Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2051028.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_John_Watson, Molly_Hooper/Victor_Trevor
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Molly_Hooper, Greg_Lestrade, Sally_Donovan,
      Philip_Anderson, Victor_Trevor, Jim_Moriarty, Mrs._Hudson, Mrs._Watson,
      Mr._Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Underage_Smoking, Teenlock, Eventual
      Smut, Fluff_and_Angst, Teen_Angst, Punklock, sorta_-_Freeform, tbh_i_dont
      even_know, i_just_really_like_leather_jackets_tbh
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-05 Updated: 2015-06-22 Chapters: 13/? Words: 21142
****** 22 Northumberland St ******
by anyalevsyou
Summary
     While on scholarship for rugby at a posh public school, John Watson
     is injured. His scholarship no longer available as he can't play,
     John is sent to his local school, where he meets the infamous
     Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been to every expensive, posh public
     school his parents could find, and, having been kicked out of every
     single one, his parents had given up on him and sent him to the local
     school.
***** Chapter One *****
Chapter Notes
     John and Sherlock are in high school, and I'd say John is around
     seventeen and Sherlock is sixteen. This is my first attempt at
     teen!lock, so please please leave feedback. Also, its not Brit-
     picked, so if you happen to notice any of those pesky Americanisms,
     please point them out, however, I am taking some artistic liberty
     with the way British school systems work, so yeah.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
John knew something was wrong immediately. It felt different. There was a loud
crack. A horrible, sickening, deafening, crack. There was pain, awful,
terrible, world-swallowing pain, but it was different from any other kind of
pain he'd ever experienced. He could feel the cold, dewy grass under his face
where it pressed into the ground. He lay there, vaguely aware of the entire
team, including his coach running around and talking frantically. He felt
himself being picked up, and almost cried out, both because of the pain, and
because he missed the cool relief he got from the grass.
 
...
 
