New Slang

everything was nothing in the infinite dim of the corridor. a blue light soaked the darkness at the end of the corridor, emanating from the door to the biochemistry room. the light brought sherlock memories of a pain that he couldn't suffer quietly. in the hazy distance of other memories, distorted by time, by perspective and by fear. dying was fine, because it erased things that nobody wanted to remember.

the ghosts of people remained there, and sherlock waded through them, his feet covered in moss and shrieking against the linoleum, brown from the murky grave where john was entranced burying himself. wetter than if the saint had shed tears for sherlock, but he was cold, always had been. by the time he came to really die, old and bony, perhaps things would not be otherwise.

in the blue of the night, neon like past parties where things were said and people were done, then disposed of like this generation's glass slipper, sherlock's skin was the colour of chaos, and his face was grim. king of the eyesores, ruling over the rest of his past with no remorse. the door sobbed when pushed, defeatedly swinging in on itself to show the purpose of the light.

eyes blacker than sherlock's cold heart, the light bluer than his blood, the stuff that betrayed the ignorance of a seven-year-old, freezing in the darkness. a sourness to them, like taking holy water with a pinch of sin. getting taken in the warp of sherlock's refuge, heat on cool ivory and groans, the plead for more. the scars that were left when everything was ruined, and sherlock's head was to the wall, lonely.

the tearing, searing pain of sherlock's heart returned. mycroft's cries rang out into the night once more.

the room was hazy enough to be underwater and smelt of chlorine, formaldehyde and asbestos. the black eyes were looking at sherlock, stripping away his soul from across the room. not warm; but white hot supernova. eyes that seemed to fizz in this resplendent thermonuclear fusion. wrent sherlock's milky soul in twain, broken open once more. he was twenty-two and blonde.

when the black eyes were right across from him, they spoke.

"arm," they said. "extend it," sherlock's hesitation had vanished, and within seconds he was blinking, realising that his cold had come undone from the commands of those eyes. an inch or so down from the crease of his elbow sherlock had ownership or an impurity, as it was called. a speck in the skin he'd had since birth. for a few seconds in the chlorine of the room, a hand fondly caressed over it, and those black eyes came closer in a kiss, if only for a moment.

before the searing, melting, scorching evaporating pain.

a chemical burn, right on the impurity. exterminating it from the raw of sherlock's marble skin. the wound was literally fizzing, burning, melting away at the layers of skin. he was choking now, howling in a frenzied fit. all the while these black eyes remained calm, holding sherlock's spasming body in place.

"w-water!" begging. the pain was unbearable. chunks of skin were being dissolved nearly down to a three-quarter inch. raw, red chunks of searing flesh, and that smell. then, sherlock shook his head frantically, the first time he'd been brought to tears, the first time such a heat had set alight his blue heart. "water!" the creaming wasn't his, couldn't have been. the fit shook him, made his throat hoarse, and the blue lights spin.

"i know what you did," the black eyes remained so calm, never once blinking, no sympathy. tears were flooding down sherlock's face, and they were thick, and ruddy, most likely blood. "look at me, sherlock. i know what you did."

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, but i can't-"

"it makes me sick. why should i give you water, sherlock? why?" the pain in his chest got worse. much worse. he tried to hide to pain behind his eyes; tried to meditate; to take his mind away. not to think of the agony.

"make it-..christ! make it stop!"

the dark eyes rose, and turned to produce of translucent brown test tube. no longer holding down sherlock's arm, but it remained on the counter as the rest of him spasmed uncontrollably, heaving, dying.

in false hope, the test tube was emptied onto the wound.

-

John's hand was neutralising th Lye that sizzled Sherlock's skin when he woke, swimming in the covers, slick with sweat and sobbing, literally. In the sudden-consciousness, he could not control himself and leant forward, gasping, and vomited onto the sheets. They were seen to within seconds. Dizzy with fear, Sherlock went to stand, but his legs were weak, and the adrenalin was damaging his sytem. Just as he toe the nictone patch from his arm, he had fallen down hard.

That was seen to within seconds, too. Upon waking, the windows of Sherlock room had been opened to full capacity, with a glass of ice water resting n the night stand. There was a present warmth to the right of the bed, where the sheets had been discarded and a silent man sat. His eyes were like the vinegar that stopped that pain, deep in the brown of them was this overwhelming concern. Something Sherlock had long thought to dissassosiate with closeness,or companionship.

He had been wrong.

"What do you dream?" The real affection in John's voice was layered in this unreadable calm. The calm of his cobalt vinegar eyes and lips that sat squarely against eachother, always knowing what to say.

By instinct, Sherlock's trembling hands flew to where his nicotine patch had been, covering the scar from about an inch or so from the crease of his elbow. There was a plaster over it, hiding the impurity.

"Memories." Sherlock tried to laugh, but the sound was unfamiliar to his own ears.

"Memories?" John's eyes wandered to Sherlock's plaster with great apprehension.

"Scars." There was a sliver of minty starlight ringing out from a gap in the curtains, where they shook softly against the open windows. The sky was as black as those eyes, and the pain in Sherlock's chest got worse.

"I...I saw men die before. In Afghanistan. It used to haunt me. Didn't think I'd ever sleep again." The vinegar eyes seemed to spill over into this sea of utter calm. John wasn't smiling, but his warm, his essence, was perhaps more comforting at that time. "I haven't dreamt of being a soldier since...well,, since moving here."

The chimes that hung from the curtain rain rattle together in the breeze. The silence was peaceful, enough so that the Doctor was allowed in; to lean over and steal Sherlock's hand. Not the lips, like Sherlock had dreamt, but he found himself coiling up slightly, out of interest. The feeling of John's tender hands reminded Sherlock that he was safe; reinforced the idea that John's eyes were like vinegar; they weren't back, and they didn't sting like Lye.

"I saw your arm," John confessed, sounding all the guiltier for it. Tensing, Sherlock knew what to expect. People always assumed incorrectly; that it was child abuse, sexual abuse. Something that he had no way of preventing. In reality, it had been all his fault.

"Don't be-"

"You don't have to tell me, Sherlock. It doesn't matter." The fire in Sherlock chest cavity had dwindled sufficiently and he was left peacefully to hold John's hand. It wasn't like the other nightmares, because the Doctor's hand were tender, and warm, and you could feel the steady pulse that jumped beneath the greying skin.

after a while, in a small voice Sherlock spoke.

"I don't' want to fall asleep. I'll see it again," Those cobalt vinegar eyes nodded. They understood.

"I'll wake you if you drift off. Pour water on you or something,"

In the evening, Sherlock fell asleep four times, and on each occasion John woke him gently. When he did sleep, however; there were no more memories, or dreams.

No more scars.