Summer nights in London were oddly cool right now as John Watson walked down the street. It was oddly quite, just the sound of a few barking dogs and leaves moving in the breeze. It was kind of a cliche really, the way it all was. John's jumper hugged him lightly with his hands tucked neatly into his pockets. Glancing at his watch, John saw that it was a few minutes pass midnight, and he already almost to his destination. Only a few minutes ago, John snuck out of his room window and made his way over to his friend's house. His parent's didn't know, which made it all the more fun. Though John was only 15, he was quite wise for his age.
Finally with a few more foot steps, John stood in front of a large house, a mansion of sorts, and looked for the room with the only light on. John had only done this once before, but he knew his way. He climbed a few feet up a tree and made his way onto the roof. Burgundy drapes covered the window. John knocked on the window, no answer, tried again, same. This frustrated John, why wasn't he answering. John gathered his strength and roughly opened the window.
The room was surprising large, yet only a small light lit up the room. A large walk in closet was open, revealing all sorts of nice clothes. The room was incredibly clean, and a large bed was toward the back of the room. There lay a large lump on the bed, gently breathing, up and down.
"Sherlock?" questioned John still standing next to the window, "Sherlock!"
John raised his voice, and the lump started to rustle. Sherlock sat up in his large bed, his dark locks were messy and curled around on top of his head.
"John?" questioned Sherlock.
"Yeah it's me," smiled John.
It was hard to explain what John and Sherlock had. John was fairly new to the school, and when he witnessed some large jocks beating Sherlock to nothing, John had to step in. Every since then they had been close. Many people wondered if they were more than close on a couple of occasions, but it wasn't like that. Not to them. Sherlock said they had a platonic relationship, but it didn't matter to John. He was just happy to have a friend, as was Sherlock.
"I forgot you were coming," Sherlock stated groggily. He covered himself with his blanket, remembering he was only wearing his boxers.
"That's cool," John chuckled walking over to his bed, "No problem. At least you're awake."
John sat down crosslegged on the end of Sherlock's bed, smiling warmly. Sherlock smiled as well, he felt warm. It seemed that every time he was around John, he felt warm. John was like this walking, talking, breathing sun that just seemed to make everything better. It interested Sherlock, in a scientific way.
"So...," shifted John, "What's going on?"
That smile, John's damn smile, seemed to cure everything.
"Nothing," replied Sherlock quietly, "Nothing much."
Actually, a lot happened to Sherlock today. John and Sherlock always separate after school, things were very great today. But how much did the dark haired teen want to tell his friend. How much would he be able to.
"Oh," responded the blond haired teen looking at Sherlock.
Suddenly, John was in a trance. He stared deeply into his friend's eyes. They were a sort of green blue, but not perfectly teal. They change every so often, depending on the mood. John always noticed it, always made him wonder.
"What are you looking at?" asked Sherlock getting slightly uncomfortable. He began to scratch the back of his head, wrapping his fingers around his own curls.
"Nothing," nervously chuckled John, "I was ju-,"
John's heart beat in his ears, there was a lump in his throat. Everything around him seemed to go dark, and he focused only on Sherlock. Sherlock watched as John went pale, and he tried to speak.
"What was that?" stammered John, slowly getting closer to green eyed teenager.
"What was what?" asked Sherlock, puzzled and confused.
John lunged to Sherlock and grabbed his arm tightly, from Sherlock's wrist to his elbow there are rows of tiny cuts. Little red lines that kissed his pale skin. John through off the large comforter and looked at Sherlock's small fragile body. His legs were clean and pale, but the inside of his arms were covered in small cuts. Some where scars and old, but some were new and fresh. Just starting to scab.
John couldn't believe what he was looking at. Sherlock seemed to strong, he seemed so much above doing something so pointless as this. So selfish and pointless as taking his own life. Was that was it was, taking his life, or was is just a fix. Was cutting just another addiction, like smoking. Was a blade the same as nicotine. John just stared, agape. His eyes transfixed on the slashes.
"John," Sherlock started but interrupted by John's finger on his lips.
"Just," gasped the blond haired teen.
Neither of them knew what to say. John just stared, and Sherlock just sulked, he was so full of shame and regret. John, Sherlock's sunshine, seemed to darken.
John let go of the dark haired teen's arms, and Sherlock feared the worst. Sherlock waited, and expected, for John to go out the same window he came in. He waited for John to never come again, and prepared to be left alone, just as he always had.
John, he was different. John crawled closer to Sherlock and lay next to him. Though Sherlock was taller, John cradled the teen in his arms, and just hugged him. John wouldn't leave, never, he would hold onto Sherlock for as long as he needed.
John gently and quietly sobbed into Sherlock's dark hair. Just for a quick second, he cried. John was frightened, and so was Sherlock. Another wave of guilt and shame swept away the teen. There was so much that needed to be said, so much that needed to be explained.
"Wh...," whispered John, "What happened, Sherlock, please talk to me."
Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to find where to start.
"Afterschool, you left, like you always do."
John flinched.
"And I made my way home, I took the long way to avoid Moriarty and his group of friends. Mum wasn't home yet from work, and Dad was already 3/4th down a bottle of gin. I tried to quickly to run to my room bu-" Sherlock choked, "but he already caught me. He started to yell at me about how Mycroft was so much better than me and how... how I'll never accomplish anything."
Sherlock started to sob, and John hugged him tightly. He was never going to let go, never going to let go of Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John sighed grabbing the teen's face, "You are brilliant. Sherlock, believe me, you are amazing. I sometimes just stare at you in compete ah on how wonderful you are. You're father doesn't see it Sherlock, and he doesn't deserve your time. But I do Sherlock. Am I not enough for you? Please listen to me Sherlock, you are bloody perfect."
John's eyes began to slightly tear up, as he stared at Sherlock. The dark haired teen let a small smile spread on his face, and even though tears rolled down his cheeks, a smile was still there.
Sherlock nuzzled into John's chest, taking deep breaths in, smelling John. He smelled of laundry detergent and the cold air outside. John rested his chin on Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock smelled much different, Sherlock's hair smelled of cigarettes and shampoo. Each comforting to each other.
"John," whispered Sherlock half asleep.
"Yes Sherlock," sighed John.
"You should be a doctor," he stated blandly. John let out a small chuckle.
"I'll think about it Sherlock, now sleep please."
And with that, Sherlock drifted into sleep, as did John. And John would never leave. Because John was Sherlock's sun, and John knew it. And he needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed him. They had complete equilibrium. With chaos and discord, they would come together and everything would seem ok.