sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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John has been coming to Sherlock's room every day since he died. (died, died, died. Sherlock died. John says it over and over, but it never seems quite real.) He has been tasked with clearing out Sherlock's things, because Mrs Hudson can't enter the flat without crying, and Mycroft can't enter the flat without pissing John off beyond belief. John wants to do this, to pay this last homage to his best friend.

However, John finds himself unable to sort through Sherlock's things. Every single item seems worthy of being kept, saved for posterity, as proof that Sherlock Holmes once lived and breathed, and was the most vibrant and alive person John ever met. He can't bear to put anything in the boxes marked 'Charity', even though realistically, he knows that there's no reason to keep Sherlock's clothes and shoes and books and all the other odds and ends Sherlock accumulated during his brief but brilliant life. He even tries on some of Sherlock's old shirts, but they don't fit his shorter, stockier frame. He spends the rest of that day with his face buried in the linen material, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that fades a little more with every inhale. He is inhaling the last of Sherlock's existence.

Behind the meticulously colour-coordinated shirts and pants hung by the bottom hem along the crease... (For one who littered every surface in the kitchen with body parts and fluid, Sherlock kept his closet in immaculate order), and pushed behind several locked wooden boxes, John spots a chestnut-coloured, leather-bound journal. Sherlock's monogram was emblazoned onto the front cover, and the pages had that thick, worn look that such journals get when each page has been turned to and filled with ink. Reverently, breath held, John reaches for it, and extracts it from its hiding place, leaving a perfectly journal-shaped hole. It reminds him of a game he and Harry played when they were kids where each player had to carefully pull blocks from a tower, being mindful to not let the whole thing come crashing down.

John opens the journal, and is greeted with Sherlock's familiar slanting writing, and it's like a kick in the gut. Sherlock once held this journal in his warm and very much alive hand, and put his pen to these pages to record his thoughts. Sherlock, who now lay six feet beneath his black marble headstone, unable to hear those who wept above him. Sherlock, who left John to clean up his mess.

John opens the journal, sees Sherlock's familiar handwriting, and John remembers. And suddenly, for the first time ever, two months, seventeen days, nine hours and twenty-four minutes too late, John understands.

OP here. I really love the start! Thanks for writing. Can't wait to read more of this.

Thank you, dear OP! I hope you like it :)

John remembers... 'My birthday is nothing special.'

06 January 1992

Dear Journal,

Today, I am sixteen years of age. I stand five feet, ten and a half inches and weight eight stone, nine and three quarter pounds. My birthday has been uneventful. Mycroft is just as fat and pretentions as ever, though I did enjoy eating a second piece of birthday cake in front of him. Mummy and Father are abroad in some country or another. Grandfather is still at the office, and grandmother remains in the care home, mad as ever. I spent my evening alone after Mycroft waddled off in a huff. Redbeard came to my room for a short while, which was pleasant, but I fear he will not be with us for much longer. He is two months younger than I am. Mycroft says I treat him like a younger brother. I say Mycroft is a twat.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

John remembers... 'I don't have friends. I just have one.'

27 February 1992

Dear Journal,

Today is stupid. Mycroft is stupid. Mummy and Father are stupid, and everyone in my entire stupid school is stupid. I hate everyone and everything. All anyone can talk about are the GCSE tests this summer, and I frankly don't give a flying fuck about any of it. I'm more concerned with who pissed in my locker. Probably the same areshole who graffiti-ed the outside of it. I spent my free period scrubbing a permanent markered penis off the door whilst passersby laughed cruelly. Everything is stupid. And the most stupid part is how very lonely I feel right now.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

John remembers... 'Don't touch me there.'

21 April 1992

Dear Journal,

Today I was caught skiving off my violin lessons again. Mr Headington found me in the library and was most upset. I don't much care because he is an idiot and I am more proficient at the instrument than he is anyway, which I made sure to tell him. Naturally, he wasn't all that pleased to hear that. He struck me across the face with the backside of his hand. My lip was cut, presumably by his ring. I stood and he struck me again, and pushed me against the center book case on the wall to the left of the door if one was entering the room, looking out towards the windows. He pressed his body fully against mine, raised one hand to my throat, and groped my groin with the other one. Whilst I'd suspected he had a penchant for sexual activity with other men, I did not expect him to be interested in me, seeing as he can barely hide his contempt for me. My breathing quickened, and my heartrate increased to approximately 150 beats per minute. I would estimate that this was a result of restricted airflow to my lungs, in addition to the stimulation. I am ashamed to admit that I became erect during that time.

