Sherlock sat there feeling time pass, every second felt like a decade of burning and despair. He felt as though his soul was being ripped from his body, it felt as though John's fingers were ripping through his skin and taking whatever he pleased. John had carved his name onto Sherlock's biggest secret. He had scratched his name onto Sherlock's heart. Though his heart was grey and unused and was pushed into the shadows for so long it had still survived and was looking for a ray of hope, of light. That was John, his heart was full of such goodness that he even had some to spare for a lost cause. And now Sherlock was paying the price of hope, because every second that went on he could feel his heart and soul getting demolished.
He sat there being ripped apart; he wanted to scream in anguish. He wanted that scream so hard it tore his throat apart. He wanted to scream so loud that the blood vessels in his eyes burst. He wanted to scream and scream until he was just a corpse. An empty soulless corpse. He felt like he already was one.
Instead he sat curled up into a ball on the sofa, gently rocking. He would open his mouth to scream but nothing would come out. His fingernails dug painfully into his skin and he dragged them down again and again. Tears were on the edge of his vision but they did not fall. He took a deep breath to calm himself but instead let out a gut-wrenching blood curdling scream. It rippled through the air and shot through the walls. But he didn't stop screaming. He closed his eyes and the tears were falling. He thought about the fact that he had trusted John completely, He had shown him sides of himself he had never shown to anyone else. He honestly believed John would never intentionally hurt him.
He noticed hands on his arms trying to drag them from his face and he looked up to see Mrs Hudson's sweet old face swim into view. She looked very concerned and Sherlock wondered why. Then he wondered how he must look, hair a dishevelled mess from his hand clawing at his scalp, tears streaming down his face, red bleeding lines down his arms. She had love in her face and this just made Sherlock cry harder.
"Oh Sherlock dear, what happened. Shhh, it's alright" She stroked and ran her fingers through Sherlock's hair. Mrs Hudson had only seen Sherlock this bad twice, both times when he had been on morphine withdrawal. She knew that Sherlock hadn't taken anything; she knew she would recognise the signs. Mrs Hudson knew what was in his face now. She had seen it on a lot of young men and women; she had seen that face at funerals and sometimes from a person staring at a wedding. She had seen this face many times but never like this. Written all over Sherlock's face was heartbreak. He looked like he was going through torture and she knew that in his funny little brain he was.
She couldn't stand to see him like this but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't speak to her. So she sat down on the sofa with him and pulled his head into her lap. She slowly continues stroking his head and whispering soothing words. Mrs Hudson felt his sobs slowly slow down and his breathing even out. She knew she could leave know and he would not even notice but she couldn't bring herself to leave his side. So she grabbed an old blanket from behind the sofa and wrapped it around Sherlock, still whispering soft soothing words.
John walked angrily away from the flat. He was muttering angrily under his breath about Sherlock and experiments. He was walking down the path to his favourite pub when he stopped. Doctor John Watson didn't stop because he had forgotten his coat. John Watson didn't stop because he couldn't afford the pub. John stopped because he realized he had just shouted in his best friends face and called him a freak.
Absently he felt himself move towards a bench and sit down. He put his face in his hands and just felt empty. He was so shocked at himself that he couldn't comprehend what had happened; he couldn't believe he had just done that to Sherlock. He knew just how human Sherlock really is.
He put up all these brick walls around him and his heart. People don't even bother to try and get past that wall. But John knew that the wall wasn't made of brick, it was made of paper. Painted so perfectly that people believed it on sight and didn't even bother to try and get through it. Even Sherlock believes its brick. But John knows it only takes a small thing, like John and his words, to rip the whole wall down. He had set a match and know he would have to watch Sherlock burn.
He tried to replay the whole confrontation in his head and was shocked at what he didn't notice. He didn't think. John realised Sherlock was right, he really was a stupid idiot. How could he have not seen Sherlock was in pain? He had deliberately put Sherlock in pain because in that moment all John was really thinking about was how much he wanted to hurt Sherlock. And he had. That much was obvious from Sherlock's face. John knew he had to go home and see just how badly he had hurt Sherlock but he sat on the bench a while longer. He knew he was stalling but he just couldn't bring himself to go home. He watched some of the people walk past him, Sherlock could have told him all of their stories, where they had been, who they were sleeping with. He groaned and got up. Now he had to face the music.
A/N Hello readers, i hope you enjoyed this quick installment. I promise the next one will be longer. Please be nice to the lonely box below and drop off a review. I would like to know where you want me to go in the story. Thank you for reading :).
Flame Rainbow XXX