Bright lights and even brighter noises pulled John from sleep. He opened his
eyes, then quickly closed them again, cursing. The lights were too bright, they
were blinding him. He squinted, getting used to it. He heard people talking and
shouting and machines beeping and creaking. Where am I? Opening his eyes with
slightly more success than before, John looked around and realized that he was
in the hospital.
"Hi, champ, how are you feeling?" John looked up to see the smiling face of his
father. John's lips twitched in an attempt to smile back.
"Dad. I don't really know yet. Where's Mum?" His voice came out in a croak. A
flash of pain crossed Mr. Watson's features.
"Sh-she couldn't make it. She wishes he could, champ, she's just very tied up
at work--she couldn't leave. She sends her love." In pictures, John and his
father look so much alike, they could be the same person. Those days were gone
long before John could ever remember. Living with the woman who called herself
his mother had robbed Mr. Watson of any youth that he had. His soft blonde hair
was once thick and shiny, but time and stress had turned it dull and wispy,
shot with strands of grey. His eyebrows were perpetually compressed to the
center of his forehead in worry. The lines around his mouth and eyes were
etched deep like knife marks. It was for him that he ignored the pain that was
steadily throbbing everywhere in his body despite the pain meds, and smiled.
"That's ok. I'm glad you're here. What time is it?" His words were a little
slurred from sleep and the meds they gave him, and his smile was probably less
than brilliant, but Mr. Watson smiled a little brighter and his face relaxed a
little bit.
"It's just after noon. You've been asleep for quite a while. Are you hungry?
Harry just went to get some tea and biscuits, I can tell her to get some for
you, if you want."
"No, that's ok, I don't think I cou"--
"Johnny! Dad, I told you to tell me when he wakes up!" John was interrupted by
a very shrill and loud voice. He cringed as the noise pierced through the haze
created by the drugs causing his head to give a particularly strong throb in
disapproval.
"Harry, a little quieter, please. Your brother's not in very good condition
right now," reprimanded Mr. Watson sternly. Harry's face instantly adopted a
look of the sincerest, most remorseful and apologetic sorrow ever to be seen on
a human face. Harry, at age fifteen was just recently discovering the art of
sarcasm.
"Sorry Johnny," she said in a whisper that wasn't much quieter than her shout.
"Harry, can you go outside for a moment? There's something I need to talk to
your bother about." Harry huffed and made an annoyed sound, but stomped
outside. John looked questioningly at his father.
"Did the doctors tell you what's wrong with me? Is it bad?" John asked.
"John, they say you have a broken collarbone and a stress fracture on your
shin. I know this is probably a bad time, but your coach was telling me that if
you can't play, he can't keep you on the scholarship at Derby. I'm sorry,
champ, I'll try to talk to your mother about paying for the school, but without
the scholarship, it's very expensive, I just don't know if we'll be able to do
it. I'm so sorry, John, I wish things weren't like this." John felt a hollow,
sinking feeling in his stomach at his words. His father sat down in the small,
uncomfortable looking chair beside his bed and took his hand. The feeling of
his rough, large hands covering his own made tears prick at his eyes. He
cleared his throat past the lump in it, nodding his head. He forced a small
smile for his dad.
"That's ok, Dad. Our local school isn't bad. I'll go there, like we planned
from the beginning. It's ok." Mr. Watson smiled tremulously, his eyes slightly
shinier than normal. He gave his hand a quick kiss.
"You're so brave, Johnny. I love you so much. It'll be good to have you home
again. Harry misses you. She pretends she doesn't, but I know she does." John
nodded again. There it was. One of the biggest reasons he had went off to
public school to begin with. Home. He knew he'd miss his school and the friends
that he had made, but there was one thing that he would miss most of all. Being
away from home. More specifically, being away from her. His mother. She never
did anything to hurt them. She wasn't physically abusive. She was mentally,
emotionally abusive. And there was also the drinking. She wasn't physically
abusive. She didn't hit them, or rape them. No, her abuse was of a different
kind, one that was almost worse. Having to be sent back to that was a thought
that nearly killed John, but he couldn't break down in front of his dad. So he
smiled bravely and shouldered on.
"It'll be good to be home. I've missed you and Harry." Neither one of them
mentioned John's mother, though both were thinking about her. 
"You're probably tired. They gave you a lot of painkillers. I'll let you get
some sleep. I'll be back in the morning, and I'll bring Harry around when
school gets out," said his dad, standing.
"Ok, thanks, Dad. 'Night."
"Sweet dream, champ." As he left, he turned off the lights. Alone in the dark,
John buried his face in the thin, hard pillow and cried.
Chapter End Notes
     for the record, I have never broken my collarbone, or any other bone,
     so I googled it, bit idk how right it is...so if you have broken your
     collarbone and see that this isn't a single bit how it felt for you,
     please leave a comment or something so I can change it and make it
     accurate c:
***** Chapter Two *****
Chapter Summary
     John is going to his first day at his new school, and he doesn't
     really know what he expected, but Sherlock Holmes sure as hell wasn't
     it.
Chapter Notes
     Again, I'm taking some artistic liberty with the British school
     systems, so yeah
See the end of the chapter for more notes
John grit his teeth in frustration. Without the use of his left arm, brushing
his hair had turned into an arduous task. And today of all days, his part had
to be perfect. It was his first day at his new school.
"Johnny, come on! We're going to be late."
"I'm coming Harry, just one more minute," John said, just as he had been saying
for the past ten minutes. Though he wanted to drive him and his sister to
school, his parents had been adamant that he was not well enough to drive yet.
Finally, John gave up on his hair, and trudged downstairs to the tiny kitchen,
where his father was making breakfast.
"Have some cereal, John. And some toast. Its a big day," said Mr. Watson,
setting down John's breakfast in front of him. John merely smiled uneasily in
response, not trusting himself to open his mouth. He didn't think he had ever
been this nervous in his life. He picked up his toast and put it in his dry
mouth, the texture feeling like carpet. Just looking at the cereal made him
feel sick.
"Hurry up, John, you're going to be late. What will people think--late on your
first day. The teachers are going to hate you from the start." Came his mum's
voice from the foyer. Leaving his unfinished breakfast on the table, John
stood, grabbing his backpack. "You're wearing that?" she screeched upon seeing
John. He looked down uncomfortably at his favorite jumper and jeans. He knew it
wasn't his most fashionable outfit, but it was comfortable and it smelled of
home, calming his nerves.
"I can go change if you want..." he said quietly. Mrs. Watson sighed gravely as
though he was physically hurting her.
"No, we're going to be late. If you want to look like a bum, it's up to you.
Let's go, Harry's already in the car." John fought not to roll his eyes. He
turned around and saw his father, still in the kitchen.
"See you tonight. Good luck, champ," he said from behind the stove, giving John
an encouraging smile. John smiled back, his heart lifting just a little bit. He
knew it would be a long car ride full of his mother making comments about how
late they were ("what did take you so long?"), and how he looked like a bum
("really, John is it that difficult to put on something normal?"), and how
stupid he was to get hurt to begin with ("did you ever think about what this
would do to me?") and every other fault that she could find with him this
morning. However, at that moment, just for a moment, looking at his father's
strong smile and his ears filled with words like "good luck" and "champ", John
really didn't care.
 
...
 
