Warnings: There are adult themes mentioned in this chapters. Triggers, mentions of self harm. Please don't read if you are sensitive to any of these kind of things.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything in here, sadly. I wrote this based off BBC Sherlock. I did not copy anyone's fanficton to any of my knowledge, nor did I intentionally copy. I respect each fanfic writer out there.
A/N: This is my very first fanfic. Recently i've started going through the chapters to update my grammar and spelling fails. Please enjoy :)
Chapter One: Dear John
The pain was unbearable. Daggers bleached in torture sliced at sherlock's heart. The aftershocks of rejection drummed against his skull. John's poisoned words still fresh in his mind.
"God... Sherlock! Sometimes I just... I can't deal with you. What kind of arse does this? You such a FREAK!" His words violent and infectious. John had spat them at Sherlock. He'd only tried to express himself, the only way he knew how. But John had tossed it all back in his face; leaving him to climb out of the rubble.
Freak. The name that had always been a popular demon haunting him. He thought he'd learned to stuff it inside a file in his mind palace. Lock it away in the abyss of his basement- Deleting the memory. When Donovan or society called him this, it seemed to create no effect. This time, John's assault of freak, wouldn't file. It lie basking in his expansive mind. As if flaunting his failure to not care.
"No..." Stuttered Sherlock.
His steady violin hands trembling. Body shaking without permission. Left alone to dwell in on himself the darkness emerged. Knees buckling, he dropped to the floor. His slender, confident body escaping him, leaving a crippled mortal. Tagging along for the ride, his palace walls began to crumble. Cracks appearing, shifting the balance of sanity. Over twenty years it took to build it, but less that and hour in total, for massive destruction to embark. Raking his nails over his face, the every so blissful sting crept onto his face. A blood piercing scream erupted from his lungs. His throat throbbing and tender from the beating it'd suffered.
Freak... Loser...Fag...Douche... The explosion of insults bombarded his head. Dull the pain was the only coherent thought to reach him. Arse... Dick... Freak...Freak...Dull. The. Pain.
Crawling to his room, he enclosed himself within its security. Extending a shaky arm underneath his mattress, his fingers skimmed a box. Extracting it, a wave of relief began to emit itself among him. His hand glided across the oak box he now possessed. It was his old friend he never thought he'd reunite and now it was now once again accompanying him.
Inside the box the sides were draped with velvet. His saviors lie caressed inside it: Two sharp razor blades and a scalpel, hardly used; A dull razor blade, rust and dried crimson laced the edge of the blade; Next to his tools were his highs, the sweet powder of cocaine and morphine. At last there lie a picture. A picture of John. He stood next to Sherlock, smiles plastering both of their faces. It was the last defense before the dangerous hum of nothing consumed him. Weather he choose to embrace his saviors, or not, both outcomes would end badly. So Sherlock knew his choice. Gripping johns picture he took one long last look and the tore it in half.
"Ello old friends," cracked Sherlock. "I'm back."
Earlier that Day:
"John, I'm sorry. I can't date you anymore. It's just so empty." Stated Sarah.
"Empty?" Questioned John.
"Well, not exactly. But John, you spend all your time with Sherlock. It's like he's your girlfriend and not me."
"I can change. Spend less time with him and more with you." Pleaded John, desperation clear throughout his voice.
"No, I'm sorry. You two are too inseparable. Plus, no man can ever really change. You'd be no different."
Arguing was pointless and he knew it. Pulling out a few pounds, he tossed it onto the coffee shop table.
"I'll be seeing you round Sarah." Sulked John trying to show a smile.
"Yeah," she responded grimly.
The shop door dinged as he left. A torrent of emotions swelled inside him. Sadness for Sarah; He'd miss her, she was a great person- Loneliness without her. One feeling overpowering them all was anger. Anger towards Sherlock. Sarah had left him because of his neediness. Its just like him to soak up all of his time, he even horded his emotions all for him to toy with. How... him like. If it wasn't for him he could still be with her. Straitening his back into a defensive stance, John began home. He would give Sherlock a piece of his mind.
Meanwhile:
Today was the day Sherlock would tell John. Tell John he loved him. Love, such a simple word easily define by the most normal and dull people. But to Sherlock, it was an unbelievably complex word unable to be defined- until john. He couldn't seem to dull the feeling he got when john was around. When john was in the flat with him, he could practically smell john. The sensation almost driving him mad. He missed his dear doctor when he'd leave for the surgery, or Sarah's. He practically sneered at the name. He hated Sarah. She could take his John. The thought of them together, in bed... Sex... Sickened him. But today there was no time for that.
As soon as John left for a social visit, most likely with Sarah, he began to unravel his plan. He dressed in his purple silk shirt and new trousers. The most erotic apparel on him, thanks to the brilliant deduction he'd gathered from watching Molly's reactions to him. The shirt strained against his chest, buttons pulled tight. Pants curving to his legs perfectly.
Next was the flat. He was to clean up his experiments he'd heard John complaining about perilously, and wash the dirty dishes. He was sure John would appreciate this. He wanted John to know that he'd be hear to help no matter what. This would prove it. After cleaning, Sherlock was bored to no end. But, he must finish. Finishing up, he set the table for dinner. 5pm. John would be home soon. Time to cook.
Later:
John stepped through the door. He could smell something cooking. Ms. Hudson must be upstairs preparing dinner, odd. Making his way up the stairs he could hear a sound. Humming? Turning into his and Sherlock's flat he halted. The lanky brunette was serving food at the table. He had cooked.
"Oh John!" Piped Sherlock. "Welcome home. How was your day?"
The low baritone was enough to rattle John from his thoughts. "Oh yes, err... Hello."
"I've made us dinner. I thought you'd like it."
Taking in the surroundings John felt his anger replenish. Candles were lit around the room- around a clean room. On the table placed in between two plates was a rose settled inside a vase. John's favorite. A wisp of romance hung in the air. He fumed inside. This was all a joke about Sarah dumping him. Sherlock could deduce anything! So why the hell couldn't he have been able to predict this.
"Is this a joke Sherlock?" Snarled John. The fumes of his anger leaking out into his words.
"No." He replied suddenly still and stone faced. "Why would it be?"
"Im sure you know. You can deduce anything. Your Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He knows all!"
"John... I... I just wanted to make you happy."
"Oh, so now you're saying you did know?" John snapped twisting Sherlock's words.
"John..."
"JOHN? Is that all your brain can think to say? Sarah dumped me because of all the stunts you pull, just like this. You and your obsessive clingyness." Snapped John unable to keep anything caged in. "God... Sherlock! Sometimes I just... I can't deal with you. What kind of arse does this? You such a FREAK!"
"John..." Stuttered Sherlock, his face drawn pale. Arms draped uselessly by his sides.
"Don't say my damn name again. And yeah Sherlock, I said it. You're a freak."
With his last word shooting from John's mouth he headed upstairs to his room. The flat no longer having a hint of romance. Bitter darkness crept in from all sides of Sherlock. Movement needed, but unavailable, Sherlock stood paralyzed. His once well known life crumbling from beneath his feet.
*Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. Will update Asap.