Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty Nine - One Last Night

"What was wrong!"

"What was fucking wrong, John? What was fucking wrong with me?"

John slammed his hand into the dashboard like it could absorb his pain. "I don't know what's fucking wrong with you!" he yelled. "Why do I put up with your bullshit? Because you love me? You've never said it! I mean, what the fuck am I sitting here for?"

"I don't know," Sherlock hissed. "In fact, it's the only thing I don't know. I told you, John! I told you this would happen!" Sherlock was breathing harder than anyone had ever made him breathe. Harder than hours of Siger made him. "And would your bathetic arse listen? Would it? 'You're it,' you said," Sherlock growled. "'You're it for me.' How. How could you fuck up this awfully. All for a boy. Some freak like me. Want to know what my dad does?"

John slammed his head into the steering wheel, setting off a loud, piercing beep.

"Do you know why I use, John? Because I don't recall ever telling you."

John slowly looked up from the wheel, and stared.

"I use because of him," Sherlock spat. "Because of my father. Because I can't function once he's hit me. I can't breathe when he's watching. And now my mum's gone I can't live because now he has no bloody boundaries, and I can't cope with dying like that. I can't cut off my emotions like Mycroft does; I can't pretend I don't feel for him because I do, I have to, or else I don't feel human anymore. Do you understand how it feels to not feel human? Do you know how it feels to wake up knowing your father - that you used to look up to, that you used to love and you swore at some point loved you - is the architect of your dehumanization? And I can't face it. I can't face it. John,  I can't... live with this. My father's the only thing I have left. I can't live."

John's brow was furrowed, and his mouth was open, and his eyes were full of emotion.

"Death sounds so much better than life when you're dying, John. I'm dying. When I get home, I'm going to stick my hand inside those satin sheets and I'm going to shoot up for all I am worth. It's a comforting prospect, to hold your life in your hands." Sherlock leaned close. His voice was cracking; his breaths were hitching, and his eyes were sharper than broken glass. "It's nice to think that you can control whether or not you'll wake up in the morning."

Sherlock blinked, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. He held nothing back when he spoke, and his voice caught on every single syllable. "I... don't want to go... back."

John unbuckled Sherlock's seatbelt and let him crawl into his arms, where he proceeded to fall apart. "I miss my mummy," he cried.

Sherlock

They stayed awake in the car, breathing in the sweat and tears they'd made. John could hardly find it in himself to speak, but when he did, he apologized.

Halfway through the night, he'd pulled Sherlock into the backseat, and Sherlock had rested his head up against John's thighs, curling in on himself. John held his hand, because he knew he liked it. His eyes fluttered.

John asked, later, what Sherlock's errand was, that one fateful day. What he'd been doing before he arrived at John's window in the pouring rain. Sherlock pulled out his license, and handed it over.

"What?" John said, smiling. "This looks nothing like you, I swear."

"It's..." Sherlock shrugged into John's leg. "Abstract."

John didn't want to give it back.

"I don't have any pictures of you," John said.

"We could take some."