 "Do you have a mobile I can borrow?" John turned around, startled by the
sound. There was still eight minutes left before his last class of the day
began, and John had considered himself to be alone in the chemistry lab.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, looking around to where the sound came from. A
tall, thin, dark haired boy stood from behind one of the microscopes.
Everything about him appeared dramatic. His wild, dark curls, and his pale
porcelain skin, contrasting with a black leather jacket and dark jeans. There
was a cigarette in between his fingers. John stared at it.
"A mobile, can I borrow one? Mine is broken," he repeated, annoyed.
"Right, sorry. Here," John quickly reached into the pocket of his jeans and
handed the phone to him. "John Watson, by the way. I'm new here." The boy took
the phone from John's hand with graceful, slender fingers stained with tobacco.
"Sherlock Holmes." John gaped. That explains the smoking, he thought.
"You're Sherlock Holmes? I used to go to the public school that you were at.
They still tell stories about you," John said with a chuckle. He looked more
closely at Sherlock, surprised to finally be meeting him. The boys at Derby had
told so many tales about the boy, he was at once curious and slightly
terrified.
"Oh is that so," Sherlock replied, disinterested. John simply nodded, seeing
that it was a subject that he--understandably--did not want to discuss. "Which
school was it?" Sherlock said abruptly.
"Hmm? Oh, Derby. Been to a lot of schools then, have you?" Sherlock smirked.
"I've been kicked out of so many public schools that my parents finally gave up
on me and sent me to this place. Fifteen. I've been kicked out of fifteen
schools in eleven years." Sherlock, still smirking, finally raised his eyes to
meet John's, expecting to see disgust there. Or maybe pity. Instead, John began
to laugh.
"Really? That's actually quite fantastic. I mean, you'd actually have to work
hard to achieve that," John said, laughing. Sherlock's smirk lifted into
something resembling a smile, but before he could respond, the bell rang, and
the two of them quickly made their way to two open desks, both pleasantly
surprised by their encounter.
 
...
 
 "So, how was school today, John?" Mr. Watson asked when he picked him up.
John, just sliding into the car after waving good-bye to Sherlock, blushed
slightly.
"Good. I met some people and I think I made a friend," John replied with a
smile, thinking of Sherlock. He had been an amusing companion to have as he
seemed to know everything there is to know about everything and made fun of all
of it.
"Sherlock Holmes? The gay one?" put it Harry, smiling.
"Harry!" both John and his father reprimanded.
"Don't spread rumors," Mr. Watson said, "and even if he is gay, there's nothing
wrong with that. There's no reason to make fun of him for it." John studiously
avoided his father's eyes, working hard to keep his face blank. There were only
four people who knew that John himself was gay, and they were himself, his
father, and two ex-boyfriends. Telling his mother would probably get him
disowned and telling Harry was a sure way for his mother to find out.
When they got home, John immediately went to his room, not wanting to look at
his dad. As soon as he was alone in his room, he allowed a smile to split his
face. He knew he shouldn't listen to Harry and her rumors, but he couldn't help
it. When he met Sherlock earlier today, he couldn't help but admit that he had
been attracted to him. However, he had learned to simply assume that all guys
that he met, unless they told him otherwise, were straight.
"John? Can you come here for a moment?" John heard his dad call from the
kitchen. Groaning, he stood from his bed and made his way down the stairs,
preparing himself for what he had no doubt would be an awkward conversation.
When he came downstairs, his dad motioned him to go out onto the porch with
him, where they wouldn't be overheard.
"Dad I--"
"Shh, John let me talk. I don't know if this Sherlock Holmes character is gay
or straight or anything else, and I don't really care. I'm not going to lecture
you, you're old enough that you already know anything I could tell you. I'm
just going to say one thing: be careful. I don't want to see you getting hurt."
John nodded, thankful that his dad didn't give him a lecture on safe sex. He
had received one of those from him before and it was not an experience that he
wanted to repeat.
"Ok Dad, I will." Mr. Watson clapped his son on the shoulder with a smile
before heading back inside. For a few moments, John simply stood on the porch
before following his dad.
Chapter End Notes
     Once again, I have never broken a collarbone, or had a stress
     fracture, so I did the best I could with google and other people, but
     if something isn't right, please let me know so I can fix it.
***** Chapter Three *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock takes John on a case for the first time.
John watched as Sherlock laughed freely, throwing his head back. It was a rare
thing, this laugh. Only John could get it out of him, and even then it was a
tricky thing. It was easier when they were alone. At school, Sherlock was the
same cold, calculating machine he had been when John and he had met a few weeks
back. The first time John had heard it was after their first case together,
just a few days after they had first met in the chemistry lab.
 
...
 
