"All I'm saying is that I obviously know it sucks that My Chemical Romance broke up, but do they have to show up on every track listing? They kill my voice…" The 16-year-old had laid himself along the backseat of the car in a safety-be-damned manner as the car clattered on the barely used back road towards the band's next gig, having been en route for the past hour and a half. Bemoaning the newest playlist was the current cure for boredom, as his car mates had quickly found out along the course of their cross-country tour.
"Now Sherly," his manager tsk'ed from the driver's seat in his measured lilt, the boy scowled at the nickname, "Sherly, your whining leaves much to be desired. Need I remind you why you're here, and just how easy it would be to send you back there? I'm giving you a chance at your dream, I'm giving you freedom, and I'm giving you cocaine. You are in no place to be making demands. So shut your mouth and channel your inner English Gerard Way and make me money."
"Yes, Jim," Sherlock sighed, allowing the rant to continue internally. His rebirth had been two years ago by a letter he had written to an address he had found carved into the bathroom stall back at school. My brother is an annoying sod, my family is strongly irritating, and prep school is slowly driving me towards insanity with the inhabitants' idiocy and promiscuity. Dear Jim, will you fix it for me to run away to America and play music away from my pointless existence and Mycroft's prying eye? –SH. The true chaos had started a few months before that. He considered himself depressed, and everyone else only saw mentally unstable. He found punk rock around that time, his violin sessions diverging from the classics to much more violent melodies. He found something, finally, that understood why he found the world and its vapid, self-absorbed residents so positively hateful.
The clothing came next, and he began to get write-ups for his spiked hair (curls were so not punk, according the media. He kept the true form of his dark black locks hidden in public), studded necklaces, obnoxiously tight jeans, and embellished pageboy cap that were very much NOT school attire. He couldn't care less, but the disapproving looks from his family were rather annoying. The tipping point didn't come until he pierced his ear. When Daddy Holmes found out that the hole in the right side of his bad-news son was a proclamation of queerness, he hadn't reacted too kindly, and Sherlock had been on lockdown until he realized the problem with his illness. And, of course, he had been put on a poorly-concealed suicide watch as Mycroft's input to the situation. His parents looked at him with disgust, and it seemed as if hell had descended on Earth. That was, until he had won the prospects of Jim Moriarty to go on an underground punk tour across the pond.
"It was a bit of a surprise to hear from you, Sherlock, I must say," his manager had told him upon their first meeting, "A boy like you coming to me, Jim Moriarty, for help. Who knew the littlest Holmes had such a disturbed little head on his shoulders. I have been looking for a way to play with Mycroft Holmes for a while. Taking his precious little brother off to America with me right under his nose would be a fun way to start the game."
He twirled the stud that still had a place in his right ear as The Pros and Cons of Breathing played through his headphones, a title he wholeheartedly agreed with. Many times he had lamented how boring breathing was. Sherlock refrained from thinking about his old home, his family, much. He tried to live again in this new life he had been granted. At times like these, he wondered if he had made the right decision. He wondered if he would ever go back. No, he decided, I can never go back to those miserable people. I need to enjoy the freedom I've been granted. They wouldn't want me back anyway. Thoughts of his father's gruff disapproval, Mycroft's pity looks. The amount of seven-percent solutions that had been flushed. The number of times he had sat in his bathroom with the means in front of him to end his own life. He could never return to that horrible place.
As the Fall Out Boy drifted into Panic! At The Disco's Nine in the Afternoon, He reviewed the set list for their next performance. Wombats, Killers, Good Charlotte, Green Day, the whole thing was good until he got to the very end. Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance wasn't even very aggressive punk. That song was just kind of… heavy. But if some poor bloke was broken about the MCR split and this would help, this was just their lucky day because he wasn't about to start an argument with Jim. Maybe he could convince them to add the Sam's Town exitlude onto the end of the performance. Maybe he could forget that Disenchanted was the first song that seemed to describe his shitty existence.
"I don't know, Greg, exams are coming and I don't fancy being kicked out of USC my first year." John tried to protest, but with his hair already proficiently spiked by his upperclassmen friend, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.
"Come now, John, exams are weeks from now and you've been mopey ever since that band you liked split. We need to inject some fun into your veins. And don't even try telling me you aren't very punk just cause you don't dress it, I've never seen a person with so many memorized song lyrics."
