A/N Hey guys so this one has a TRIGGER WARNING!!!!! Talks of suicidal impulses and attempts. In this Sherlock is a depressed teen and John is the Angel of Death. I wrote John as a flirty, sassy little bitch because I was feeling salty and I secretly love how sassy he is. Enjoy<3
The pain was bad this time. Something was wrong with the stuff he had taken this time. Sherlock was curled in on himself, suffering through his self-inflicted hell in some empty crack house. He was determined that Mycroft was not going to find him.
"You know you don't have to do this." A soft voice cut through the fog over the poor boy's mind. He looked up and noticed the young man sitting before him. No older than Sherlock himself, the newcomer was sitting across from him, knees tucked up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. He rested his chin on his knees and looked at Sherlock with sad eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock groaned, trying to move to a sitting position.
"You're fifteen, seems a bit young to be hanging out in a pit like this." The boy brushed off Sherlock's question, moving one of his hands to play with the dust that lined the floor.
"Yes well, the same could be said about yourself. You don't look any older than me."
"Well I am."
"How old are you?"
"That's a complicated question."
"Then give me the easiest answer."
"Alright, I'm 20."
"You don't look 20."
"My father is Irish." Sherlock tried chuckling at this, but only felt fire in his lungs. "You can call me John by the way."
"Sherlock,"
"I know who you are." Sherlock's stomach seized and he heaved what little he had in his stomach to the floor. "What is your pain level?"
"Why do you care?" The boy hesitated at his question, averting his gaze and shifting his position so his legs were crossed.
"You are my first."
"I'm your first what?"
"First death, I'm supposed to collect your soul." Sherlock smirked, pushing himself into a sitting position and biting back a cry of pain.
"So you are a reaper?" Even though his insides were crumbling in on themselves he still managed a biting sarcasm.
"In a sense,"
"Prove it."
"I can't prove it without killing you."
"So? What's stopping you?" John looked irritated for a moment, screwing his face up and chewing on his bottom lip.
"Why do you want to die Sherlock Holmes?" The bluntness of the question gave Sherlock pause, he hadn't really thought of a reason this time.
"I just want them to stop." The boy thought for a while, pondering Sherlock's words.
"Who do you want to stop? Do you want the people to stop, or would you rather your mind stop?" Sherlock felt those words like a punch in the gut.
"I just want it all to stop." Sherlock felt his voice crack and drew his knees to his chest. He buried his face in his arms and let the tears fall. He heard a shuffling sound and looked up to see John kneeling before him. The boy looked like he wanted to comfort him.
"Please make it stop John. I can't turn my mind off. It's so loud, and I can't stop the words from falling from my mouth."
"It gets better Sherlock."