Tap tap tap.
John sat up in his bed, confused.
Tap tap tap.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood, his legs unsteady and hurting from
the stress fractures.
Tap tap tap.
Annoyed now, he limped to the window and looked out. He stared for a moment
before rubbing his eyes again and pinching himself hard. Sherlock Holmes was
standing in his back yard. Simply standing there, wearing that damn leather
jacket and those scuffed up converse. At least he wasn't smoking on his lawn.
He opened his window.
"What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?" He whispered
out his window, not wanting to wake his family.
"Come outside, I need your help," Sherlock had replied, his voice deep and
impressive in the quiet night. John, running his fingers through his hair in
frustration, quickly pulled a jumper over his head so he wouldn't be meeting
his friend dressed in only pants at two in the morning. Because of course he
would be going outside to meet him. He was Sherlock Holmes. John had only just
met the guy, yet he knew this wasn't somebody who you said no to.
"What do you want?" he asked when he reached him. Sherlock smirked at John's
appearance.
"Get dressed and come back outside I need your help." John almost growled, not
appreciating being woken up at two in the morning by this pompous bastard.
"Yes, I gathered that. What do you need help with that can't wait until
tomorrow? And why do you need me?" 
"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." John gaped.
"Mrs.--who took your what? No, you know what, sod this. Sod this, I'm going
back to bed. I'll see you in class tomorrow--or actually, later today." John
turned to walk away, but was stopped by Sherlock, grabbing him by the arm.
"Come on, John, isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to do? Throw pebbles at
your window at two in the morning?" John froze before turning back and seeing
the amusement on Sherlock's face. He was joking. Only joking.
"You are not my boyfriend," John growled.
"Ok, fine," Sherlock conceded, still smiling, "but I really do need your help."
 John sighed.
"What do you need my help with?" he asked, giving up.
"I have a case. Go get dressed, then come back down. I'll tell you about it on
the way." Sherlock pulled his hand from John's arm and pulled out his mobile.
John stared at it.
"I thought it was broken," he said. Sherlock sighed sharply.
"Right, and now it's not. Go get dressed. Unless you want to meet all of
Scotland Yard wearing nothing but a jumper and pants. Not that I wouldn't
admire the statement, I don't think it would give the impression that you would
like them to have." John gaped, then chuckled.
"All of Scotland Yard?"
"Well, most of them, anyway. Now, go!" John, still chuckling turned to go get
dressed. When he was alone in his room, he sat down on his bed in bemused
amusement. Who the hell is this Sherlock Holmes character and how the hell did
I get caught up with him? he thought. Then he stood and got dressed in jeans
and a clean jumper, the process slightly hindered by his still sore shoulder. 
 
...
 