They ran to the closest city bus stop, just as the large vehicle was pulling into place. It was weird to not travel by tube anymore, but growing up in London and then trying to learn another country's system was a something he didn't bother trying. Greg knew the bus routes, and that was good enough. On the other side of his sat a teenage girl, scrolling through some internet story on some kind of Smartphone, and Hawthorne Heights was a bit audible from her headphones, due to the volume that it was being played at. He was slightly embarrassed that he was able to identify Silver Bullet playing from someone else's headphones, but allowed his eyes to close and his mind to be absorbed into the lyrics. He tried to allow himself to not think for one night about how much he missed home.
As the flashing lights of their intended destination came in to view, Greg turned to John and smiled. They were the two British transfer students that had come for class this year, and logically had been roomed together. He was a good mate, could talk sports, and understood John's rough taste in music. "I heard they booked some British punk talent for the night. Should be good. Loosen up, Johnny boy, and try to enjoy it without getting too homesick, I hear the lead's an English bloke"
They walked for a few minutes before arriving in front of a dingy little storefront, entitled simply as The Broken Tavern. Decorative paint patterns covered the brick walls, and a flyer showcased the act for the night, a group called 'The Lonely Heart's Letters'. It showed a boy with black hair that looked like it had been wrestled into the downward pointing spikes wearing a stud-embedded leather jacket and biker boots. He donned a silver stud in his right ear. But his eyes dominated all else, burning with an intensity that seemed to rip through the photo and stare right at John, an overwhelming cloudy-sky color. It struck John just how young this kid looked. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and it seemed like the kid wasn't exactly under any parental guidance. I certainly wouldn't have had the guts to do this when I was his age, John thought to himself as he was shoved through the door and into the atmosphere of the building. The room is dim and hazy with teens and college kids either crowding around the stage or sitting in the back sipping on drinks that, due to policy, were supposed to be non-alcoholic or they were texting, much to the frustration of those trying to leave the real world for a place of understanding. It was a place the nostalgic part of his soul latched on to, remembering the nights he would sneak off to the punk clubs for a night out. Looking at the teenagers littered about the place, he felt like he was looking at himself a few years back, back when life was more about getting lost in music than studying for exams. He found a seat at an empty table closer to the performance stage and relaxed. Tinny rock played out of the speakers as the people muddled about, taking care of business before the act came on.
John decided then that he could enjoy this. He could be young again, just for tonight.
Sherlock, for once, drank the hot tea he was handed. He needed something soothing for his throat if he was going to get through the screaming that this performance would entail. He had managed to add the exitlude onto the end of the performance. Thank heavens for The Killers, at least, who had a couple songs on his playlist for the night. The backstage area was crowded, he was surrounded by idiots with sound equipment, he was probably getting sick and going through withdrawal due to unpleasantly infrequent allowances of shooting coke, and they were in California, a place full of those morons who didn't know how to tie their shoes because they couldn't handle a high and wouldn't appreciate good music if it all but slapped them in the face. If he allowed himself to be emotionally expressive, Sherlock probably would have screamed. Instead, he was about to play a ninety-minute show for said morons. Such was life. His, more specifically. His own dull, horrible life.
He shrugged on the jacket one of the lackeys passed him, and prepared to go on. Only five minutes now, until he would perform again. Not that everything about these performances, this life, was bad, he told himself. The adrenaline always hit him on stage, so it was a good gig for a drug addict, and most importantly he was living his own life. Mycroft wasn't allowed to keep tabs and no one that used to control him knew where he was. He had all but disappeared into this life of lights, and that was a wonderful feeling. The freedom was mind-blowing. As a change of pace, he wasn't plotting his own suicide every night now. There were things he could enjoy. He could have freedom, and he could have music, a privilege he hadn't been granted back in his closeted life in the stuffiest part of London. He could never go back to that place.
The door to the stage sat beckoning him to do the thing that kept him on Earth, which brought the flush of red to his usually pale skin and let him lose his very being to the music. Beyond that door were people who would watch him and dance to his voice, who would think he was something. What that something was didn't exactly matter to him
He got flashed a signal from one of the sound managers. It was show time. For the next ninety minutes, he belonged to this crowd, to their sweat and tears and lives, and if he took it in more than he allowed himself, this crowd and him could become one. But Sherlock Holmes was above all that.