When he felt my penis harden, Mr Headington smirked and pinched me there. It hurt like hell, which made him laugh. He said no one need know anything that happened today. I am surprised to find how very grateful that makes me feel. At least I need not listen to another lecture about how much money Mummy and Father are paying the insipid man to teach me techniques I already know.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

28 April 1992

Dear Journal,

Today, Mr Headington and I came to an agreement. He is finally going to teach me how to compose, and in return, I will allow him to continue to explore his deviant tastes without protest. This doesn't matter much to me anyway, as I've never had a girlfriend or boyfriend, and this might be an interesting experiment. He apologised for striking me and promised to be kinder with me from now on. He also says he will not tell Mummy or Father that I've been skiving off my lessons. This arrangement was my idea, and I believe it will benefit us both.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

Edited 2014-06-10 03:32 (UTC)

19 May 1992

Dear Journal,

Today I nearly finished my first composition, and I have to say it's quite good. I never would have guessed that Mr Headington was actually capable of inspiring brilliance.

Oh, and also, I've given my first blowjob. It was disgusting, if I'm being honest, and I don't see the point of not being honest, as I am just recording these notes for myself. I gagged quite a lot, and Mr Headington was forcing his penis so far down my throat that I was approximately two and a half minutes from becoming sick all over him. Thankfully I was able to suppress my gag reflex, which is something he has instructed me to work on this upcoming week, along with my composition.

Sherlock Holmes

TBC

No Sherlock.... That teacher is obviously prone to violence and sexual abuse. He'll only get so much worse . D':

I <3 this! More please!

Thank you! Ugh, writing about such a creepy teacher preying on teenage!Sherlock makes me so uncomfortable... But I guess at would be the point!

This is brilliant!

Thanks! :)

John remembers... 'The rest is all transport'.

16 June 1992
Dear Journal,

Today I have successfully completed my composition. Mr Headington says he knows someone with recording equipment, and perhaps if I am especially attentive to him, he will allow me to make a tape of some of my music, provided I continue to perform exceptionally.

On that note, I have also successfully tamed my gag reflex. It took longer than I expected, and one time I did become sick when Mr Headington was vigourously thrusting into my mouth. He did strike me then, despite his earlier assertion that he would not anymore, but I suppose one cannot blame him.

I've also realised that I don't much care for the the taste of semen. The texture is disgusting, and it leaves a foul taste in my mouth. However, I suppose this is a small price to pay to not be subject to stifling boredom every week. Plus, if I can manage to continue to please Mr Headington, there is a chance I will be able to record my music.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

30 June 1992
Dear Journal,

Today I am rather unhappy. No news on making a tape yet, which is disappointing. I've begun to compose a new piece, but it is very slow going. I feel as though I've hit a plateau, which is really upsetting, as I've only written one piece. Surely I can't have used up all my ability in one go?

I have another assignment as well. I've been instructed to begin stretching myself down there. I hate it. It hurts and feels wrong. I'm supposed to work my way up to two fingers by next week, and I just don't want to. Everything is terrible today.

Sherlock Holmes
*****

14 July 1992
Dear Journal,

Today I am still unhappy. Actually, I've been unhappy since I last wrote. My new composition is terrible. Nothing fits together, and I can't concentrate enough to make it make sense. Mr Headington is not pleased. He hasn't mentioned making a tape again, and I'm not about to ask until I come up with something worth recording.

He is also not happy with me because I just can't get used to the feeling of something in my arse. I've been trying every night, as instructed, but it doesn't get any easier. I asked if we could just stick to blowjobs and handjobs, but that idea was not well met. I was reminded that this arrangement was my idea, which is true, and that teaching how to compose was not part of what was agreed upon when he was hired. He has also been true to his word about not telling Mummy and Father that I've skipped so many lessons.

I have been given one more week to reach the goal given to me.

Also, Mycroft has been on me again about my weight. I'm now about eight stone even. He says I look ill. I still say he's a twat... And a fat one at that!

Sherlock Holmes
*****

21 July 1992

FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TBC

Edited 2014-06-10 15:34 (UTC)

Sherlock is so going to break down once he realises what exactly is going on.

