Alright, everyone! Strap in and grab on to something because we're doing this rough and dirty...
These boys have a lot to figure out in a year. Most of the next chapters will be short snippets of conversation between John, Sherlock, and the rest of the cast. I will try to not have the separation last too long. Thanks again for reading!
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John lay in his bed despondently, staring at the ceiling and letting the minutes slide past him. This was the first morning in months that he'd stayed in bed past 8am. He didn't care though. He couldn't be bothered to care. Every time he even let his mind suggest that he get up, he immediately was reminded that no, he wouldn't be going to work today to see his boyfriend who was now not his boyfriend because he was cheated on with a drug-dealing psycho. He'd been tossed aside for a chemical high and a boy that Sherlock didn't even actually care about at all. And that's where John ranked in Sherlock's hierarchy of important things, after illegal substances and thrill fucks. John felt another wave of self-hatred flood through his system. He'd been so stupid. How could he think that someone like Sherlock, someone brilliant and exciting and gorgeous, would be interested in him? He should have known better. He couldn't bear the thought of having people know how much of a pathetic, delusional loser he'd been. He just wanted to erase the past few months so he didn't have to feel like this anymore.
He turned to face the wall as he heard the door to his room crack open.
"Sweetie," His mother said quietly. "We have to talk."
He curled more tightly against the wall as she perched gently on the edge of his bed and ran a soothing hand up and down his back. He felt tears threatening to fall for what felt like the hundredth time and pushed them away roughly. He didn't want to keep crying over this. He didn't want to keep letting this bother him. It had happened and it sucked and he had been stupid, but it was over now. And the only thing for him to do now was move forward.
"John." She said. "I need you to look at me."
He rolled onto his back and met his mother's understanding eyes.
"Mum," He said roughly, his voice a wreck from the events of the night before. "I really don't want to talk about it."
"I know, Sweetie." She said. "But that's not what we need to talk about. Remember, I said last night that there was something we needed to discuss."
"Oh." He said. "Right. Sorry, I forgot."
He watched his mother take a deep breath before she began. "I'm sure that you've noticed how often I've been gone."
"Yeah," he said. "I was a bit confused."
"You have to understand, Johnny." She said. "That it is my job and my dearest wish to take care of you and your sister and provide the best possible care for you both."
"I know, Mum." He said unsure of where this conversation was going.
"That's why I'm doing this." She said firmly. "Because it's what's best for you."
"What are you doing?" He asked feeling a chill creep up his spine.
"This visit with your aunt wasn't just a small vacation for you." She said. "We wanted to see how comfortable you would be in London and with her."
"Mum…" He said feeling a bit panicky. He pulled himself up to sit against the headboard as his mother continued.
"I've already got you enrolled in a great school close to her flat." She said quickly. "You begin classes in two weeks which should give you more than enough time to get acclimated."
"You're sending me away?" John asked painfully.
"Don't you see," She said, tears filling her eyes. "It's my job to take care of you and I can't do that here. I'm working too many hours to maintain this house to even be here to see you when you get home. I can't do right by you like this."
"But, Mum." He said. "I don't want to leave you."
"We'll see each other." She said running a finger through his hair. "You can come home on the weekends and for holidays."
"But…" He tried.
"And with everything," She said. "I think this is the best possible solution. You can get away from this place and the bad memories. You can start fresh, Sweetie."
"But I can't leave you." He said quietly. "We take care of each other."
"We'll still do that." She said. "You can call me anytime. We'll talk as often as you like. But this is what's best for you, John."
"How long do I have to think this over?" He asked.
"There's nothing to think over." She said gently. "You leave on Wednesday."
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John was sitting on the edge of his bed with his full suitcase at his back staring at his hands. It was Tuesday afternoon and John had spent the day packing up his clothes. He wouldn't need much else. His aunt had a room all set up for him at her flat. He'd said an awkward goodbye to Lestrade this morning and now was just counting down the minutes until tomorrow. His Mum had been apologetic, but steadfast regarding his move. He still had no idea how he felt about the whole thing. With everything that had been going on the past few days, he was cycling between sadness, anger, and a strange numb sensation that left him cold. He knew that Mrs. Holmes had called to check up on him but the calls were intercepted by his Mum. She probably thought he was totally stupid, chasing after her son like some pathetic, needy idiot. She probably pitied him. God, she probably knew that Sherlock would do something like this and she just let him moon after him. The entire family probably laughed about it behind his back while they sat in their posh Manor staring at the stupid walls that he'd painted. Light green. A color similar to his own wall color. Too similar.