As he stepped through that fateful door, the world shrunk, and stopped being complicated, just for now. This tavern was as small as the backstage, it seemed, and felt as if it had been ripped away from the rest of the world. These were all people that wanted to escape. Before anyone even noticed he had stepped on stage, he had figured out eleven people's reasons to need an escape from their regular life. By the time he reached the microphone on the other side of the stage, he added seventeen more to his mind's tab, and when the opening guitar started, he had figured out practically everyone in the room's story, which attached to their reasons for spending this particular Friday night with him in this small space apart from their troubles (broke up with her boyfriend, dull; got into a fight with his family about his future; failing out of school; queer , like me, and was kicked out of his house; regular with a strong case of depression that needed a place to wallow). He would record these stories for the night, and then purge them from his mind after the show. As heartless as he was considered, he had no qualms about giving these people the show they were desperate for.
There was one confusing client sat close up that he couldn't quite reason out as much as he tried. Somehow, he seemed to have nothing in particular to escape. He was actually here to have a good time, it seemed. This was just wrong. No one came to the shows he gave simply to have a good time; there was always something more there, something deeper he needed to tap into. Look closer, Holmes, figure it out. He was well built, blonde, shorter than Sherlock, but a few years older. His brows were arched in interest and he seemed to be staring at Sherlock's ragged form on the stage. The stranger hadn't gone elaborate for the night in his appearance, but still obviously wanted to look the part, just hadn't had much time or wasn't given much notice for the event. He was smiling shyly, not sure if he should be enjoying himself this much so early, before the performer had really started. So it was a blonde stranger who was staring and was obviously glad to be here without a legitimate cause for escape, but Sherlock needed more, these people were usually so quick to deduce. His stranger was currently living at uni, here in America though he came from England, studying vigorously to be a doctor, and it seemed it would be a very good one. He was attractive, very possibly clever enough to not be boring, and was a closeted bi sexual. Sherlock knew he needed to stop thinking about this random face, however gorgeous the man may be. This would be just one more person to delete completely, but somehow Sherlock didn't really want to, and it terrified him. He usually was so good at refraining his emotions, yet within a few moments he had managed to give himself a crush of sorts on some show-goer. But this one seemed different than the others, and maybe Sherlock had just reached the point where he was raw and lonely enough to let someone. Sure, Jim flirted and teased with his "star", but Sherlock wanted a friend, and possibly someone he could kiss. He had never been kissed, and it seemed like something worth trying. Maybe he would have a chance to sneak away after the show…
Sherlock snapped back to attention for his musical entrance, very nearly coming in late for Dance, Dance. He stared into the crowd with the intensity he knew killed them, pursed his Cupid's bow lips, pressed his mouth to the microphone and began to sing.
"She says she's no good, with words but I'm worse, barely stuttered out a joke of a romantic stuck to my tongue. Weighed down with words too overdramatic, tonight is the 'can't get much worse' versus 'no one should ever feel like…'"
Within the first song, the adrenaline in the room skyrocketed as the words poured from the performer's mouth silkily. Most of the girls were up on the dance floor, and many of the men had been quick to join them, probably hoping for something more than just a dance. In fact, John quickly realized that he was one of the few still sitting at the tables, but he was absolutely transfixed with the boy on stage and couldn't bring himself to look away, lest he miss a glance from those indescribable eyes. Every time a spotlight hit the tall boy, those eyes absolutely shone; his slim silhouette became accented, his earring glistened, and the grease in his hair reflected in a shimmer. The boy was, frankly, gorgeous. In his own thoughts, John let himself admit that. Otherwise, why would he be staring at some British bloke? No matter what excuses he could run to, John wasn't going to be telling himself that he didn't think this guy was a bit good-looking. He would, of course, tell that to everyone else. No need to raise suspicions that had only recently been quieted.
The thing that struck John the most was the passion there. The boy threw himself into everything he sung, and he could very well have been aching and bleeding that passion along with the words. There was a trace of worry in those mystical eyes, and something along the lines of fear. His music came from experience. That's why he hadn't paused to speak or even take a drink. This was someone who needed to stay above it all, lest everything come tumbling down. He was performing to let that despair of his seem like it was all a game. He was acting like everything could be attributed to that music, that passion. He was pretending he wasn't hurting.
John knew that feeling a little too well. He was very well equipped at hiding pain.
