Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty - Inevitable

A/N: More sorry than yesterday. (trigger warnings for drug use and suicidal thoughts (i can actually guarantee there'll be a lot of this for the most of the rest I'm sorry))

Sherlock

The abuse was increasing.

Sherlock now woke up, every single night, to the feel of his hands at his sweat-laundered shirt. He wondered, for a moment, if it was John, pulling him, whispering, "Run, run, run," and Sherlock threw himself into those arms with the utmost sense of safety.

But it was always just Siger, hands shaking, lips trembling, as if tortured with dreams of her, and then there'd be another bruise on his stomach. Sherlock felt like he might die every single time this happened; he welcomed the possibility with open arms.

Sherlock wondered what John would see if he ever removed Sherlock's clothes. If he would see scars... or if he would see skin.

If he'd see puncture wounds, or release.

Bruises, or colors as beautiful as sunset on a canvas, like an artist at easel. Was Siger a painter?

John was.

Sherlock wondered if, when John shed Sherlock's clothes from his body, and he was standing there, bare, if John would touch him like he was an open wound. He could feel himself being torn limb from limb, and he wondered if John could see that, could feel that, right where his heart was.

And he wondered if John would mind using damaged goods.

John

Every day was the same - each minute equally painful.

John talked to Jeanette, making up some lie about how he wasn't ready for an emotional relationship, but the physical aspect was fine - as long as she didn't push him too far. She asked him if he "wanted to tell me about your ex" and John shook his head in that way that girls liked when you talked about past relationships: like you broke yourself and you weren't entirely sure how to put yourself back together. They weren't even exes. They were... separated.

How do you separate with someone? Do you just eject them out of your heart and pretend they never happened? It'd been a week, two days, and seven hours since Sherlock left him. And every minute, he'd stare at that last text...

Stay, it said. An order. One that Sherlock had disregarded it as easily as the words John spoke to him.

Stay.

Stay, stay, stay.

And just... it made sense in so many ways. Stay next to me. Stay in my life. Stay on this earth, because, God, I swear. I love you, I do.

I do.

Sherlock

I miss you. -JW

Sherlock stared at the text like it was a God given gift.

He'd been trembling, eyes looking up the ceiling, and he had felt his hands...

Picking at the dead skin on his face. It felt like there were worms, wiggling their way through the flesh Sherlock was sure wasn't his. When he heard the text, he turned to his bedside lamp and stared at his phone like it was going to burn him.

He tasted blood when he took it in his hands, body shivering. The heroin wasn't hitting as hard as it used to, and Sherlock was vaguely aware of his hands betraying him; upping his dosage. And Sherlock could feel the unavoidability of that.

But he could also feel John, under his fingertips, breathing against his aching chest.

It felt like there were nails, threatening to tear him open and drive through his beating heart - but not when that cold, metal phone was pressed there. Not when he could pretend the vibrations were comforting him, and he swore they brought a sense of deliverance to the emptiness in his lungs.

He'd achieved it, for a moment.

Not feeling.

It was so good. It didn't ache, and it didn't leave any residue of pain or loss or death, because those things felt like they didn't matter. His mum wasn't there when he felt nothing, and nothing felt good. It was like he'd found the Holy Grail.

But then it came back, twice as strongly as before. It pushed and pulled at his conscience, Why didn't you feel, why did you never feel?!

Feel! Feel it all, let it cover you and ruin you and fuck you up. Because that's what you are. A fuck up, a freak. Freak can't feel.

Can you feel, freak?

Can you let yourself feel pain, and suffering, and death, or is it not worth it?

Is John worth it? Is Mycroft worth it? Are Violet and Siger worth it? Are you worth it? Are you worth this?

And you know the answer to that, don't you, freak? You like the way it feels when you're empty, and staring at a text that is full of only words. Just words. John is just a name, Sherlock is just a pseudonym for destitute. Maybe you like the way the blood tastes in your mouth when he hits you. Maybe you deserve all that fucking pain because you are your design, you are a result of what you've done, and you've done so much that requires this extent of self destruction.

Was John worth all this pain?

No.

Maybe, the voice said to Sherlock, whispering like an angel of darkness. Maybe, you should just kill yourself.

Sherlock breathed hard and answered the text.

John

The most peculiar thought just popped into my mind. -SH

Leave it to Sherlock to completely disregard heartfelt proclamations of love.

Hi to you, too. -JW

I was thinking about my habit. -SH

The last thing Sherlock needed to be doing was thinking about it, because that would progress into the fixation, and the obsession, and then the dead eyed, glazed over stares.