The case had been a fairly simple one, but it had involved a lot of running and
John smiled at the memory of it. After the criminal was caught, they found
themselves in a tiny coffee shop at 22 Northumberland St. at four in the
morning. Though both of them had class in the morning, they had each ordered a
coffee and sat down and talked. This was where John, after telling Sherlock
that he should be the one paying for the coffees because he was the boyfriend,
he had, after all, thrown pebbles at John' s window, Sherlock had laughed. John
doubted that it had anything to do with his bad joke, but more to do with the
adrenaline still pumping in their veins, but as he watched Sherlock's head fall
back, and with it, his walls, John felt alive. And since then, he had been
craving every case, every adventure with Sherlock Holmes, because the end of
each one found them right where the first one had, at that tiny coffee shop at
22 Northumberland St.
"Freak." Sherlock bumped into John as a shoulder was shoved into his chest.
Despite the protests screamed at him by his shoulder, John caught the both of
them before they could fall. He grit his teeth, glaring at the receding back of
Donovan and Anderson.
"I hate them," he said through his teeth.
"Don't, it's a wasted effort. We have more important things to think about,"
Sherlock replied. John looked at the taller boy.
"So it doesn't bother you at all?" Sherlock merely shrugged.
"Being bothered by it wouldn't change anything. Anything I do that could change
it is too much effort and time to be worth it. They aren't worth it."
"But--but the things they call you. They say you're a fraud and a freak. How
does that not bother you?"
"Why does it bother you so much? It's me they're talking about, why do you
care?" John blushed, looking uncomfortable. He shrugged, not having an answer.
During the past few weeks, the two of them had become such good friends, they
were nearly inseparable. Despite this, the lingering question of Sherlock's
sexual orientation had never been answered. John had tried to bring it up once
with embarrassing results. He still blushed at the thought of Sherlock thinking
he had been hitting on him. But the assumption hadn't been far off. John knew
he would have been hitting on him hard enough to leave bruises if Sherlock
wasn't so brilliant. If he wasn't so...unapproachable. And he was terrified
that if he tried anything, it would ruin their friendship, and that was better
than nothing. So John did nothing.
"Are you coming to my house today?" Sherlock asked as they walked to first
period together. Their classes were right next to each other, but because John
was a year older than Sherlock, the only class they had together was chemistry,
which Sherlock took with the year above him because of his proficiency. John,
startled, looked over to Sherlock.
"I--I don't know, am I supposed to be?"
"Yes."
"Well then, yes, I suppose I am, then," John said, slightly amused. It amazed
him how quickly Sherlock had become such a big part of his life.
"Good," Sherlock replied nodding.
"What are you lads talking about over here?" Both boys turned to see Greg
Lestrade, a tall boy who played rugby with John and an old acquaintance of
Sherlock's.
"Lestrade," John greeted, while Sherlock merely grunted.
"Are you mates going to Sally Donovan's party this weekend?" Lestrade asked,
grinning and adjusting his leather jacket that he swore he got before Sherlock
ever did. "Mary's gonna be there, John. Remember that fit bird I was telling
you about earlier?" Lestrade winked, elbowing John in the ribs. John chuckled
uncomfortably.
"Mate, do you think Donovan would be caught dead with him at her party? And she
doesn't hold me in much higher regard," he said, trying to ignore what Lestrade
had said about the girl. He had no doubt that if he told him, he would see
nothing wrong with the fact that John was gay, but for some reason, he hasn't
been able to. Lestrade chuckled as well.
"Ah, you're right. It's a shame, mate. She's quite a catch, I'm gonna have to
introduce the two of you eventually."
"I'm sure she is," replied John clearing his throat, thoroughly wishing the
conversation to be over.
"Lestrade, leave." Both boys turned to look at Sherlock, who, absorbed in his
phone, had been so quiet, they had almost forgotten he was there.
"I--what?"
"Leave." Looking slightly hurt, Lestrade walked away and instead began to talk
to Molly, a smart, quiet girl, with whom Lestrade was good friends. John turned
to Sherlock.
"That was rude, what did you do that for?" he asked.
"He was making you uncomfortable so I told him to leave," Sherlock said without
looking up from his phone. John, confused was about to question it, but he let
it go. By now he had become used to Sherlock's deductions and he supposed he
wasn't that difficult to read. Sherlock abruptly put his phone away. "Why
aren't you going to Donovan's party this weekend?"
"Er--because I wasn't invited," John replied, confused. Sherlock sighed
impatiently, glancing at the clock. He didn't care about being late, but John
would get fussy.
"Why doesn't Donovan like you?" he asked. John looked at Sherlock.
"Because I hang out with you, I suppose. Who knows. Maybe she'd dislike me even
if I didn't hang out with you. I don't care, I don't like her and I wouldn't go
to her party even if I was invited. If only because I would have to spend the
whole time talking to that girl Lestrade keeps trying to introduce me to." John
quickly shut his mouth, hoping Sherlock would miss the comment about the girl
Lestrade was going to introduce him to.
"Why would that be a problem?" He was Sherlock. Of course he wouldn't miss it.
He didn't miss anything. "You've dated girls before, what's wrong with this
one?" John sighed. He had dated girls before, mostly to convince his mum and
friends that he was normal, but he rarely enjoyed it, and he especially
wouldn't when all he could think about was a certain long-legged and wild-
haired creature who would never, ever think of him like that. John opened his
mouth to answer but was interrupted by the bell, signalling that he was late to
class. Again. Because of Sherlock. Half angry and half relieved, John waved
goodbye and ran off to class leaving Sherlock wondering what he was going to
say, an unusual state for Sherlock to be in. Sherlock didn't wonder what people
were going to say, he knew, he always knew ages before even they knew. Sherlock
shook his head. It was John Watson. He didn't know what he was doing to him,
but it was at once wonderful and terrifying and horrible.
***** Chapter Four *****
Chapter Summary
     Molly introduces the boys to her new boyfriend: Jim Moriarty.
"He was being unhelpful!" Sherlock yelled.
"That doesn't give you the right to say the things you did! Of course he was
being unhelpful, his girlfriend had just been brutally murdered right before
his eyes, Sherlock!" John yelled even louder in response, just to show him he
could. Sherlock scoffed.
"Well that's too bad for him, if he helped me, maybe we would have been able to
catch the murderer!" Sherlock yelled, even louder than John. John rolled his
eyes, done with the childish game.
"We did catch the murderer, Sherlock," he said in a normal voice.
"Yes, but John it took us six hours. That's six hours of my life that I could
have been doing something productive, if he had just told us that the murderer
was a female to begin with! How was I supposed to know?"
"I don't know, maybe use you're remarkable deductive reasoning skills? That's
what you're known for, isn't it?" John said, shouting again.
"She was wearing shoes that would be perfectly acceptable on a man, and her
footprint was large enough that it could have belonged to a man! My methods are
deductive reasoning, John, not magic!" John threw his hands up in the air
giving up. Fighting with Sherlock was pointless, and it would get them kicked
out of the coffee shop. Again. He checked his watch.
"Class starts in a couple hours, I should get home and try to get some sleep,"
John said, standing. Sherlock nodded in agreement. He stood as well and hailed
a cab, thinking hard. There was something about John Watson that he just
couldn't explain. Sherlock angrily lit a cigarette and looked at the passing
houses and streets. He hated not being able to explain something.
When he arrived home, he immediately made for the stairs to get to his room,
needing to think.
"Sherlock, how lovely of you to make it home. I was beginning to worry."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Mycroft. I was on a case," he said giving his brother a dirty look, smirking
as he noticed the extra seven pounds Mycroft had put on at uni. Mycroft,
noticing the look, subtly pulled his suit jacket tighter closed around his
stomach.
"My dear Sherlock, have you been smoking?" he asked. Sherlock immediately
pulled his most innocent face.
"No," he said.
"Sherlock, I can smell it on you. If you're going to lie, at least do it
convincingly." Sherlock rolled his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to get
up to him bedroom and think about the anomaly that was John Watson. "Mummy was
worried sick. You weren't answering your phone."
"Well of course I wasn't, I was on a case." Mycroft sighed deeply. "Mummy's
boy," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Mycroft pretended he didn't hear it,
but Sherlock noticed a slight tightening in his expression.
"Go wash up, and don't let her or Dad see you. You know how they hate it when
you smoke. And for God's sake, Sherlock, get rid of that jacket!" Stuffing his
hands into the pockets of his hated leather jacket, Sherlock stuck his nose in
the air and swept passed his older brother to the stairs.
Once in his room, he sat down on his bed and began to think. He didn't know
what it was, but something about John Watson made him feel different. There was
a way he reacted to people. It was the same way to all people. Except that John
made him want to react a different way. It was strange and illogical and
wonderful and terrible. Sherlock growled, running his fingers through his hair,
wishing for an explanation. He wished he could ask somebody for help, but he
couldn't imagine the embarrassment. The great Sherlock Holmes stumped by
somebody as ordinary as John Watson. Because that was the problem. He was so
perfectly ordinary. His very name screamed it. And yet, and yet he wasn't. He
was special. Sherlock didn't understand it. Deciding he needed to collect more
data, Sherlock stood to go take a shower.
 