When the twelfth song began, (1979-Good Charlotte) Sherlock knew he was treading on very dangerous water. This was a song about family. More specifically, it was a song about a broken family, something he was more than a little familiar with. It was like Jim was playing a game to see what would make the splintered glass shatter. He told himself to keep it together, because he wasn't going to be reduced the level of a normal person and become emotional about this, the fact that he was singing a song that was far too much about himself, and brought back far too many damaged memories. He certainly wasn't going to be disgusting and let himself hurt.
More importantly, was the blonde from earlier staring at him. No, no, not important, he scolded himself. But he was, wasn't he? That lovely blonde that had been staring earlier was staring again, almost as if he was intrigued by Sherlock as an individual, not just listening to the music. People never did that, especially at places like this. People never liked him. Yet somehow, this uni student that he had never met was staring at him with such a kind intensity, it's like he thought Sherlock was interesting, in a good way. He looked like he understood exactly what Sherlock was going through. Which was absolutely impossible, right? Because he wasn't going through anything, he would tell anyone that. And he made sure no one ever found out the truth of the matter. No one was ever able to tell what was going on in his head, because he was to busy getting into theirs, that's the way it always was. He tried to focus back into the intensity of the music, but found himself a bit scared to really sing this now that he knew he may have been more emotionally vulnerable tonight than he should have. Damn! Why couldn't he have focused more on closing himself off tonight? This was obviously meant as a personal playlist, a little scheme by his manger. There was that as a distraction, and the blonde stranger that really needed to stop looking at him like that.
He felt an impulse, something he knew was stupid, knew that he should ignore it. But he also knew that doing this would get him at least some of the answers he desperately wanted from his secretly admired. Sherlock hated it when emotions got involved. That's why he had never let himself get attracted, or get attached. Why was tonight different? What was so special about his newfound interest that was making him break all of his rules? He had incomplete data, and desperately needed more. This led to his next actions. The music faded away and before the next song began, he spoke (which he never did) with a voice laced with just enough sarcasm to get the people to believe this was casual and he was normal (an utter lie, but he was good at manipulation when he needed to be).
"Hello everyone," God, why was he speaking to the extras in this twisted film, "As you all should be aware of, breathing is boring, but unfortunately I do have to do it every now and again. So l thought it would be a good time to do a little Q&A." Everyone else in the band was looking at Sherlock with amazement. He didn't just do things like this. Every corner of his mind was telling him to SHUT UP, but he wasn't listening. He was listening to heart over mind for the first time. What an odd feeling. "NO, he isn't getting back together with you, yes, I'm English. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm sixteen and no, none of you willing contenders will get into my pants, unless you are the highly attractive blonde up front who has been staring at me all night and somehow seems to understand. You, sir, have a chance, and I need you to meet me backstage after the show. Now, This River is Wild by the Killers." The music thrummed up, and underneath the mask he put up, Sherlock couldn't help but let himself panic. He was uneducated on the topic. Was that a proper enough way to ask someone out? Was he completely insane for wanting this to go well, even though he knew very well that tomorrow night he would be in Washington and there was a very high chance he would never see this man again.
As he sang, he gave a glance at the gorgeous stranger. The man seemed unnerved, and in a state of disbelief. Alright, so maybe that isn't the best way to proposition a date. Even though it left him with more questions than answers, Sherlock was satisfied. From the look on the gentleman's face, he also knew he would be taken up on his offer. He sang with joy.
"But you always hold your head up, cuz it's a long, long, long way down. This town was meant for passing through, but it ain't nothing new, now go and show 'em that the world stayed round…"
For the next few songs, John stayed aghast, was that the right word? He certainly hadn't expected this to be the night he had. How had the kid even known he was staring? Probably a good idea, though, to stop referring to him as 'the kid' now that the kid had looked right at him and asked him out on stage. John knew his face had just turned a hundred different shades of red from that moment alone. The worst part was that he was considering it. He wasn't one of the sleazes that came here looking for action; he actually had come for the music and yet had somehow managed to attract the attention of the talent. He knew he shouldn't be considering meeting him. It was stupid to even think about. He knew the look on that boy's face. He knew something was being torn apart within the singer up there. And that something was beckoning him to come and fix it. No one else had been let in, yet somehow John was having the chance to come deeper into this muddled labyrinth. John knew it was foolish to expose himself to someone broken like this, after he had already dealt with so much brokenness in his life. However, his nature compelled him towards going. Even when he was a little child, he did always want to fix what was broken. Some stranger that seemed to be hiding that he was alone in the world was no exception. And he had a name now: Sherlock Holmes. How many chances were there in life to meet a guy named something like Sherlock Holme? He decided in that moment, right before the twenty-first song of the night came on; there was a 98% chance that he would be going backstage after this concert was finished. It was the words he heard next that made it clear there was no other option.
