Arrangements Chapter 5: Three Months Later, a sherlock fanfic

Authors Note: HEYO! XD Please tell me what you think; I would love to know XD I own nothing and no one, apart from the following: Fredrik Jones, Theodore Wells.

JUST SO YOU KNOW: This is my FIRST attempt at Sherlock and Johnlock, so please be kind!

Please, please review XD

ALSO: I made up middle names and first names for certain characters, just so I had something to work with ^_^

I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG - WRITERS BLOCK AND COLLEGE AND I'VE NOW BEEN TOLD I HAVE ANXIETY - possible depression - AND I'VE ACTUALLY STARTED TO HAVE PANIC ATTACKS! IT'S BEEN CRAZY, BUT HERE WE GO ^_^

Chapter 5

Sherlock

3 MONTHS LATER - November 2014

Within the few short months I had been living in the house, I had been convinced to put my name onto my bedroom door, just like John and Harry. Mr Watson had even taken the time to carve my name out of bits of wood in his workshop. He had made the letters up before I had even agreed, telling me that he knew they'd win me over some day whilst patting me on my shoulder. All I had to do was tell them the colour I wanted.

I was still trying to get used to the affection. The gentleness of the family. I still couldn't work out why - it made me start to question everything I knew. I noted how the Watsons, unlike some, were a very close family - the children and parents had good, strong relationships; there was a lot of trust placed in each other... It was strange. Was that how a family supposed to be? Or were they the exception?

"Come on, Sherlock!" Harry whined, leaning over the back of the armchair I sat in. "Just tell us your favourite colour!"

"I don't see how that has any relevance." I muttered, plucking the strings of my violin.

"So your name can be painted the right colour!"

"This is completely ridiculous."

The young woman came around to stand in front of me, arms folded and glaring at me. Compared to my parents, she was like a bloody kitten! I snorted lightly as I rose my bow, gliding it across the strings as the muscle memory in my fingers formed the chords.

"Tell dad to pain them purple." John sighed, rolling his eyes as he wandered into the living room with a cup of tea.

The day I had agreed to tutor him in Chemistry was the day John Watson could walk without a cane. We had spoken some more - John telling me about his childhood, when I asked, as well as random little things we both found interest in - when my watch beeped. Frantically, I had ran back into the house and up the stairs, John behind me, as I raced to my room, to where my experiments were. John had looked relieved when he realised that is was nothing fatal that had me running and, surprisingly, actually looked rather interested in my experiments. Of course, it was after he had calmed his speeding heart that he realised he didn't have his cane with him. In a matter of days - technically, hours - I had managed to rid John of the cane he didn't need, as well as his psychosomatic limp - something his therapist had failed to do in the two years, three months, one week and five days John had been going to her.

He hadn't used it since.

"Purple?" Harry frowned, turning to face her younger brother.

"Yeah, purple." John nodded, placing his cup on the table and collapsing into his chair. "It's his favourite colour."

"And how, pray tell, do you know that?" I asked, an eyebrow raised as I glanced at him.

John stared straight at me, returning the look I was giving him, taking his cup from the table and sipping the contents.

"Well, it is, isn't it?" he asked, shrugging.

"Yes, it is." I nodded. "But how did you know?"

"You painted the walls of your bedroom purple, your music stand is purple, you have a purple shirt and I'm pretty sure I saw purple jeans, you have a purple personalised mug, and Mrs Hudson told me this morning, even though I already knew."

"The only valid evidence you have is Mrs Hudson telling you. Your observations just concluded that I like purple and have a lot of it. I also have a lot of black, does that make it my favourite colour? Well, no, it's not a colour, it's a shade, but you see my point. You guessed, you didn't deduce."

"Don't care, I still worked it out."

And he was the only one that ever had.

By the time I went to my room that evening, the door was adorned with my name in purple. I couldn't help but feel a little...warm at the sight of it. I couldn't understand how the Watsons could accept me so easily - accept me when my own parents couldn't. I just couldn't work it out. It was one of the mysteries that I hadn't been able to work out and, to be honest, I don't think I was ever going to... I just kept it as my parents hated me, plain and simple - why go into it anymore than that?

John

It was, around, midnight that I heard it. I didn't know what it was, but it was enough to wake me up - I had always been a light sleeper, though I was sure Harry could sleep through an air raid. I sat in silence for a while, trying to see if I could hear the sound again, see if I could tell where it was coming from.

But I heard nothing.

I laid back against my pillows again, shifting slightly to get comfortable. As soon as I closed my eyes, I heard it again. It had been louder this time - a sort of muffled cry, like someone was trying to stay as quiet as possible. Frowning slightly, I slid out of bed, slowly walking over to my door and opening it a crack.

The noise was coming from across the hall - from Sherlock's room.

Without thinking, I shuffled across the hallway, rubbing my eyes a little. As I got closer to the door, I could hear the sound of quiet sobbing, this small heart wrenching sound of someone in pain. I knocked quietly and all sound stopped - I didn't wait for a reply, I just walked in.

