longer." Sherlock shoved a book in his bag. "Good day."

He relished in the look on John's face when he walked away, his eyes stinging. Hadn't he any sense? It wasn't as if he could just hold a party about his mum's death. He couldn't even handle feeling in general... how would he handle the pain? Probably OD during the reception on accident, and then he'd be in a fucking fix.

He tried not to be jealous when he saw John kissing Jeanette later that day - he slammed her into a wall and put his knee in between her legs as he did so. A completely different way than he kissed Sherlock. With Sherlock, he'd grab his cheekbones and pull back as if he was trying to get Sherlock to push forward; as if he wanted Sherlock to touch him everywhere.

With her, he bit her lower lip first and lunged, wrapping his well defined arms under her thighs in a successful attempt to get her to put her legs around his waist. Betrayal, that's what it felt like. It felt cold and hard and real. Sherlock thought John loved him. Apparently not.

Sherlock sucked air in and walked away as quickly as his legs would allow.

John

It was one when he sent the message. John had been tapping out an email on the phone Sherlock paid for, to tell Mr. Lecter that his cat began to eat his homework - which, ultimately was true - but then he began to text Jean and came across Sherlock's name and number...

And he wondered what kind of things that he was doing while John was gone.

Hey -JW

He waited five minutes, then, ten, and twenty, staring at the text that was only a text. He just stared at it, ignoring all life around him. He even ignored Jean (he'd started calling her that), who was sending him winky faces and proclamations of love - poor girl. She didn't know, and John wasn't going to tell her. In fact, he typed her a quick text: I gtg, sorry, I almost fell asleep while typing. Night ;) you should sleep too, unless you want to die in school tomorrow -JW

ILL BE FINE WEIRDO was her answer. She was actually pretty hilarious. And pretty. And nice.

Good, wouldn't want you to catch a cold lol -JW

If I caught a cold, that'd be bad for you.

Why?? -JW

BECAUSE THEN YOU'D HAVE NO ONE TO PDA WITH (your signatures are pretentious ew)

God forbid -JW

Seriously need to sleep but I promise to PDA with you tomorrow ;) -JW

Unless I get a cold.

Try not to. night :) -JW

Night Johnny haha

He looked at the text he sent Sherlock, then, and not to think about what Sherlock could possibly be doing. Until, of course, Sherlock sent him a text back.

Hello, John. -SH

What's up? -JW

Oh, the sky. The ceilings. -SH

I mean what are you doing, hehe. -JW

Thinking about clouds. -SH

Oh? -JW

What about them? -JW

About the amount of nitrogen that cycles through them, you know. -SH

Why? -JW

Because they're everywhere, and they never stop until it rains and then it dissipates and they're gone. -SH

But they always come back, because of differences in heat and air pressure, which inevitably makes yet more clouds. -SH

And sometimes I wonder if they ever get tired of spinning in and out of existence. -SH

Clouds can't feel, haha. -JW

But what if they could? Does floating up there hurt? Aren't there millions of organisms living in there, creating bacteria that creates more bacteria? -SH

I don't know. -JW

I think that I'm going to think about this a bit longer before texting you. -SH

Okay. Damn. You know, really, that clouds can't feel. -JW

I like clouds. -SH

I hate them. -JW

I like them because they rain on everything, and wash away everything that isn't grounded. -SH

They are living proof that all things move on and keep going. -SH

I still hate them. -JW

They're very inconvenient. -JW

You're inconvenient. -SH

I know, that's why you made me dump you, right? -JW

Yes. -SH

This is a stupid conversation, and you know I'm only entertaining it because you won't talk to me otherwise. -JW

Correct... -SH

Well, then, don't be annoying. -JW

I know why you texted me. -SH

Why, pray tell? -JW

Because texting me would be easier to confront me about the undoubtedly confusing feelings you emote towards me. -SH

Well then. -JW

You asked why. I told you. -SH

I can't understand you, honestly. Do you want to actually bloody talk, or do you want me to leave? -JW

And why aren't you holding a service? -JW

Because. -SH

I can't stop thinking about you. -JW

Did you think of me when you pushed Jeanette Wilson into a wall and lifted her into your arms? -SH

Sherlock, I

Sherlock

I didn't

John kept on typing and retyping, trying to answer the question that was so hard to answer. The truth was, yes. He'd thought about his lips and his thighs and how he tasted and his eyelashes pressed against John's cheeks... John imagined Sherlock when he was lying in bed and when he was showering and when he was sweating and cussing and thinking of him and breathing, hard, lips full of pillow with his hands wrapped tightly around himself. He thought of Sherlock's smile and the anonymous frame under his suit... how he looked with a sheet on and how he looked without a sheet on, and he thought about Sherlock while he had kissed Jeanette.