"This is the second to last song of tonight, and I was told to say something. As many hardcore fans may be on about, the group My Chemical Romance split up and for some this may seem like the end of the world. But that's the thing about life. Even if you absolutely hate it, lots of things are going to end. That's what this whole genre is about. Listen to the music that speaks to you most, and see just how much of it is about endings, and just how much we all hate them. That being said, prevent the endings that don't need to come. Stop things from ending before they are allowed to begin. Let them happen, even if there is the chance of pain, because otherwise you may be ending things that wouldn't have otherwise. Things that may have been new beginnings that you just up and missed because you were too scared of another ending. However, this show does need to end because I don't say things like that, ever and my throat is killing me. So, um, to play to your desires, this is Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance. It's another ending, but at least they tried…"
With that, the boy began to sing, with more hurt in his heart than John had ever heard before come from a human being. He was right, John thought; don't let things end before they begin. He had to go speak to Sherlock. Everything had ended, that broken song said. I hate having nothing, the boy's voice said. I'm so lonely.
Well I was there on the day/They sold the cause for the queen, /And when the lights all went out/We watched our lives on the screen. /I hate the ending myself, /But it started with an alright scene. It was the roar of the crowd/That gave me heartache to sing./It was a lie when they smiled/And said, "you won't feel a thing"/And as we ran from the cops/We laughed so hard it would sting/Yeah yeah, oh/If I'm so wrong (so wrong, so wrong)/How can you listen all night long? (night long, night long)/Now will it matter after I'm gone?/Because you never learn a goddamned thing./You're just a sad song with nothing to say /About a lifelong wait for a hospital stay/And if you think that I'm wrong, /This never meant nothing to ya/I spent my high school career/Spit on and shoved to agree/So I could watch all my heroes/Sell a car on TV/Bring out the old guillotine /We'll show 'em what we all mean./Yeah yeah, oh/If I'm so wrong (so wrong, so wrong)/How can you listen all night long? (night long, night long)/Now will it matter long after I'm gone?/Because you never learn a goddamned thing./You're just a sad song with nothing to say /About a lifelong wait for a hospital stay/And if you think that I'm wrong, /This never meant nothing to ya/So go, go away, just go, run away.
But where did you run to? And where did you hide?/Go find another way, price you pay/Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Whoa /You're just a sad song with nothing to say /About a lifelong wait for a hospital stay/And if you think that I'm wrong, /This never meant nothing to ya, come on/You're just a sad song with nothing to say /About a lifelong wait for a hospital stay
And if you think that I'm wrong, /This never meant nothing to ya/At all, at all, at all, at all…"
Sherlock looked up and stared John in the eye as he took a gasping breath at the end of his absolutely riveting performance. The piercing gaze dug into him and it said one thing, one universal thing that nothing could hold back, no matter how hard the user tried. Help me, they said.
Sherlock didn't really know how to approach this situation, and that disturbed him. But he had never asked anyone to come backstage before. He had never even kissed anyone before. Sweet sixteen, and never been kissed. How disgustingly human of him. He gave a simple thanks to the audience, before turning and walking off. There was no guarantee the man would come see him, though Sherlock didn't think he had misread. He usually didn't make mistakes but it was said there was a first for everything. He had no clue how long he should wait for his guest. He made it backstage, and tried to find a way to make himself look casual, desperately trying to find water at the same time. Seeing a bottle, he took a swig before he relaxed into a chair and tried to catch his breath.
A few moments later, a knock came on the door. Sherlock wasn't sure that his fast heartbeat and dry throat were coming from the show he had played anymore. "Come in," he managed. The door creaked and the man stepped in, smiling a perfectly innocent smile, his eyes roaming around the room until his eyes settled on Sherlock and stayed there. God was that man handsome. Sherlock recorded the feeling in his Mind Palace for later analysis of why people fell into romantic relationships. "Name, please, I can figure out everything else."
"Well, um, I'm John. John Watson." Hmmm, his name was John. Nice, plain, honorable. Perfect for the bloke in front of him. He took the hand that was offered, and shook it cautiously, then fell back in his chair and started to fiddle with his earring. Why was this so difficult? Why did Sherlock feel the need to be cautious of the words he said? That never usually happened when he talked to people.
