A Chance To Stay Alive - Johnlock

2) Composer

A young Sherlock stood crouched over the toilet bowl, watching as the water swirled around mesmerisingly inside. His face was pale and gaunt and he had overcome to shivering, despite it being nearly August. The boy had been sick, yet again. He swayed miserably in his spot for a moment before wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet paper and getting to his feet. There came a curt knock on the door from the other side and Mycroft's voice could be heard.
"Sherlock Holmes what are you doing in there? You've been in there for nearly half an hour now!" he yelled, clearly frustrated. Cautiously, the little boy unbolted the door and stepped outside, a small smile placed on his chapped lips.
"Sorry Mycie," he said calmly, faking the smile. He'd become very good at that now.
"I was just daydreaming."
Sherlock shuffled past his older brother and into his bedroom, where he was greeted by a majestic looking dog. He closed the door shut behind him and beamed down upon the creature.

"Redbeard!" he whispered joyfully, bending down to hug the dog. Sherlock collapsed onto his bed, followed closely by the loyal companion. Redbeard watched the boy for a second before curling up into a small ball beside him, his golden tail wagging rapidly.
"I was ill again just now," Sherlock confessed to the dog, his fingers stroking through the soft fur.
"They don't know yet."
And by that he meant his parents. He often came to his room when he was at his lowest. There Redbeard always awaited him, with a wagging tail and patient ears. Sherlock found it easy to open up to the dog, much easier than his mother or to Mycroft.
"I'm scared," the young boy mumbled shakily, staring up at the pale white ceiling.
"I'll be fine..won't I?"
He suddenly felt Redbeard's tail thumping against his thigh and that was the only reassurance he needed. Everything would be just fine.

••••••••

Sherlock lay silently like a statue, resting upon the sofa in the living room and draped in a woollen blanket. It was two am, and the boy couldn't sleep at all. Soft snores had begun to drift in from the bedroom, an indication that his newly found friend John Watson was now asleep. Sherlock often couldn't sleep. His brain was always whirring, like an engine processing information non-stop. His mind was a furious place and not one you'd like to visit. The skinny boy carefully retrieved his phone from the cabinet nearby and unlocked it with a swipe. Immediately, the screen illuminated a blinding blue glow and Sherlock was greeted with many unread texts from his older brother. Most of them all saying the same thing.

Sherlock Holmes care to explain? -M

Mycroft knew everything, there was no secrecy when he was involved. His IQ was as high as his brother's if not even higher. Sherlock absolutely despised him for it. But there was a bigger problem. Mycroft knew about John. There was no doubt that he would tell their parents, of course. It almost reminded Sherlock of their childhood, "I saw Sherlock kissing a boy today" or "Sherlock's in love with so and so." Tedious. The curly-haired boy graciously scrolled past these and focused instead on the webpage currently displayed on his phone. The blog of John H Watson. Sherlock hadn't exactly had the time to get to know the man well, but he had managed to find this gem instead. He rolled over on his side and read through the page. However, as John had explained earlier, it seemed there was nothing to write about. All Sherlock could discover was that John was also training to be a doctor, and didn't speak much of his family life. He had guessed that there were problems surrounding that.

The boy had remembered from earlier when, his new friend had explained how he "hadn't been exposed to things when he was a child." But Sherlock had decided not to pester him about it when he awoke, that wouldn't do any good to John's self-esteem either. And in fact, the two seemed more common than you'd first think. Sherlock gave a stifled yawn before placing his phone back upon the table. He curled up in the warm midst of his blanket before beginning to drift off to sleep. It had been an interesting day, and he hoped it would possibly be the first of many more.

As the sun began to sleepily rise the next morning, sweet sounds of the violin filled the rooms of 221b. Sherlock stood perched beside the window, his purple dressing gown flowing gracefully and his violin resting before his chin.
"What the heck?" came a feeble mumble from the other room.
The music died down and the skinny boy turned on his heel to see John Watson approaching shabbily. His blonde hair was sticking out at all possible angles and he was dressed in a long-sleeved top and tartan pyjama bottoms. Sherlock had to admit that it did look quite cute overall, although he would never dare admit it.
"Apologies," Sherlock confessed, holding the bow by his side.
"It helps me to think, I didn't mean to wake you."
John pushed his fingers back through his hair and gave a small smile.
"It's fine, I've had worse trust me."
There came a small tap on the door and Mrs Hudson the landlady entered, carrying a tray of tea mugs.
"Here you are boys," she chirped cheerily, placing them down upon the coffee table.
"I could hear you playing from downstairs Sherlock, lovely piece! Are you composing?"
The tall boy nodded modestly.
"It's only an attempt."
After the elderly woman had made her way back downstairs, John reached out for his mug and hovered on the nearest armchair, taking small sips from it every few seconds.
"What time do you want me out of here by?" he asked suddenly out of the blue.
Sherlock put down his violin and stared at the boy.
"I mean," he continued.
"I usually don't stay for more than one night, I tend to drive people up the wall."
Sherlock's eyes shone slightly.
"I don't mind you staying here," he explained quietly.
"I like having company, and besides the skull just attracts attention."
He pointed a bony finger towards the skull positioned on the mantelpiece.
"So you're saying I can stay?" John asked brightly.
Sherlock put a finger to his lip and nodded.

"Of course," the curly-haired boy replied.
"But what about the bills?" John asked nervously, placing his mug back down on the table.
A few seconds afterwards his companion reached for his own mug and took a quick gulp.
"I mean I don't have any money."
Sherlock waved his hand casually.
"My parents pay for all of that don't worry."
John's face lifted, and from opposite Sherlock's mouth curled into a grin.
"Roommates," he said strongly.
"Roommates indeed," the mousy-haired boy replied, also smiling now.
And with that Sherlock grabbed for his violin, and the room was once again filled with the pretty notes floating around in the air.