rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter four

He opened his eyes to the colours of spectrum that obscured him view, blinding him with a variety of colours. He was in an unknown place, the comfort of warmth surrounding him. Alarmed, he tore at the sheets, his arms and his hair. The door creaked open, and a honey hair coloured boy, stepped inside the room. He froze at the sight of the stranger.

"Where am I, who are you?"

"I'm John"

"well John, please get me the fuck out of here,"

"You staying here," John said pushing him backing into the soft covers of the bed.

"No I need to-" insisted Sherlock, still attempting to be free of the bed

"No you don't, you need to sleep,"

"I don't even know you!"

"I'm not going to rape you." implied John still obviously amused.

"What-" he began, "Why would yo-"

"It's a joke, now sleep."

"No I need to go home!"
John sighed as he stared in to the brilliant green eyes that seemed to shine in the dim light.

"You know you don't want to go home, I'll stay will you."

Defeated, he laid back down into his covers pulling the duvet over his head.

"Go away then" He said, his voice muffled through the thickness of the covers.

"I never caught your name," asked John as he stepped out the door, looking back at sherlock.

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I'll see you later Sherlock Holmes."

***

He looked around the little room, why was he here?

Why did this mysterious stranger take him in, looked after him as he healed himself?

Who was this golden hair coloured boy, who Sherlock hinted had a slightly traumatic past?

And most importantly,

The thing that troubled Sherlock was how?

He knew he was broken, a computer, disintegrated and wrecked, unable to be fixed, the pieces unretrievable, and not being able to replace them.

He believed there was nothing to be done, there was no point, there was no actual end goal, he could only try so hard to fix him.

After all, some broken things are not meant to be mended.

But Sherlock in John perspective was not one of those "things" that you couldn't fix.

But he was a human, and to some extent Sherlock was a different kid of broken.

He was that type of broken that no one noticed, for it all jut sat inside him, rotting him away from the inside out. Like an animal clearing his system for moments of relief, then bliss soon replaced by trauma, hate, anxiety and worst of all,

his depression.

Filling him up, day by day, as he bathed himself in it, in calculating doses.

John just didn't understand him, he was like mathematical equation, puzzling and frustrating. He was an enigma wrapped in a labyrinth, hidden solely under a formula.

Sherlock found John the same way, although, he found himself observing Johns actions. The way his hands shook as he placed a cup of tongue scalding tea into its rattling saucer.
The way the creases in his shirt implied that he was in a rush most f the time.
The way he looked at Sherlock, like his own brother.
The way he was so isolated from the social world, the way he never sent more than one "x" implying he wasn't particularly interested with people, or for that matter; girls.

Sherlock knew.

John didn't, he was just too caught up with the way things went in this world that he didn't notice Sherlock.

For a broken machine it was quite remarkable.

He just knew.

And he liked that.

But John didn't.

***

John would go off to school each morning, whilst Sherlock would stay absolutely still in the comforting white sheets that entangled him, holding him together, as if he was about to break into thousands of pieces. He was okay. At least he thought so.

John would come home to either see him enfolded uncomfortably into the couch, engrossed in a novel, or huddling inside the mattress of his bed.

On some days he would find him muttering to himself, his back - a wizened pole. Or he would be collapsed along the doorway of his room, liquidised red dripping down his arm, onto the plaid white sheets.

Sherlock didn't want to hurt him. John was far to nice and precious to trod on him like that.

As much as Sherlock was a mute, psychopathic teenaged boy, there were very few things that he felt empathy for. His empathy died away a long time ago, just like the Part of his body that died that very fateful day.

He felt empathy for three things.

John,
The Sky
Drugs.

He felt empathy for John. He knew about the pain he caused John, and ironically enough it aided him pain.

It caused pain that stained the carpets, the sleevess and his wrists that belonged to Sherlock Holmes. It just seemed so impossible for him to fight the fury that bubbled up inside him, pushing him over the edge as he tried each and every day to fight his demons that crawled inside his mind.

But God mighty, Sherlock would choose the absolute best time for his tears to leak away, disappearing until they come back again, rising towards the surface one more.

Other times he'd choose an infernal hour, most commonly in the dead of night, where the sounds of his voice and tears rattled the streets and flooded the pavement.

Sherlock could always just feel the pressure behind his eyes, his sockets about to burst with so many emotions, he wondered whether it was very much human like to have so many. There was angst, pain, confusion and anxiety the wrapped him up, correct him in a blanket, paralysing him. Every limb every organ.

But then, who exactly Sherlock was didn't seem very human to the people who knew him. There weren't very many things that classified Sherlock Holmes as a human. He was more like a computer.

A malfunctioning computer.

A computer that wanted relief.

No, craved it.

He needed something to relieve him of the mindless thoughts that swam around in his brain, the demons that dominated the subconscious mind of his.

And he'd get that relief. The sweet relief that gave him true jubilation.

But it would hurt, but that didn't matter for Sherlock, he wouldn't think of the upcoming consequences or the after maths that would tear him a part.

He took the thin and sliver needle out of the case that it sat innocently inside and checked for John, the wasn't the usual sound of the metallic keyboard clicking sounds or the faint brushes of acrylic that splattered along the canvas. The sharpness and injection of the metal was almost comical, the long slender tip burrowing itself into the almost flawless skin of Sherlock. But his skin wasn't so porcelain and bewitching. It was dotted the evil scars of the needle, and bruises that were a deep and brutal blue. The scars were almost like severe freckles, that had broken out, projecting his arm with scars all kinds of hue, that varied from size to size, length to length, hue from hue.

He sighed happily, the creatures and crawled away, leaving him with an almost psychotic feeling of joy.

AN: THAKS FOR READING YOU ARE ALL AWESOME AD ITS BEEN A COMPLETE HONOUR FOR YOU READ MY BOOK. Anyway, thanks a mountain, But I have a new deal, 5 votes and 10 reads before i upload the next chapter?

Or maybe I don't deserve that many votes or reads.

Never mind I'll make it 8 reads and 3 votes. and remember, don't blink.
-naomi