Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Thirty Four - Christmas

John

John got a cold because of yesterday. He swore to his mum that if he didn't receive some soup by noon he would be out for the rest of the week.

He wished, sorta, that Sherlock could make him soup.

Sherlock

Sherlock was asleep until noon, where he promptly fell out of bed, writhing. Mycroft hadn't been home to wake him up, so Sherlock awoke, breathing hard and whimpering like a child on the floor.

He went downstairs to see everyone waiting for him. Dinner smelled amazing, and a few family members had sent in gifts. Usually, Siger had his boss over, but this year he was off on vacation in Milan.

Violet handed him the presents quickly before going into the kitchen to make a pie. Sherlock counted them - way too many boring, stupid presents. Sherlock received a chemical lab, a microscope, some dress shirts, a... helicopter, and three hundred pound bonds. The only things he really needed were the microscope and the money. Otherwise, it was sort of worthless.

Sherlock's sixteenth had come and gone, and he wasn't even worrying about learning how to drive a stick shift and getting a permit so he could drive to school. Sherlock wasn't going to spend the time that he could spend with John doing something trivial.

He'd already told Sherlock that despite how awesome last night was, he couldn't sneak out again, lest Pickard's mood shift.

They were sitting together in the backyard, sitting up against a tree that hid them inside it. It was more of a bush; it almost seemed made for their bodies. The concave in it took up almost the exact volume of space they did. They were holding hands, facing each other.

There was nothing between them now. Nothing stupid or boring to take up space.

"So. Your parents. What about 'em?"

Sherlock folded his legs. "I've told you. They had AA meetings together, and fell in love. Well, that's what my mother said. There were probably seventeen different types of scandal involved."

"There are types?"

"I don't know, I've never been intimately involved in anything too scandalous, why?"

"Well... I..." John stopped. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"My pastime?" Sherlock said it with a tired smirk.

"Yes, that," John muttered.

"I don't see why not."

"You don't."

"You seem..." Sherlock's fingers slipped to John's wrist. "On edge."

"I-I'm fine."

"Stuttering, hmm?"

"Shut up." John squirmed uncomfortably.

"If you aren't going to ask, then don't," Sherlock huffed.

"Fine, then, uhm." John said quietly, "When did you start?"

"The pills, ten." Sherlock shrugged. "The syringe, maybe a month ago."

"Can I-"

Sherlock shoved his sleeve up on his right arm. It was dotted with puncture wounds, pink and red and black. "God, Sherlock."

"Go ahead." Sherlock showed the crook of his elbow to John, and he took it. With two careful fingers at the vein, where a puncture was, he touched, and then pressed his thumb down on the ridges.

"It acts faster if I take it intravenously. Pills take, maybe, five minutes, but through my blood..." Sherlock snapped. "Instantaneous. Although, I'm not entirely sure which feels better."

"You shoot up?" John frowned.

"I'm not a fan of repetition, John, but figuring you're horrendously thick today, I will reiterate. I take heroin intravenously. It isn't unhealthy at all, and I wash off the syringe and-"

"Sherlock, you are aware how crazy this sounds to me."

"I never asked whether or not you found it to be crazy."

"Sherlock... why, even?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. To me, it does."

Sherlock looked at John, with his eyebrows furrowed and his hand stroking at the dip in Sherlock's. His head fell back as he spoke, "I can't tell you, John. You... you would run away."

"I wouldn't."

"You could," Sherlock said. "And I don't want to risk it. But I'll tell you that I suppose that I'm a tad depressed. Nothing I can't fix."

"Sherlock, you can't snap your fingers and fix depression. I mean, you... Sherlock. This is dangerous. If you're depressed, then you need to see someone."

"I'm seeing you, John." Sherlock's tone was nonchalant.

"Do your parents know?"

"God, no," Sherlock chuckled.

"Then what do you take for it?"

"Heroin."

"Heroin isn't an antidepressant, Sherlock."

"I never claimed it to be such. It just helps me to relax."

"You're going to OD when the tolerance grows."

"I won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"Sherlock, please. I need you to stop, or at least seek some help."

"I..." Sherlock faltered in his speech. The drugs weren't an option. They were a necessity; the formality that kept him sane. Or insane. It kept him somewhere.

"You can't, can you."

"It isn't an addiction, John."

"It's dependence. You can't function without it, yeah?"

Sherlock put his head in between his knees. "I'm not..."

