Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don’t have friends”

“Yeah.. I wonder why”

At seventeen years old, Sherlock already knew more about the world than anyone else his age. He knew the world was an interesting place, full of new things to discover, which tickled his curious brain. However, he also knew the world was made tedious by the people in it. The people that were so incredibly dull, with their placid and barely used brains. He was bored by them, which was fine because they didn’t like him either.

Sherlock had never really had any friends. When he was younger he’d at least tried to make connections, though he quickly learned this couldn’t be done by being himself so he put on a mask. He changed himself depending on who he was with, but ended up with so many different masks and personalities that it overwhelmed him. He realised he couldn’t be bothered, going through so much trouble just to make some ‘friends’, so he decided to pick one mask and stick with it. He pushed everyone away and barely talked to anyone except to make snarky comments or produce irritated sounds. He lost the few friends he’d managed to make over the years, and although it hurt at first, he slowly started caring less and less.

The drugs also helped with the not caring part.

Cocaine for thinking, heroin for quietness. He was young, sure, but dealers didn’t care about that. About a year prior, when he had just turned sixteen, he had gone out on the streets to look for anyone that might sell him any narcotics. He quickly got addicted to the way the substances cleared his brain, how it made him able to think better or relax for a bit. His mind wasn’t a scrambled chaotic mess anymore when he was high. Instead he could finally focus with the cocaine, or be blissfully unaware of everything for a bit with the heroin.

This is how Sherlock ended up in his sixth highschool (he kept getting kicked out for getting caught with drugs on the premises) with no friends, a drug addiction and not much to occupy his mind with.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, he let his head fall back against the wall. Christ, the day hadn’t even properly begun yet and he was already mindlessly bored. “You shouldn’t do that you know”, he suddenly heard someone say. He rolled his eyes yet couldn’t help but be a little intrigued, as he didn’t know who would want to talk to him. Everyone at this school already knew he wasn’t a likeable person, so they’ve given up ever trying to have a decent conversation with him.

“Yeah, well, you’re a couple of months too late with that brilliant advice”, he snarkily replied, taking another slow drag and inhaling deeply before turning his head to actually look at who was speaking to him. Upon doing this, he saw a boy that looked around his age, one year older, give or take. He was a few inches shorter than Sherlock, but then Sherlock was quite tall for his age so he couldn’t really go off of that. He was seventeen so that would make this boy… about eighteen, he figured.

He curiously darted his eyes around to look for more things to deduce about this stranger. He was blonde and had a military-style haircut. He wore a pair of baggy jeans with plain trainers and a jersey. Just like any other teenager here, Sherlock thought. Taking a better look at the jersey he deduced the boy played rugby. Could just be a rugby fan though- no. Back up. He used to play rugby. His left shoulder looked stiff, recently injured. So he was a rugby player, injured his shoulder and judging by his hands, is now studying to be a doctor.

Obvious.

“Uh- are you alright there mate? Looks like you zoned out a little”, the boy said, chuckling slightly. Sherlock just narrowed his eyes at him and turned his head back around, hoping to show this stranger he had no interest in speaking to him further. He wouldn’t let go though.

“I’m uh- John. John Watson. Do you go here? I just came to this school and if I’m being honest, I’m kind of lost. What’s your name?”

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Putting out his cigarette on the ground, he fully turned around now and stared at the boy- who he now knew was named John.

“Yes I go here. My name does not concern you, and I don’t doubt you’ll find out anyway later today. By the way everyone that has passed us was staring at us, I have a feeling they’re already planning on telling you to stay away from me, which I can only encourage if I am being honest. You should focus on your studies, doctor, and not try to befriend the social pariah of the school. Wouldn’t do you any good, as it would increase your risk of hurting more than just your shoulder; I seem to have that effect on people”, he said, smirking and trying to sound as cold as possible.

He was fully prepared for a punch to his face or kick to his stomach, as had happened many times when he deduced someone.

To his surprise, John just stared at him with wide eyes and his mouth slightly agape.

“That.. was amazing!”, he said.

Sherlock’s smug face dropped. He frowned in confusion. This was new…

“That’s not what people normally say”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off”

John chuckled at this, and Sherlock couldn’t help but join him.

Something about this boy was different. Any other human being would’ve gotten upset with him by now, would’ve left and never talked to him again. Yet for some reason John didn’t seem to be scared away. It seemed like the opposite was true; he seemed intrigued with Sherlock.

He didn’t know what came over him when he suddenly heard himself say his name.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes”

Chapter Text

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock"

People at school had been staring.

That by itself didn’t bother Sherlock that much. People always stared at him, whether it was out of jealousy or because they were judging or gossiping about him. But now they were doing it for another reason. They were staring because they were scared for John.

After their first meeting, Sherlock’s original plan was to just show John to his classroom and then never speak to him again. He was still intrigued by him, sure, but he knew it wouldn’t do the aspiring doctor any good to be associated with him in any way. 