"Well, shall we get down to business? I have been quite looking forward to this since I saw that you would be coming back here."
"You couldn't have known that I would take you up on your offer. It was an absolutely mad notion in the first place."
"And yet, here you are, John. I knew you would be coming just from the look on your face. You, somehow, surpassed all others and saw that there was something broken about me and you want to fix it. Doctor's instinct, which is obviously what you're studying for, considering your basic caring behavior. You would have a brilliant bedside manner, far more than average. You've obviously come from a place where someone is ill, a fact that pushed you towards your profession. Their damage was self-inflicted. Most likely alcohol, considering how you didn't touch a drink all night due to the paranoia that it would be spiked with liquor. America for your training because someone else is leading themselves towards the ill family member's fate by becoming a young alcoholic. As much as you want to be able to help this person, most likely a sibling, they won't let you, so you ran away to avoid watching it all fall apart. You think once you have that degree in your hand, they'll listen to you and stop drinking. A question, what do you know about me?" Sherlock studied John's face, trying to figure out what his response would be, and trying to see if he had once again gone too far. Shockingly, John was looking at him in amazement instead of horror.
"That was…spot on. Absolutely fantastic." John continued to gape, and Sherlock arched an eyebrow, confused.
"That's not what people normally say…"
"Well what do people normally say?"
"Usually they punch me and tell me to piss off. Why are you being kind to me? No one else ever is."
"You look lonely, and I know how horrible it feels to feel like you're completely alone, so I figured I could try to alleviate it a bit. Like you said, I always want to help people that need it. Doctor's nature."
"And you think you've got the magic to fix me," Sherlock was yelling at himself to stop, but he had gotten so used to saying what was on his mind, so he couldn't stop as the words came, "I'm a sixteen year old runaway that's never had a single relationship or friendship who's touring the country in an underground punk rock group and I shoot cocaine every other day. Alone is what protects me. And you think you can help me?"
"Yes, yes I do. Question One: Why did you run away from home? Play along, and you may win a prize at the end."
Sherlock scoffed, mainly because he knew he would be absolutely shite at this and wanted to hide. "Hardly that difficult to deduce. My parents hated me, and so did everyone else. I had no freedom, for fear I might do something disrespectable; I got sick of it and came here, away from all that."
He watched John take that in and analyze it. Surprisingly, it seemed like John didn't think he was a freak for leaving, especially since there was so much that had gone unsaid. He didn't feel like saying anything about the depression or attempts on his life. "Was there anyone in your life back in England that would have had a problem with your being gone?"
"My older brother, Mycroft, but that's only because now he can't scrutinize my every move. " Sherlock shuddered at the thought of his domineering brother, who could even invade his thoughts from long distance it seemed.
"Is he the one in the photograph?" Sherlock eyes shot to the picture that he didn't know why he still had, that had made a place in John's hand. "It was sitting on the table…" Sherlock nodded, knowing the thought that was going through John's head right now, as it was plainly painted on his face. He looks so different with his little curls. Ugh, his natural hair was disgusting.
"Mycroft was annoying. He stole all the dessert and since he is the British government, he always had the CCTV cameras trained on me. I couldn't stand it anymore, coupled along with my parents' hatred, especially after I got the earring." That should make it clear enough for John. Frankly, Sherlock was itching to skip past this irritating investigation and get to the kissing part. When he had invited John backstage, he hadn't expected him to actually care this much, and now John was making him remember, and he hated remembering.
"Ever think that maybe he did all that because he was worried about you and was trying to show he cared, albeit in a very weird way?"
"Obviously I've thought of that, but it wasn't enough... No one ever cared enough. That's why I haven't talked to him since I left two years ago; though it's a bit of a surprise he hasn't been able to track me down. I guess that's just what happens when Jim Moriarty is your manager…"
"So what you're telling me is that you haven't talked to that man in two years and he has no clue what happened to you?"
"Good, you're following very well." Any attempts at manners were off now. Sherlock didn't like the way this conversation seemed to be leading. John got this look on his face, and Sherlock knew he had something he would regret.
"Right, so you're going to call him, now. Everything's off until you do, I mean it, Sherlock."
"Please, like Mycroft hasn't found someone else to annoy by now. He won't want to talk to me, and I don't want to talk to him. Besides, my phone is in the van, charging for the trip to Washington. Let's drop that idea and move on with more important matters."
