Author's Note: This ficlet is a companion piece for the graphic I made (see the fic cover) for fuckyeahteenlock on tumblr. Enjoy.
...
The air was cool and still, rife with the sharp scent of crushed pine needles. Sherlock breathed deeply and fought back a shiver. He loved days like this, when the sun was pale as ice in the sky and the occasional crisp breeze made everything seem more vivid. Smoke drifted up from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers, but he ignored it for now, focussing instead on the students trickling past his dorm. A group of boys laughed harshly and shoved each other, their ties loosened and their blazers slung over their shoulders. Dull. Next. A girl with long hair, straight and bright as a sheet of metal, leant against a tree and deftly adjusted her stockings. She'd clearly just come from her lover's dorm and was trying to make herself presentable befor lecture. Even duller. Next. Two professors stood on the footpath by the library, arguing quietly and trying to act like they weren't. They'd head in soon to escape the bitter morning air. Christ, was there nothing of interest in this whole university? A sudden gust of wind sent his coat flying open, and he hastily snapped it closed before the chill could cut him to the bone.
Winter was coming. Sherlock could see it in the dark green of the grass and the way the brown-gold leaves trembled on their branches. It wouldn't be long now before the end-of-term holidays started and he could go home. He was in no rush to return to Holmes manor. The place was more sterile than any hospital, though it had the same air of pity and regret. He could picture the reception he'd receive: Mycroft would wear his usual unctuous smile-the one he'd learnt from Father before he died-and Mummy would stay sat in her chair by the fire, gazing unseeingly into the distance. Rotting away. Already dead.
There was only one person Sherlock wanted to see, and that was a certain blond footballer who'd been plaguing his thoughts ever since they'd left for separate unis last fall. John had entered into his life like tendrils of fog, creeping slowly over him until suddenly he was all Sherlock could see. He'd transferred to Sherlock's secondary school just a year before graduation, and it had been the best year of Sherlock's life. Where once he'd received nothing but jeers and taunts, he now had the word "Brilliant!" He had someone to keep a lookout whilst he broke into the chemistry lab and someone to dash down the hallways with, leaving papers scattering in their wake. He had a partner. It was ridiculous and sentimental, but Sherlock couldn't stop the little flutter in his chest when he pictured those blue eyes, dark as midnight, looking at him with wonder.
Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.
Lecture lets out Wednesday after next for us but I'll not be home til the weekend. See you then? - JW
Before he could stop it, Sherlock's mouth quirked up.
Of course. See you then. - SH
Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of one perfectly-shined shoe.
It wouldn't be long, of course, before John found out.
Holidays only lasted three weeks, but that was more than enough time for even someone as unobservant as him to notice. Sherlock would only be able to go a few days before the shaking and sweating started. Then he'd need a fix, and John would know the second he laid eyes on him.
Sherlock wondered how long it would take before John left. He was almost disgustingly noble. He'd try to get Sherlock help at first. He'd stick loyally by his side and tell Sherlock he could do it, he could beat this, he had to. Not for John, but for himself. He would have such adorable faith in him. At first.
Sherlock tasted the sharp tang of bile as it rose up in the back of his throat.
Sherlock would fail the first time, and John would be so hurt. He wouldn't give up, though. He would say everyone makes mistakes, and they just had to try harder. They.
Then Sherlock would fail the second time, and again and again and again, and the wonder in those blue eyes would fade bit by bit until there was nothing left but disappointment.
Cold that had nothing to do with the wind seeped into the pit of Sherlock's stomach, but he shoved the feeling away. It was irrelevant. None of it mattered in the end. They were decaying organic creatures labouring in the mud, and one day even the sun would sizzle out and die.
A small chuckle-gritty and harsh-reverberated deep in Sherlock's chest as he gazed up at the aluminium sky.
It was just as well. He was bound to get bored sooner or later.