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

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Sherlock had just been starting out; when his hands weren't thick and callous and his eyes were much softer, he was scared of himself. He'd feel that itch in his hands, and oh, God, he'd curl his hands into fists and curse the day he ever stepped into that supermarket.

Everything glinted at him. And he needed it all. Everything was like a subtle call, a soft reminder that he couldn't even control himself, much less his life. Sherlock was so scared. He'd slip into one of the back rooms in the store, the ones that said, "Employees Only - Do Not Enter," and he'd press his back into a wall and breathe it out, breathe, breathe...

He sucked in his stomach until, when he exhaled, it felt like his body was concave and empty.

Suddenly, he wouldn't remember why he was there. He wouldn't know why he was in here, pressing himself into a wall, he wouldn't know why he was sliding to the floor, he wouldn't know why his hands were shaking and his lips were parted, trying to bring in enough oxygen to feed the fear that was consuming him like flame.

Get up, he'd think. Get up, and walk away.

He used to be able to do that, sure. He used to be able to suppress the urges, because they were small, and he was strong. He used to be able to walk out of rooms with a smile, he used to be able to steal movies from rental stores and stay out of compromising situations and disappear into crowds and stay as strong as an oak; he used to be able to steal coffee makers and kisses and he used to be able to see John without shuddering and pulling in for more. He used to be able to resist irresistible things, because he wasn't a steal, he was just a person who stole.

That is no longer true, and there are so many things he is not. Among those things is a runner. Sherlock can't run. He only hides.

***

In his eleventh year, John was kicked out of his house. He doesn't remember all that much, even though it was only a few odd years ago; all he can recall is the smell of dirt after it rained, and headlights poking through the brush. He ran then. He ran away from his mom, and his sister, and his step-dad, and he ran so fast that when he stopped, there was road burn on the pavement from where his boots slid to a halt.

The real memories happened when he was in the army (probably because he relived those every night) and he had bullets whizzing at him at every possible opportunity.

He remembers sinking into the mud, and watching sparks fly like fireworks as enemy troops murdered all his friends. He remembers running frantically through the bushes to help his friend, who'd been shot - "Ace!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, choking on smoke and blood - running faster than he'd ever run...

And he remembers seeing his friend's eyes.

Gray and glassy.

Like... marbles.

Clutching David's bag to his chest, trying to wipe the blood off, praying that his eyes were open because he was thought that it was a beautiful day, not because he'd been shot with a cold piece of metal going 1750 kilometers per hour, no, please, God, please.

This was not a picnic, this was war, he's dead, John, he is fucking dead.

He'd gotten up, holding a canvas bag to his chest, and ran. Slower, that time. Slow enough to feel a blossom of red hot pain sprout from his chest.

John can recall quite clearly the pain in his shoulder, and the pain in his head, and he can feel the pain in his leg when it pounds manically into the pavement. He knows that there are genres of hurt, like the songs on your phone. Different melodies spell out different aches, but in the end, it's just fucking music. Let yourself enjoy it.

It's fair to say that since John runs all the time, he's a pretty good runner.

Well. Sherlock doesn't know that.

A/N: because i have deprived you

I will update twice (yes) twice in one week

What is gonna happen when john catches up to sherlock oh go D

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