...
 
John had just sat down at his and Sherlock's table for lunch when he heard his
name being called. He turned to see who it was and saw Molly, a small mousy
girl who usually sat with them both because she was too quiet to have any other
friends and because she fancied Sherlock. John smiled and waved. He liked
Molly. She was quiet and her sense of humor was just awful, but she was smart
and nice and John enjoyed talking to her when Sherlock wasn't in the mood.
"I'd like to introduce both of you to my new boyfriend," she said, grinning.
John nudged Sherlock's foot with his own under the table to get him to look up.
Luckily, he did and even gave the boy a short smile.
"Hi, I'm John, and this is Sherlock," he said, knowing from experience that
Sherlock wasn't one to introduce himself.
"Hi, I'm Jim. Oh, wow, Molly's told me so much about you. Sherlock Holmes,
right? Molly says you work on cases with the Scotland Yard. Real ones, murders
and the like. Is that true? Even though you're only a teenager?" John looked
away trying hard not to burst into laughter. The poor boy looked ready to pee
himself. Sherlock only spared him a glance when, in his excitement Jim had
knocked over an empty plate right by Sherlock's elbow.
"Gay," Sherlock muttered, low enough that only Molly and John could hear.
"What?" she exclaimed. John gave Sherlock a hard look that he knew Sherlock
hated, but he didn't repeat what he had said, so apparently it had worked.
"Well, I had best be off then, I have classes to get to," Jim said, looking
awkward. John looked at him closer and realized that he did look slightly gay,
but that was no reason for Sherlock to label him like that. "It was nice to
meet you, Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, looking at Sherlock expectantly. When he
didn't even look up from his phone, John felt it was time to intervene.
"Yes, it was nice to meet you to," he said, giving poor Jim a smile. He looked
disappointed, but gave Molly a kiss on the cheek and left.
"What did you mean?" Molly asked when he had left. "Why did you say that? Gay.
He's not, we--we're together."
"With that degree of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffed.
"Because he uses a bit of product for his hair? Everybody puts product in their
hair," John exclaimed.
"People wash their hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear
signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes.
Then there's his underwear."
"His underwear?" Molly asked, looking slightly alarmed.
"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus
the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here
and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain." Molly took
off, crying, while leaving Sherlock looking confused.
***** Chapter Five *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is kind of a filler chapter...sorry...I'm trying flesh
     out the characters their relationships more. The pace will pick up
     soon, I promise. Also, sorry it's been kind of a while since I've
     updated, I've been without my laptop for a while so yeah.
"Psst, John." John turned, looking around the crowded hallway for the source.
Not seeing anybody, he shook his head, continuing to class.
"John! Right here, you dolt." Looking around once more, John suddenly saw a
dark curl a the edge of a long, pale nose poking out from behind a closet door.
He approached it cautiously.
"Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing in there?" he asked.
"I need your help," Sherlock replied, not answering the question.
"With what?" John asked warily. Looking around furtively, Sherlock produced a
large black bag from behind him. John took it apprehensively, reluctant to look
in the bag. "Am I going to find a dead body in here, or something?" he asked,
half-joking. Sherlock didn't reply, so he proceeded to open the bag and take a
peek inside. What he saw made him gag. No, it wasn't a body. It was pieces of
one. "Sherlock what the bloody hell is this?" Sherlock, still crouching in the
closet made calming motions with his hands.
"Calm down, John. It's not what you think," he said frantically.
"I should bloody well hope not! Because I think you murdered somebody, cut the
poor bloke into little pieces and are now trying to lure me into being your
accomplice." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Stop being so melodramatic, John, and help me," he said.
"What do you want me to do?" John asked, casting a doubtful look at the bag.
Sherlock smirked.
"Well, it's really simple, see, I need to get this bag to the kitchens to put
it into the fridge"--
"Why the bloody hell are you trying to do that? And what the bloody hell makes
you think I'll help you with it?" John interrupted.
A few minutes later, John found himself trying to charm the irritable school
chef, watching as Sherlock crept around her and sneaked into the fridge,
carefully depositing the body parts behind a large bag of something faintly
greenish that looked like nothing edible. Sherlock was right, the plan was
simple enough, what John couldn't understand was why he had to do the charming.
Sherlock, with his endless legs and the aura of a mysterious bad boy that
followed everywhere that damn coat and those scuffed-up converse went, would be
much better suited for this. Sherlock, when he really wanted something and put
his mind to it, could charm a mother to give him her firstborn with just a few
words. When John mentioned this, however, Sherlock had scoffed and said he
could do no such thing.
"John! There you are, I've been looking all over for you! We have that project
to finish," Sherlock said, coming up from behind John. The shorter boy turned
and found himself much closer to Sherlock than he had thought he would be. A
mildly sweaty and out of breath Sherlock, to be specific. He sucked in a
breath, both startled and far more turned on than he should be. He quickly
tried to refocus his attention from Sherlock's rapidly moving chest and his
dark curls, in disarray, many of which were falling over his face and his
throat moving with Sherlock's deep breathing, and his lips, parted slightly to
allow the air in. God, John would leave so many love bites on that neck, there
would be more bruise than neck. He could already imagine the deep colour those
lips would be--and stretched around his--
No. Absolutely not. John deliberately looked away and redirected his thoughts
away from those dangerous waters. Sherlock was his friend. His best friend,
actually. They spent so much time running around London on cases, that between
that, school work, and the occasional work out with the rugby team to
strengthen and stretch out his shoulder, John had little time for anything
else. Not that he minded. He wouldn't trade his time spent with Sherlock for
anything. Much of it was spent on cases, yet there were those days when they
had nothing to do so the whiled away the hours playing cluedo or watching bad
telly. Or rather, Sherlock yelling at the telly and John watching him in a
combination of annoyance and  adoration.
"We really have to go, John." John was jolted back to reality by a sharp jab in
the ribs by Sherlock, whose elbows were quite pointy and sharp.
"Right, sorry," he said, walking away from a very confused looking chef,
chortling with Sherlock.
"Good job, John. See, I told you that you could do it," Sherlock said after
they were beyond her hearing distance. John shot him a dark look.
"She didn't stand there to talk to me because I was so terribly charming. I
think she stood there because she was more confused and was trying to figure
out what the hell I wanted. Or maybe she just hates her job so much that any
distraction is welcome," John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, she didn't turn around and catch me, and that was the point of that,
so whatever it is that you did, it worked."
"Hey guys!" Both boys turned to see Jim, Molly's boyfriend, hurrying to catch
up to them. "Hi, remember me? Molly introduced us."
"Right, hi. Jim, was it?" John said, conversationally. Sherlock merely grunted
and ignored him. Jim shot Sherlock a rather disappointed glance before turning
to John with a sunny smile. John wondered how his and Molly's relationship was
going when both members were so hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.
"That's right. I was on your blog, John, and I read about your most recent
case--fantastic, truly. Sherlock, you are wonderful at what you do." Again, Jim
looked at Sherlock, hopefully waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one,
his face dropped almost comically.
"Right, well, Sherlock and I are going this way, so...see you around, Jim,"
John said wanting to get away from him. He didn't know why or what it was, but
something about the guy just didn't sit right with him.
 