The lamp next to the bed was turned on, casting a dim light on the figure sitting on the bed. Well, I say sitting, he was more curled in on himself. Sherlock sat there, back pressed against the pillows, knees to his chest, arms folded on top of him, hair sticking out every which way, tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked far younger than sixteen as he stared at me with wide, watery eyes. I had never seen him cry and I wished I never had. As the silence stretched on between us, a fresh wave of tears started, the boy on the bed seemingly unable to stop them as he turned his face back into his arms. Without thinking, I moved towards the bed, not stopping until I climbed on and was sitting next to him, my arms around the shaking ball of human. Sherlock flinched as he felt my arms around him, cowering away slightly and crying a little harder - I didn't let go, I kept my arms around him, whispering to him to try and calm him down.

I thought he would have pushed me off.

I thought he would have yelled at me for invading his space.

I knew he didn't like to be touched, almost like it overwhelmed him - so I thought he would try harder to get away.

But he didn't Sherlock just sat there, leaning into my touch, turning into me as we sat there. His skin was damp, a light sweat covering his face and neck, making his hair stick to his skin. It didn't seem to bother him, but it clued me into what happened - he had a nightmare. I didn't think many sixteen year olds would have, let alone be frightened, of anything they dreamt. I didn't think Sherlock would be... But I had witnessed his mind and what it could do. I knew that it held a lot it there. I knew how he was treated at school, I could see the coldness from his family. Had his parents done something to him? Done something to make him this frightened? Or was it simply the scenarios his mind could create that scared him? I didn't know, and I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to.

It took, about, an hour for Sherlock to calm down - the sobs quieting down to whimpers, his shaking stopping completely. I still kept my arms around my friend, not entirely sure why I was so comfortable with the contact. I wanted to say something, say something that could ease the tension. But only one thing came to mind.

"Want me to tuck you in and tell you a story?" I asked, lightly, trying to convey the joke.

He didn't laugh.

"Why would you do that?" he asked, quietly, his voice cracking and rough.

"Well, it's what a mum does, you know?" I told him - did he really not know?

"It is?"

"Yeah... Didn't your mum ever do that for you? Your dad? Brother?"

All it got me was a hesitant shake of his head, his body hunching further into itself. I winced slightly, not knowing entirely what I was supposed to do at that moment. Was I supposed to stay? Ask him what the dream was about? I had never been on this side of the situation!

"I should probably go. Let you sleep..." I muttered, giving his shoulder a small squeeze before I slipped off of his bed.

I had only just gotten to the door when he spoke.

"Wait, John!" Sherlock called, softly, still in his huddled position, his head up and facing me.

"What is it?" I asked, glancing back to the door.

Sherlock opened his mouth, intent on saying something. But no words came out. He stopped himself before they could, his mouth closing and his teeth pressing down into the flesh of his lower lip.

"N-Never mind." he whispered, sounding almost defeated. "I-It was nothing."

"Alright... Night Sherlock." I replied, slipping out of the door as quickly as I could and back into my own room.

It wasn't until the door to my room had closed that I understood. In my mind's eye, all I could see was Sherlock sitting on his bed, his eyes looking so hopeful as he tried to say something. How could I not understand? How could I not realise that he was asking me to stay? Trying to say that he didn't want to be alone? How could I have been so stupid?

Turning around, I marched myself straight back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock

I startled slightly as my door opened again, John walking determinedly back into my room. With the door shut softly behind him, the now-eighteen year old - his birthday being in September - climbed onto my bed, getting me to lie down before bringing the covers up over both of us. I just stared at him, wondering what he was doing and why he was doing it.

I just couldn't understand! Was he trying to comfort me like before? Was he doing it because he had to? Or was it because he wanted to? I didn't know and it frustrated me! Frustrated me that I couldn't understand something that was, obviously, part of any other child's everyday life.

John lay down next to me, on his side and facing me, his hand under his head. He smiled softly, pulling the duvet up a little higher, until they were under my chin. Was this normal friend behaviour?

"Why?" was all I asked.

"You're my friend and you're upset." he shrugged. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Is it normal?"

"Does it matter?"

Did it? Did it matter? I didn't know, that had been why I had asked! I was going to reply with that, until I looked into John's eyes. He seemed worried, concerned, but also a little understanding. How could he? How could he look understanding, like he knew why I had dreamt. He didn't know!

He didn't know what it was like to hide in a place you were supposed to call home.

He didn't know what it was like to be abused by your parents.

He didn't know what it was like to be unloved.

He didn't know what it was like to be wished dead.

He didn't know what it was like to be held underwater, being almost drowned by someone that was supposed to love you.

He didn't know what it was like to be hated by everyone.

He didn't know what it was like to be called a freak.

He didn't know what it was like to take a blade to your own skin - I could tell.

He didn't know what it was like to look at a blade, pills, a gun, a building - anything - and just want to end it all.

So how could he look like he understood? Look like he knew what was going on in my head, when he didn't know anything that had gone on, or what any of that felt like.

I felt a hand on my arm, through the duvet, the pressure snapping me back to the present. John was still there with a small smile on his face, his thumb lightly brushing against my cheek - light enough to be unintentional.

"So, you want that story?" he asked, a genuine question that promised no ridicule with my answer.

Slowly, hesitantly, I nodded - I had never had this experience before and I needed something to distract me.

"Ever heard of How to Train Your Dragon?" John wondered, hopefully.

I shook my head, frowning slightly.

"Remind me to show you the movie!" he grinned before launching into the story, his voice soft and strangely calming.

I fell asleep, around, half way through.

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