He certainly is... The question is whether or not he finally realises what is going on!

OK when he documents everything and chooses to suddenly stop. .. Just. ... wow.

It's like slamming into a brick wall.

I can just see a young Sherlock writing this!

Will you be posting this on AO3?

Looking forward to more!

It will certainly be up on AO3 once it's complete! (I'm kind of obsessed with AO3... SO much better than ff . net!)

John remembers... 'Alone is what I have.'

23 July 1992

Dear Journal,

Well I've calmed down a bit since Tuesday night. A gross overreaction on my part.

As I stated in an earlier entry, it was my duty to learn to accept two fingers by this past Tuesday. I failed to do so, thus failing to fulfill my end of the agreement I came to with Mr Headington. Understandably, he was angry with me, which lead to the level of brutality he treated me with. The idea behind my exercise was so I would be able to easily accomodate Mr Headington's penis for anal sex. I was not stretched nearly enough, and that is why it hurt so terribly when he penetrated me. This is the cause for my lapse in self control, as seen in my entry from two days ago.

I am also suffering from a head injury at the moment, and I believe the medication I've been put on is making me more emotional than normal. That is to say: I am feeling emotional. In the spirit of being completely honest in these memoirs, I will admit that on four seperate occasions, I have found myself on the verge of tears, which is utterly ridiculous.

Said injury came about because when I tried to shove Mr Headington away from me, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head onto the floor. I was concussed and much more compliant after that. We told Mycroft that the injury resulted from one of the globes on the bookshelves falling on my head. I don't know if he believed me, but he hasn't said much about it, so I don't suppose it he's all that bothered one way or the other. Mummy and Father are away again, so I haven't bothered to go to school. No one has said anything about it. (And why would they -- I have been solely responsible for raising their test averages for many years now.)

I've spent most of the last two days in bed, as moving is extremely painful. There was quite a bit of tearing during my episode with Mr Headington, though the bleeding was almost a relief because it was a form of lubrication. (I wonder if I am being indelicate in stating this, but these words aren't meant to be read by anyone else anyway.) Along these same lines, I haven't eaten much, because I am worried about what might happen after I digest whatever food I take in. I have been making sure to drink several liters of water and take a multivitamin, so I should be fine.

This is a longer entry than most, which just redoubles my suspicions that my medication is making me unusually emotional and sensitive. The first time I cried was when I realised I was no longer a virgin, which is baffling to me. The other lads at school are so desperate to lose their virginity, I suppose I should be glad to have found one more way in which I am superior to them.

Sherlock Holmes

*****

28 July 1992

Dear Journal,

I am nearly all healed now, in all ways of being. Fortunately, I was allowed to just give Mr Headington a blowjob today, so my rectal tearing is given more of a chance to heal. He was more subdued than normal, and did finally mention making a tape again. I am to work on my composition this week, and we shall see next week how much progress I have made.

I am no longer taking any medication for my injuries, but I still find myself feeling unnaturally emotional. More than anything, I find myself feeling lonely, which is a completely new concept to me. I've never really had 'friends', just a fat, stupid brother, and even he seems to have forsaken me (thankfully).

I've all but stopped showing up at school. The headmaster has threatened to send a letter home to Mummy and Father, but I'd like to see him try to find them. I believe them to be somewhere around Brussels, but I'm not entirely certain. I told him I will continue studying at home, and show up for exams. I'm not sure if he was impressed with my proposal or not. It's unfortunate he doesn't have the same tendencies as Mr Headington. Perhaps he could be persuaded.

Sherlock Holmes

TBC

Edited 2014-06-20 03:20 (UTC)

Oh, Sherlock..........

And even Mycroft has no idea what's going on. So sad.

Very much enjoying how you've structured it so he is feeling like he is more in control of the situation and coping with it through his arrangement.
( on a personal level, glad you made it his violin teacher... mine was kinda pushing lines like this too..though not this much)

Thank you! OP asked for heartbreaking as possible, so there will certainly be some guilt coming after for being the one to come up with this 'arrangement'.

I am so very sorry to hear that you've been through something similar :( I am also pulling bits of this from personal experience. I've found that sometimes writing (and reading!) relevant works can help the healing process.

Like I said originally, I don't know how quickly updates will come, but when they do, I hope you enjoy :)

xx lilylashes

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