"Sherlock." John leaned into him. "Trust me. I won't... I won't hurt you. Or do anything. Just, please, let me help."

"How?" Sherlock asked. "How can you help it when my father-" Sherlock sighed into the night air. It seemed like he was breathing harder, louder, and he wanted to tell his lungs to stop but they wouldn't. Sherlock was praying John wouldn't ask. Absolutely begging. "Things won't ever stop," he said with an edge of finality.

"Your father what," John said. "Please. Tell me."

"No." Sherlock felt his stomach curdle and his breaths halt, mind consumed with the thoughts of his father's face twisted by rage and sickness.

"Your father what," John said, tugging on Sherlock's sleeve, and then Sherlock forcibly kissed him, just to fill up his mind with something other than his father's voice. John's lips didn't feel pleasant or safe. He retreated back into himself, eyes averted.

"I can't tell you," Sherlock said.

"I thought we agreed to be honest."

"You agreed."

"You were partial."

"I was involved."

"I'm trying to help you, Sherlock!"

"It doesn't matter, John! I don't want to tell you."

"Why?"

"Because if he finds out, he..."

"He isn't going to find out. You already know what Pickard did to my mom and my sister."

"Your step-father doesn't hit you, John. Neither does your biological father, for that matter."

"Sherlock..." John trailed off.

Sherlock put his thumb in between John's eyebrows and tried to smooth out the creases. "I can handle it, John. Alone. Alone is who I am. It protects me."

"No," John said. "I protect you."

"If I'm alone," Sherlock whispered, "people can't hurt me. If I cut myself off, no one can. You can't. I can trust myself."

"You can trust me, Sherlock. With your father, or whatever else."

"Stop it," Sherlock breathed in the darkness.

"I'm sorry."

"We could run away," John said. "You and me. Against the rest of the world..." He paused for a second, seemingly gauging Sherlock's reaction to this. When there was no obvious pushback on this, he continued, "I saw this place. 221B Baker Street. The landlady is lovely. But we could never rent it."

"We're only sixteen, John."

"I'm turning seventeen in three days."

"Can you count, because I'm certain that seventeen and eighteen are not the same."

John let go of Sherlock's hands and put them on his cheeks instead. "You're so cold," John said. Sherlock smiled, letting John feel the ripples of his skin where he grinned.

In the dark, John's eyes were fathomless.

He was all Sherlock could see.

All Sherlock wanted to see.

John

Pickard told everyone to get out of their room for Christmas dinner. Said it was an "epic celebration of everything delicious." He'd been drinking a bit, nothing too major, but John was still on edge when he got out of bed at eight o'clock.

It smelled rather intoxicating, the wine at the table, the turkey and the fine dining with the family's china dishes everywhere, fragile and surprising. Maybe it was the plastic tree, filled to the brim with broken Christmas lights, or Harry's smile, feeble and polite. Maybe it was the way Pickard looked at her, and the way she looked at John. But something was off. It was all off.

Dinner was delicious. There were oregano seasoned chicken sandwiches on napkins gathered round the table, and salads filled with grapes and oranges and apples. It was like it used to be, when for dessert they had peppermint cookie batter and hot chocolate that was swimming in marshmallows.

Like when Rory was with them, gathered round, with, at the time, was an enormous dining hall with an exquisite chandelier. Actually, it was really just a 6x3. And that was fine. That was perfect, those Christmases.

Peppermint batter was one of Mum's favorites, and she made it during holidays only. Or at least she did, back when the family ate cookies all year round. But never peppermint. Peppermint was special. John used to come home to his dad spinning pizzas in circles, and giving him cookie dough while his mum wasn't looking. Brownies and chocolate chip and sugar and peanuts and M&M's... All mixed into dough that tasted like Sherlock did.

John wondered what Sherlock's family did on Christmas. Who cut the turkey, who lit up the star.

Everybody dug into the Christmas dinner like it was their last, gobbling and slurping and yelling, "Pass it over here!" and then those satisfied groans of happiness when you became perfectly full. Harry's eyes were constantly locked with Pickard's. He was always saying, "Pass the gravy, lovely, can you give that to me, please, lovely?" His voice was sticky and smooth, like honey, but chillier. It was creeping him out. And John wondered how "nice" Pickard could actually be.

A/N: hai i reached 15k so that's nice uuUM. yeass. thank you. I started to cry this morning. This is literally the most awesome fucking thing that's ever happened and I LOVE YOU.