...
 
 
***** Chapter Six *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Truth or dare?" John looked around the circle at the eager, smiling faces.
Well, most of them were eager and smiling. Sherlock was sitting, eyeing
everything with a mixture of pity, disgust, and arrogance. John still didn't
know quite how he had managed to persuade him to come to the party with him.
The party was Greg's, and he had begged John to come, and he eventually wore
him down. John forced Sherlock to come with him, thinking that if was going to
have to suffer through this hell, there should at least be one other person who
was enjoying even less than he.
John's eyes paused when they reached Billy Murray, John's ex-boyfriend. The two
had talked briefly when they had first seen each other, but John had been
subtly avoiding him all night, not wanting people to ask questions about the
two of them that they would have to lie about.
"Truth," John replied, looking away and towards Greg who licked his lips,
thinking of something to ask John. John suddenly wished he had picked dare, but
if were to back out now, everybody would know he had something to hide, and
they wouldn't rest until they found out what it was.
"How far have you gone, and with whom?" Greg asked, grinning. There were a few
appreciative chuckles and giggles around the circle. John felt his stomach
clench, knowing he would have to lie. He was sweating slightly, but the room
was dark, and everybody there had had quite a bit to drink and smoke, so John
didn't think anybody would notice. He could feel Billy's eyes boring into him,
but he didn't look at him.
"All the way, with Jeanette Matthews and with Sarah Sawyer," John said, still
not looking at Billy. There were some more giggles and chuckles before someone
else was asked something equally ridiculous and the conversation moved on. John
took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He could feel the weight of two
gazes on him. One of them was Billy's. John looked up and saw Sherlock studying
him. John's stomach dropped. Of course Sherlock would notice. The boy had been
so quiet, John had forgotten that he was even there, but of course he would
notice the sweat now collecting on John's upper lip and a slight tremor in his
voice, no matter how slight it was, and no matter how loud the music was in the
background.
Looking away, John threw himself back into the conversation, hoping Sherlock
would just leave it alone.
Asking Sherlock Holmes to leave a curiosity alone, however, was like waving a
whiskey under the nose of an alcoholic and hoping they don't take a sip.
 