He lunged off the bed and slammed his fist into the green walls over and over and over again. He let the sharp pain run jaggedly up his arm until he saw splatters of blood drip from the wall. He slid to the ground clutching his battered fist to his chest and shaking uncontrollably. His mother found him after rushing upstairs to find out what was going on. They spent three hours at hospital as he got his hand cleaned up and wrapped with a cast. He didn't say anything other than to answer the questions presented to him with one-word responses. His mother didn't scold him, just kept a firm grip on his wrist the entire time. They sat quietly through dinner and John retreated to his room to finish packing and pretend to get some sleep. He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling and rose quietly a few minutes before his alarm went off at 6am. They got the car packed up quickly and the drive to the train depot was silent. She parked this time and walked him to the platform. She studied his face for several minutes before pulling him into a tight hug and holding him there for several minutes.
"It'll be wonderful, John." She murmured. "Promise me that you'll do well in school and make new friends."
"I promise." He said quietly.
"Call me when you get in and be good for Debbie." She said.
"Okay." He replied.
"I love you." She whispered.
"I love you too." He said.
He got his bags loaded onto the train and sat as far away from the other passengers as possible resting his head against the cool glass. He played with the edges of his cast absently and felt a lump rise in his throat as the train pulled away from the only home he'd ever known.
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"Holmes, Sherlock." The orderly called over the intercom. "You're meds are ready."
Sherlock didn't get off his bed but instead curled more tightly into the scratchy sheets as he let his misery run rampant. He felt awful. If he could think coherently through the haze of pain and nausea, he would deduce that this withdrawal was even worse than the last one. He'd spent the last week shivering and retching very similar to the last time, but he was able to acknowledge the differences between this time and the last time. The last time he'd had his own bed. With his own bathroom and his own bedroom that he didn't have to share with a whiny kleptomaniac admitted due to three DUIs and underage drinking convictions over the past six months. The last time he'd had Mrs. Hudson and his mother wiping his brow and cleaning his bathroom. He had his experiments to keep his mind off the pain and boredom. Last time, he had John running those lightly callused hands through his sweat-soaked curls sending delicious warmth to combat the freezing cold shivers. The thought of John made a different type of pain claw at his chest and he let his misery swamp over him again. He ignored the second page and growled as his roommate sauntered into the room.
"Hey, Holmes." Sebastian called happily. "You missed breakfast."
"Fuck off." Sherlock said, his stomach roiling at the thought of eating.
"Someone's grumpy this morning." Sebastian continued.
Sherlock pulled the covers over his head to drown out the incessant chatter and felt them pulled back by one of the orderlies.
"Holmes, meds are ready." He said.
"I don't want any of your pharmaceutical, neuro-chemical altering nonsense." Sherlock grumbled. "I prefer my brain the way it is."
"You're up for phone privileges today, Holmes." The orderly said. "But that only applies if you're med compliant."
"Phone privileges?" Sherlock jerked up ignoring the lurch of his stomach.
"Yeah." He replied. "You've been here a week. Phone privileges are administered after the first week dependent upon your compliance with the facility's rules. Weren't you paying attention during your orientation?"
"No." Sherlock said honestly. "I can call anyone though?"
"Yeah." He answered. "One call. Fifteen minutes. Do you want to come take your meds or not?"
"What are you giving me?" He asked.
"Right now?" The orderly said. "Just something to soothe your nausea and some acetaminophen. You'll meet with your psychiatrist later in the week to determine if they want you on any long-term medications."
"Alright." Sherlock answered. "Lead the way."
Sherlock spent the rest of the day following directions meekly determined to earn phone privileges. He refrained from verbally eviscerating any of the other boys on the ward and kept to himself spending time reading several of the books on the physiology of the brain from the floor's library. It was close to 6pm before his name was called over the intercom. He moved as quickly as he could across the room before sliding to a halt in front of the desk. The woman behind the desk handed him the receiver and asked for the number so she could punch it in manually. He felt his heart begin to beat erratically in his chest as the line began to ring. His entire body jumped in excitement as the line clicked over.
"Hello." Mrs. Watson answered.
"Can I speak to John?" Sherlock said happily.
"May I ask whose calling?" She said.
"It's Sherlock." He said.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Mrs. Watson demanded, her voice turning cold.
"Mrs. Watson, please." He pleaded. "I need to speak to John."
"You are not allowed to contact my son ever again, do you understand me?" She said angrily.
"But…" He tried.
"No." She said firmly. "Never call here again and leave him alone."
He slumped against the counter as the dial tone rang through the receiver. He swallowed heavily before handing it back and walking slowly back to his room. He curled up under the sheets and let misery sear through his body.