I think

I love yo

Sherlock I'm not even su

I miss you, and that's all th

Yes. -JW

I think of you every minute of the day, and when I'm not thinking about you in general I think about what you do to me, and how you make me feel. -JW

Feeling is not a point in your favor. -SH

Yeah, well, I'm not looking for points in my favor. I'm looking for you. Sometimes I wonder if you even hear it when I say the words. -JW

I love you? I try not to hear the words, lest I begin to feel again, and then I have to take the drugs. -SH

Wait. So I make you feel, you take the drugs. -JW

Yes. -SH

Why don't you want to feel? -JW

Sherlock

Well. There were quite a few obvious reasons, that didn't require too much intellectual prowess. (The less obvious ones had to do with the pain of existing on what, seemingly, was a speck of dust that never mattered in the grand scheme of things - oblivion, you know, the usual existentially distressed, melodramatized questions, such as, "To be... or not to be?" and, "What is my purpose?" Sherlock knew his purpose - he had none, and that was fine. He enjoyed sunrise and appreciated the effects of heroin; no need to overcomplicate the unavoidableness of death. Thus, he didn't think about the less obvious things as much, as they were always there and affected him as much as the rest of the arguably complacent population.) Anyway. Back to reasons why he decided to stop feeling.

One: Sherlock's father.

Now, he could tell John this, about the beatings and why his face was always purple and black, and why his lips were cracked, but he figured that the point of that would be lacking. Why would he tell John, anyway? He had enough weight on his shoulders as it was... and dear God, Sherlock didn't have the heart. What would he say?

"My father is a sociopath that has a drinking problem so he hits me for being a freak and a disappointment and reminding him of all of his personal failures."

Now, wasn't that simply delightful? John would get all worked up, "You need to tell an adult," he'd say. And then Sherlock would reply, "I don't want to think about this right now," and reach his hand into his mattress like an angel of darkness was pulling at him.

And John would say, "Don't you love me?" like he did in the dreams that Sherlock had had for months since falling for him.

"No," Sherlock would whisper back. Because he didn't. He couldn't. He wasn't able to, or allowed to, and his heart couldn't take up that much room in a chest that felt quite that small. Maybe the drugs helped his heart shrink. Maybe it gave his lungs room to breathe; an anti-inflammatory. Maybe he was just waiting to rebuild himself.

Because of many reasons. -SH

What is one of them? -JW

The bullying didn't help. It was hard walking from one abuse into another. Moriarty hated him more than ever after being humiliated by Sherlock at school. The locker room was his personal hell on earth; he could still see the "freak's" adorning the locker that was his, the yells and mocking screams. 

I don't like trusting people that will eventually leave me for better things. -SH
 
I will never leave you. -JW

Damn. -JW

Get that through your brilliant fucking skull. -JW

John. John, John, John. He was the most beautiful, safest, most amazing person Sherlock had ever met, and he was convinced beyond all logical doubt that he was going to leave, too, or become a reincarnate of Siger, or worst of all - Sherlock would hurt him. Sherlock was so frightened of hurting him, which made him feel, and whenever John said "I love you," he had to disregard the words.

And that probably hurt him, anyway. It probably hurt John to know that Sherlock was broken, and it hurt him to know that Sherlock'd fucked it up, he'd fucked it up so bad, he'd ruined them. And Sherlock just wanted to hold him, he did, he wanted to wrap John in his broken fucking bones and make himself feel, make him feel something. Till it fucking hurt. Till the pain was unbearable.

I'm sorry. -SH

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? -JW

It means I'll never

I'll never be able to

I can't

I don't

love

It means that I'm sorry that I'm not good enough. For you. -SH

And that's the worst thing, isn't it? -SH

The worst thing about us is me. So, without me, the worst thing about us won't exist. So how about -SH

you let -SH

me go. -SH

John

John couldn't just let him go, like he was an accessory, like he was optional. Sherlock wasn't optional. He locked you into his radar and watched you and made you feel his presence, his fingers in your spine. He made you want to scream when he was looking at you because he was so strange but so completely ethereal. It was funny how necessary he was, like air, and sunlight and water. John needed him, and when he said that it was so true - beautifully, impossibly true. God, Sherlock was beautiful.

He was starlight put in a tomato jar, he was not what he seemed to be. A closed book with a cover so intricate and intoxicating that it hurt John to look at. He was enigmatic, but so simple and so perfectly complicated that it gave John shivers and he wanted to touch him; John wanted to kiss him. John was angry at himself, too, knowing that this was all probably his fault. That he made Sherlock like this - or maybe he didn't, maybe it was his dad... But then it was John's fault for not stopping him. That was what John did for Sherlock. He was supposed to protect him.

I can't let go. -JW

It's simple enough, John, just do it. It's not as if I'm giving you a bloody choice. -SH

I don't need a choice. I've already made my choice. You haven't stopped. I can tell that you won't, and however "fucked up" you may be, it's likely that I'll still love you. -JW

I'm going, now. -SH

Please, Sherlock. -JW

Stay. -JW

Sherlock

He threw his phone at the wall and tried not to scream.

John always made him feel.