Secretly I Think You Knew

Food Shopping With the Freak

Sherlock POV: As Sherlock started to unload his new groceries, the sun started to sink. Sherlock watched as it went down, but this time he was prepared. As the last couple of rays illuminated the horizon in beautiful colors of red, orange, and gold, Sherlock turned on all of the lights in the house that led from the kitchen to his bedroom, to ensure his safe passage upstairs. Of course this was going to result in a massive electric bill, but that was beside the point. He wasn't worried about the electric company, more about his brother's ghost coming up from the freezer to haunt him. So Sherlock heated up the pasta he had made the previous night, getting a little bit more accustomed to being at home alone, without John or Mycroft. So he sat alone at the kitchen table, eating his disgusting soggy noodles and lumpy cold tomato sauce and staring absentmindedly at the stove, as if something very amazing was going to appear. Sherlock was getting a little bit uneasy, he told himself to stare into the kitchen, the stove, the sink, the drawers, everything and anything except the hallway, passed the hallway into the darkened living room, and passed that, the old basement door, standing still and locked. Sherlock could almost feel the cold breeze coming up from the freezer, leaking under the doors and filling the room with the stench of freeze dried death. Finally when the last noodle was eaten off of his plate, Sherlock got up and started to wash the dishes, not much to wash since he had made the pasta the night before. The new groceries were all tucked away in their appropriate spots and for a moment Sherlock felt like he had a handle on this new way of life, this life of an orphan. It may be rough, but he had to hold out a year, not even a year, until he turned eighteen and became a legal adult. Then he could do whatever he liked, he could get the money from the inheritance, he could sell the house, move far away from this horrible town, he could live with John, raise a family, and leave all memories of his horrible brother in the past. That was how Sherlock imagined his future; it was how he wanted his future to be, so there was a small part of him that reminded him it would never happen. Somehow when Sherlock wanted something, it had its own way of slipping through his grip. Sometimes it was Mycroft's fault, sometimes it was Sherlock's fault, sometimes destiny and fate just weren't on his side. Either way, the only thing that Sherlock had ever wanted and received was John Watson, and he would give up everything he ever had to ensure John stayed where he was. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that Greg got all moody, in fact that was actually a good thing, if Greg stayed out of the way then he could have John all to himself. Greg wouldn't stand at their lockers, he wouldn't butt in on their conversations and he wouldn't judge them for being so in love at such a young age. And John, since he had quit soccer they could spend all day after school together, Sherlock didn't have to wait for him to be done practicing; he didn't have to wait at home alone as John traveled for a game. In fact it seemed like John had given up every aspect of his life to be with Sherlock around the clock, almost how Sherlock had given up his only family to be with John. They had given up very important aspects of their lives; they had given up people who were counting on them, who trusted them, in order to be together exclusively. Yes, maybe it was a bit unhealthy, but it was love, it was destiny, and now there was nothing standing in the way of that anymore. Sherlock finished up with the dishes and started up to his room, taking a deep breath and turning the kitchen light off, retreating into the hallway and walking towards the staircase. The basement door remained shut, and nothing moved except Sherlock, walking over the shattered remains of his tea cup that he hadn't bothered to clean up, the tea soaking into the rug and leaving a big stain. But Sherlock didn't care; he never liked that rug anyway. In fact, when Sherlock got a little bit more money and a little bit more time, he could redo this entire house, make it bright, make it happy, and make it look less like a Holmes family mausoleum and more like a modern day house for a teenaged boy. He would add TV, cable, WIFI, a radio, all these things that Mycroft had deprived him of growing up. But eventually he would have to sell it, run as far away from this town as he could and never look back. Sherlock climbed up the stairs to his bedroom, turning off the lights as he went, so that he was always on the brink of darkness but never fully engulfed. As long as he stayed in the light, Mycroft couldn't get near him. When the last light was turned off, Sherlock locked the door to his room once more, crawling into his bed and pulling the curtains. This was where he was safe; this was where John would protect him. Sherlock lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling to where John was staring back, smiling slightly and watching as the red paint started to move, John's eye blinking and lips cracking into a smile. Suddenly there was a body, and John crawled out of the ceiling and landed next to Sherlock on the bed, his red body moving with elegance as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, smelling strongly of chemicals and old, dried paint.
"John." Sherlock whispered, letting John's paint fingers run through his hair, closing his eyes slightly, trying to appreciate this moment the best he could....Sherlock opened his eyes and there was no John, the paint on the ceiling stayed motionless, all was still. Sherlock sighed heavily, of course he never actually believed there was a John constructed completely of paint holding him, but he would have liked it if there was. He would have treasured their moments together as if it really were John, holding him, protecting him.