Yep. -JW

And I rapidly came to the conclusion that taking my own life would be the best course of action. -SH

John sort of just stared, and let the wave of anger abate before he typed out a quick, lacking answer. Who says stuff like that?

Don't. -JW

I wasn't going to. Just wanted to let you know. -SH

What is going on? Call me. -JW

John rubbed at his eyes, pressing his fingertips into the sockets and groaning. Oh, this sucked. This fucking sucked. He'd started the cycling obsession, now, and then he was going to do something he'd regret. He was going to kill himself, and then John would cry, and then Mycroft would cry, and Anderson would gasp in surprise and John would punch him in the face. And then John would get angry - really fucking angry, at Sherlock, for doing it, for leaving him.

There was a ring.

"Sherlock," John said, "Do I need to call the police?"

"I'm... normal. Not quite so caught up with the dragging effort of emotion. You know. The usual."

"When was the last time you shot up?"

"Maybe seventy three minutes ago."

His voice was very measured, very calm.

"Are you okay? Nausea, dizziness, high blood pressure, high pulse?"

"I'm not feeling any symptoms, although I have a slight headache."

"Mentally?"

"I'm feeling alright."

There was a moment of silence as John ran his fingers through his hair and lightly laughed for fear . "Um," he said. "I'm desperate for you to get help."

"John, I'm convinced that I'm going to die, soon, anyway."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because of my father. Or the drugs. I don't know, but my oblivion is inevitable."

"Your oblivion is inevitable," John mused, laughing quietly. "Are you ever going to tell me about your father?" he asked, sitting gently on his bed, and laying down.

Sherlock's breaths were light. "No," he whispered into the headset and sighed gently. "No, I won't."

"You also won't accept my help, will you?" John said in agitation.

"Probably not," Sherlock almost laughed, and John felt his heart sink into his abdomen.

"Then why did you even call?" John said, angrily clenching his hands into his pillows. "Why are you even speaking to me?"

"Don't be angry," Sherlock scoffed quietly. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"No," John hissed, "no. You don't get to play that card. You called me. You told me that you're suicidal and now you're being flippant about it." John was afraid of the words he would say next. He was afraid of how Sherlock would respond. "I want to help you, but you seem more interested in manipulating my emotions."

When Sherlock didn't respond, John wasn't sure if he'd crossed a line or If he'd breached a wall; the silence was mesmerizing and tortured, and John wanted to break it with words he couldn't say.

"What am I supposed to do, Sherlock? Tell me."

"You're supposed to let me go, John."

He ground his teeth. "You talked to me, first," John whispered angrily. "You told me that you were this way. You don't want me to let go, and I don't want to let go, either, Sherlock, fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!"

John took deep, long, labored breaths, trying to lower his pulse to a normal pace.

"It's been a week, Sherlock, and honestly," John said, "I need to see you."

"That isn't a good idea."

"I need to sit with you on the bus."

"Not-"

"I need to touch you."

"J-"

"I need to kiss you."

"I-"

"I need to see you, however stupid I may be, and however broken you may feel, I need you."

There was a momentary pause, and then, quiet, tender, "I need you, too."

"Please," John said. "We can make something work."

John huffed, and then repeated, "Please let me make this work."

***

Sherlock folded his legs and breathed into the freezing air. His face hurt; it was bleeding in several places, due to the absent picking and prodding. God, he was ugly. It just felt so sweaty and his curls were matted in several places, due to the sticky scabbed skin, gray and discolored. And the fact that John wanted to make it work with someone so utterly... with such a freak... that puzzled him.

"Um..."

John's breaths sped up on the other end of the line, where his fears where concentrated, and Sherlock tried to speak but his lips wouldn't move.

"Sherlock, please."

"Alright," Sherlock whispered.

"You'll let me?"

"I'll let you, I suppose."

"You will."

"I'll try."

"You will?"

"Yes."

"Promise."

"I... I..."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he said, "I promise." He wasn't sure how to feel when John said, "Stay on with me. I'm getting in bed."

Sherlock turned off his bedside lamp and listened to the shuffling on the other end, followed by a huff and a whisper.

"Hi, Sherlock."

"Hey, John."

"This feels like old times, yeah?"

"Yes."

It was quiet, so Sherlock said, "Hey, Jude."

"Don't make it bad," John answered. His voice was playful and meek, almost as if he was afraid to disrupt the silence.

"Take a sad song..." Sherlock laughed quietly, his eyes crinkling in and then fading - he hadn't smiled in such a long time.

John breathed, "Hell, I've missed you," and that was all that needed to be said.