"I'm not kidding, Sherlock. Call or I leave. I know that if my little sister up and disappeared, I wouldn't be able to sleep. After two years, I'd start to picture her sick or dead and I would go crazy. I can barely grasp how your brother is, especially since you seem like you've been teetering on the edge a long time. Call him." Damn sentiment. It was always sentiment, wasn't it? And he certainly didn't want John to just up and leave. He took the phone the older boy offered him, and quickly searched through the Mind Palace to find his brother's most used mobile number before typing it in.
Sherlock stared at the number sitting there staring at him. At the other end of that number was Mycroft Holmes. They hadn't spoken in two years. Sensing his caution, John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and gave him that captivating smile. "It'll be alright, Sherlock. Trust me."
He still couldn't be sure, but knew there would be no getting out of this. Sighing, he hit the call button and slowly raised the mobile to his ear. It took three rings before the call connected. He heard the familiar voice on the other end speak, and an inexplicable feeling shot through his gut, "Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes speaking." Sherlock was terrified. He knew that Mycroft had a long day at work based on his tone of voice. He didn't know if he was even wanted anymore. "Hello…is anyone there? I really don't have time for prank calls."
"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock managed to whisper out. He waited for the shouting to begin, the judgment to start, and for everything to tumble downhill. What he heard wasn't at all what he expected.
"…Sherlock? Oh, god, Sherlock is that you?" He sounded worried. That just didn't happen. Mycroft had employees to worry for him, "You aren't hurt, right?"
"I've been told that it would be good to inform you that I am very much not dying or dead. So there you are. I'll call again if I ever feel the need. Goodbye."
"Just…be safe, okay? And if you ever want to come home-"
"I'm afraid that isn't an option. Goodbye again." Without waiting, Sherlock shut the phone, disconnecting. He glared up at John, "You owe me for this."
"Excuse me? I owe you?" John grinned down at him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to think that someone was indeed proud of him, and it gave him a rush that not even the cocaine could match. "That was the worst makeup I've ever heard."
"That is irrelavant. I believe our agreement was that my making that dreadful phone call meant that you would give me a first kiss worth remembering. Well, I'm waiting, John."
"Wait, this is your first kiss, as in ever?" Sherlock merely nodded, and John gave an irresistible chuckle, "Way to make me feel like a pedophile… You are unbelievable, Sherlock Holmes."
With that, John knelt down in front of him and placed a gentle hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock let himself get lost in the moment, as he felt their mouths press together tentatively and catalogues immediately just how unbelievable this feels. His own lips wrestle softly with the rough ones pressed against them and he never wants to stop feeling this ecstasy that can be compared to no other, that only John seemed to be able to give him
Sensing that he would have to be the one to take this any further, he tentatively touches his tongue against the foreign lips and brings a hand up to brush against John's cheek. Before he can even think, there's no oxygen going in and there is absolutely no problem with this. His first snogging session is like nothing he's ever felt before, and when he pulls away, it's not because he wants to. A hand drags along his side with the promise of a next time. Something inside him wants to scream out "don't ever leave me," but the rational part of his brain says it is far too soon for that. He knows he never wants to lose feeling like this, and with his impending departure, he knows that is also inevitable. When John stands up to leave, Sherlock looks up at him and he knows his eyes are begging, but right now he doesn't care.
John flashes him a grin and grabs a post-it and quickly scribbles something on it before sticking the note to Sherlock's forehead. He presses a chaste kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth, before walking out of the room. Sherlock doesn't wait to grab the note off of his forehead. Beneath a phone number are a few hastily scribbled words that seem to light up the room. Sherlock grins in a way he hasn't for years and rereads the message.
This is a chance at what quite frankly could be very good for you, and honestly for me as well. Don't let us end before we've really had a chance to begin. Alone doesn't look as good on you as this could. Call me- JW
Sherlock chuckles as he leaves the room and heads towards the vehicle he came here in. Tomorrow he would be in Washington, a completely different setting from anything he'd ever experienced, once again. But what won't change is that this will still be a world where a man named John Watson would live. Sherlock decided he could survive, knowing that.
He clambered into the car, quickly typing in a simple message.
Couldn't you tell, John? I prefer to text- SH
He hit send and let it begin.
Hope you've enjoyed! Written for the fuckyeahteenlock tumblr's punklock contest~