John, however, seemed to have other plans. No matter how much Sherlock told him not to, he kept seeking him out at school. By now Sherlock had given up trying to ignore the other boy. They’d made a habit out of walking to school together, and they hung out during breaks. Sometimes, when John could convince him to eat something, they’d go to Angelo’s for lunch. The owner, who Sherlock knew, was convinced the two teenagers were a couple. When he first implied this Sherlock was scared it would scare John away, as it seemed like this would be his only chance at a friendship ever. Yet John didn’t seem to mind, so neither did Sherlock.

He’d been hearing the rumours. They were calling them names. Most of the gossip was directed at Sherlock, as always, but they were talking about John as well. Not in the same, hateful way they spoke about Sherlock but more in a pitying way.

“I won’t be surprised if he ends up in hospital”

“Remember what happened the last time that freak got close to someone?”

“John probably just hangs around with him because he pities him”

When he'd heard this last bit of gossip, Sherlock had started to overthink.

Why did John hang out with him? 

Why would he, an autistic junkie that has never had any real friends, suddenly be worthy of having a friend that's as amazing as John is?

Sherlock was sitting at his desk, thinking about all of this. He couldn't stop replaying the sentence in his mind. 

"John probably just hangs around with him because he pities him"

"because he pities him"

"pities him"

Of course he did, Sherlock decided. John would never be his friend because he liked who Sherlock was as a person. No one had ever liked him for who he was, so why would John suddenly do so now?

Why did he care anyway...

Sherlock doesn't care about whether or not people like him. He never has. So why does he suddenly care about John's opinion of him?

It was too much. His brain was threatening to overflow, and stimming wasn't helping either. He was punching his thighs with closed fists, rocking back and forth on his chair. 

Screw it, he thought.

He'd tried to quit drugs since him and John had become friends, but right now he couldn't be bothered. 

He stood up and wobbled to his closet, his thoughts still screaming loudly at him. He retrieved his secret supply and hastily sat down on the floor, grabbing the needle. He got his spoon and lighter from his desk and prepared his solution. After having found a good vein, not that there were many left, he bitterly thought, he injected the drugs and closed his eyes. 

Letting the needle drop to the floor beside him, he let his head fall back.

Quiet.

It was finally quiet.

He didn't need John. 

He didn't need anyone.

Why he tried to give up this feeling, he couldn't tell.

This was the last thing he thought about before he lost consciousness, the heavy and drowsy feeling of the heroin taking over his body completely.

Chapter Text

John was strolling through the streets of London, softly whistling to the music coming through his headphones. Sherlock and him had, after a lot of arguing and protest from Sherlock's side, agreed to meet up at his place to finish a group assignment for chemistry. He has quite excited, never having been to Sherlock's home. He knew the boy lived alone and he was curious to see how the place was decorated. 

Besides being excited, he was also a bit nervous. He had been calling Sherlock all day after he didn't show up to class but he'd got no reply. Sure, he knew he shouldn't be too worried; Sherlock often threw away his phone out of frustration. When this happened it was always just a matter of time before his brother showed up, dropped a new phone off and left again.

During the course of their friendship, this had happened four times already. 

Trying to calm himself down a bit with these musings, John continued his walk to the address Sherlock had given him yesterday. When he got there, he was met with a sketchy flat complex that looked as if it had been abandoned for a while. John pulled a confused face and looked down at his phone again. The address was correct.

Did Sherlock send him to the wrong place?

He decided to not back down and turned off his headphones. He swiftly slid them into his bag and started walking towards what he assumed was the entrance to the large building. 

The inside, John quickly realised, was no better than the outside. 

Upon entering, he was met with the musty odour of humid wallpaper. The few lights that lit up the hallway were flickering, seemingly barely working. The floorboards were creaking and the evening light was shining through the small windows. 

This was not what John had expected. 

Still not backing down, he started climbing the stairs. When Sherlock mentioned his flat was on the sixth floor, he had at least expected the building to have a lift. 

After finally getting to the correct floor, he started looking for Sherlock's flat. He was surprised to see his was the only front door that looked clean. He knocked a few times. 

"Sherlock? I'm here!", he tried. "For the assignment? You do remember that was today, right?".

No reply.

John sighed and was about to turn around again when he realised the door wasn't actually all the way closed. He looked around for a few seconds before pulling out his Swiss army knife that he always carried with him. Carefully, he opened the door to the flat, knife ready in case someone jumped him. He'd always been a bit of an overthinker.

The sight that met his eyes was not one he expected.

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, looking close to death. His right arm was hanging off of the side, a rubber band still tied snugly around it. On the floor he saw a needle, a spoon and a lighter.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock to figure out what had happened here. 

John let the knife and his bag fall on the floor and quickly ran up to his friend. Sherlock's breath was shallow and uneven. 

"Sherlock? Hey- hey, what happened?" He dropped to his knees beside him, shaking his shoulder gently, then harder when getting no response.

"Sherls? C'mon, hey, please open your eyes mate, I need you to open those eyes for me-"

No reply.

He scrambled to grab his phone and dial 999.