Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Eighteen

There's no such thing as fairytales. 

No such thing. 

Not real.

Open your eyes and see the reality behind the fairytale, because princes don't get to be kissed by pretty boys in flowy black coats that have eyes like steely fire, John, wake up.

***

When he was small, before his parents got divorced, and his mother remarried a man that smelled of beer and unhappiness, he used to paint pictures on his walls.

Not, like, Van Gogh, per sé. More like a twelve year old that liked color.

He splattered it across plaster, into crannies that previously had no light, and his mother would rip out her hair in frustration because "Goddammit, John, can't you go a day without vandalizing the kitchen?"

He'd giggle.

John liked being twelve. It was nice.

But then he turned thirteen.

Thirteen felt like being split in half, father against mother. He didn't want to leave his mom but he didn't want to stay, either; he didn't want to subject himself to the torrential downpour of undoubtedly horrible boyfriends his mum would gather over the years.

His father left so willingly that John didn't have time to process exactly what had happened. There was no negotiation, or pleading, only a complete removal of his name from their household. John's dad would call to insist that John stay the weekend, but his mum would refuse, time and time again.

The acrylics dried up, and the brushes were ruined by years of disuse. He stopped painting, and each line he drew was violently rejected by another. It all screamed, "No!"

Ten years later, when John puts his pencil to paper, it feels exactly the same. Like a childhood wasted.

***

When he was small, before Mycroft turned too old for his own good and his mum passed into a place a little more pretty - Sherlock. Loved. Snow.

Snow was white. And it fell from the sky in fluffy soft representations of rain, reflections hidden in ice like mirrors and glass. He flew across the snow in sleds made of wood, hands red from the cold, breaths hot and damp, sprouting from his lips in a burst of smoke. He dreamt for love in the snow angels he made, swooning into their arms, a silver touch of ice-white feathers cradling him and whispering love songs in his ears. He looked so nice, wrapped inside the cold, adorable blue-green eyes bright and playful; gorgeous, raven black hair almost completely contrasted against the snow. On cold days, he'd lay in it until his toes were numb, until his back was soaked; until the only warmth he had was leeched out of his soul and onto the ground. 

He shouldn't have stayed out that long. 

He shouldn't have let the snowmen, with their vegetable noses and beady black eyes, steal away his warmth. He shouldn't have allowed the snow angels (which were really just a silhouette of who he was) to sap at his heart until it was nothing but a cold, hard shell.

So when the snow turned into rain, when the rain turned into sorrow - Sherlock watched it trickle down his chest with hardly a sound. 

He started to wish that it'd stop snowing.

***

Words have a way of catalyzing reactions. 

John stares emptily at Sherlock for a few moments with a rather blank expression, like someone had taken a photo of him and pasted it across his face. Sherlock isn't sure if this is the right reaction, so he stays silent, and waits, and twiddles his thumbs. He can feel a snarky remark coming up from his bowels, but he doesn't dare say it - because he feels like John is mentally teetering at the edge of a chasm.