Like a Fairytale

Killed with Not-So Kindness

The group moved away, Sherlock didn't know why and he didn't care, he lay in the grass, his lips still tingling with the ghost of the kiss and his body aching with the pain of the result. How could have been so stupid! But he knew that soon the crowd would move away, and they would surely see his deformed figure laying there, crying and bleeding. So, with the last shred of will he had, he pulled himself to his feet, not bothering to stop the flow of blood oozing from his nose, not bothering to stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks. He stumbled home, keeping his head low even though there were no people on the streets. He was ashamed to be called Sherlock Holmes; he was ashamed to even be alive, because he wasn't loved by John Watson, the only thing he held on for. When he got home he rushed up the stairs, not answering when his mom asked how the game had gone, he shut and locked his bedroom door but that wasn't enough. Redbeard was lying on the bed, and he looked up with obvious worry, but this wasn't something the dog could help with. Sherlock grabbed the bag from the closet, the one filled with the cigarettes and morphine he needed right now, and shut the bathroom door, blocking out the world and sitting curled up on the floor, leaning against the wall in a ball. Sherlock sat there, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his bloodied, tear streaked face, he had never looked so horrible. Not just because of the blood, but because even the sight of himself made Sherlock cringe. Why couldn't John love him, why couldn't Sherlock just find happiness? He was flung into a fit of fresh, silent sobs, his heart feeling like the most shattered piece of thin glass, it's pieces beyond repair. Sherlock stuck a needle into his arm, letting the morphine flow through his blood, which did little to calm him down. But it made his brain stop working for a little while, and that was just what he needed, a distraction from the world, this horrible, horrible world filled with hate and anger and not a shred of happiness. Sherlock fell asleep on the bathroom floor, and for the first time in what felt like forever he was praying that he wouldn't wake up.

To Sherlock's disappointment though, he did wake up. There was no sunlight, no rooster crowing, but somehow he knew it must be morning. For a second he forgot everything that was making him miserable but then he remembered, remembered everything. He had shattered his own fairy tale, ripped the pages out and burned them, just because he was too impatient, because he couldn't control his weak heart. He soon found out what had woken him, a loud knocking from outside his room, human knocking.

 "Sherlock, are you alright in there?" it was Mycroft. Sherlock crawled to his feet, groaning at his obviously bruised and beaten body.

 "I'm fine!" he lied, throwing the bag of drugs into the bathtub and closing the curtain just in case. Sherlock looked in the mirror, there was dried blood splashed all over his face, his chin, and even on his clothes. It was a shame he didn't just bleed out.

 "We didn't see you come home!" Mycroft said, obviously annoyed at being trapped behind the door.

 "Well, I'm home, leave me alone!" Sherlock growled.

 "Breakfast is ready."

  "I'm not hungry, go away!" Sherlock insisted. He didn't hear Mycroft leave but he also didn't hear any more comments, so either he was standing there silently or he was gone. Sherlock's face was completely pale, he looked like death himself. Sherlock tried to make himself at least acceptable, so that his parents wouldn't suspect anything out of the ordinary had happened. He scrubbed the blood off of his face; he rubbed the tears off of his cheeks and brushed the knots out of his face. There was a terrible aching in his heart, he knew there was no chance now, no chance that he could ever get the great John Watson to look at him anyway other than what he was, a freak. Sherlock unlocked the door and opened it, and to his surprise and somewhat happiness he saw Redbeard was asleep against it, having kept watch all night for some reason. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile, he couldn't think of anything else but John. He still loved him though, his heart still ached to be in his arms, it was so stupid, so hopeless, but apparently there was nothing Sherlock could get right. He would want everything he couldn't have, he would watch with pain as what he wanted was ripped from his grasp, he'd live a cursed life, the life of a lesser than, what he so surely deserved. Sherlock camped in his room for the entire weekend, sleeping the days away and sitting in his bed at night. He sat on the window ledge, letting his feet hang over the edge and staring up into the stars. There was times when he wanted just to jump, maybe by some miracle kill himself with the fall, but he stayed where he was, staring at the ground with envy and wishing it was just that easy. Unfortunately he just didn't have the guts, he was scared, he had to admit that every fiber of him was scared, for when the sun came up he'd have to go to school and face his demons. His parents were worried for him since he hadn't shown up for meals or even come out of his room all weekend, the most he's eaten was a couple of mints and inhaled about twenty cigarettes, but nothing seemed to help. So he stared at the sky, so faraway, so innocent and so free, if only he could join them somehow, and not have to face either death or worse than it.