...
 
"You know, if I hadn't seen them myself, I would think you had absolutely no
balls at all, Watson." John froze. He was almost out the door, and considered
just ignoring the comment, but people had heard it, and were now casting them
curious looks. John turned to see Billy leaning against the wall, looking part
smug, but mostly just angry.
"Billy, I told you at the beginning that I wasn't"--
"That you weren't what? Comfortable with dating a guy? You seemed mighty
comfortable with it when I"--
"Billy, shut up," John said through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists, his
stomach roiling with anger.
"Or what?" Billy mocked. "You'll beat me up? Whose gonna stitch you up and put
you back together? Whose gonna play nurse for you and ice your bruises and wrap
up your cuts? You think Sherlock Holmes the psychopath will do that for you?
Who did you run to right after you broke your collarbone? Me, of course. I was
always there for you. I did everything for you when you couldn't even get up
out of bed because you said it hurt too much. And in return, you couldn't even
gather the courage to tell your parents you were dating a guy. Are you that
ashamed of it?" John un-clenched his fists, no longer angry. Because Billy was
right. John wasn't sure how he would have survived if Billy hadn't always been
there for him, and John didn't even have the strength to be proud of who he is.
John was a coward.
"I'm sorry," he said as sincerely as he could, looking Billy in the eyes for
the first time that night. John then turned towards the rest of his classmates
at the party, who were watching the two boys with eyes the size of dinner
platters. Some were grinning, obviously hoping for a fight. He found Greg's
confused and concerned eyes. "I didn't finish answering your question, Greg.
All the way with Billy Murray and James Sholto." Greg opened and closed his
mouth many times before he found the words he was looking for.
"So, you're...?"
"Gay, yes," John supplied, but he wasn't looking at Greg. His eyes sought out
his best friend, wanting to see his reaction. Sherlock was standing near him,
watching the proceedings with a look of intense boredom on his face. John
couldn't figure out what it meant. "Happy?" he asked Billy, who at least had
the decency to look slightly ashamed. With that, John turned on his heel and
walked to his car, hoping that Sherlock was following, because he was
Sherlock's ride home, and John really didn't want to go back in there to get
him.
Luckily, as John slid into the driver's side, he looked up to see the
passenger's side door open, and Sherlock clamber in, folding his long limbs
gracefully. John's breath caught in his throat. There was nothing Sherlock did
that wasn't so graceful it looked like it was a choreographed part of a dance.
It drove John absolutely wild.
"Sherlock," John said, placing his hands on the steering wheel, but not
starting the car.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied, impatiently, giving John a If You Don't
Start Being Clever Right Now, We're Going To Have Problems look. Sherlock was
very good at giving people that look. John looked up to meet his gaze.
"Well...I mean...Look, if you don't want to be my friend anymore, that's fine.
I'll understand, and I won't be mad, I promise," John choked out. He looked
away, waiting for a sigh of relief, and then the car door would open, and
Sherlock would gracefully climb out of the car and out of John's life.
"Don't be ridiculous, John. And do hurry, I have an experiment, and the timing
is most crucial. You see, I'm testing"--
"Wait," John interjected. "Sherlock, I'm gay. And by now, probably the whole
school knows. People are going to talk. They'll probably say stuff about you,
to." Sherlock scoffed.
"Your concern for my well-being is admirable, John, but in case you haven't
noticed, I don't give a damn about what people think about me, and with whom
they decide to share their opinions. Their lives are so dull and boring, I'm
glad they at least found one commendable way to pass the time. As for you being
gay...John you insult me. You've seen me work and have known me for quite some
time now, and you still seem to be laboring under the impression that I
wouldn't have deduced your sexual orientation long ago. Really, John."
John snorted, relieved, but trying not to show it.
"Only you would describe people talking about you behind your back as a
'commendable way to pass the time.'" The two of them chuckled for a moment
before John started the car. The music that had been blasting from the speakers
came on again at full blast, making both of them jump, but seconds later, they
exchanged grins at the Metallica pouring from the speakers. John rolled down
all the windows and pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator. The wind
whipped through their hair as they yelled along with the music.
John kept sneaking peeks at Sherlock when he wasn't looking, so he could see
him with his eyes closed, his curls alive and wild with the wind, letting go of
all control in the music. Though he didn't know it, every time John turned away
from him, Sherlock would glance at him, his blonde hair, usually combed so
neatly, being ruffled by the wind, and his eyes bright and alive in a way that
only rarely happened when they were running around like lunatics chasing down
criminals.
 
...
 
Sherlock flopped himself down on his bed, burying his face in his favorite,
softest pillow.Then he jumped up, remembering about his experiment. He wasn't
lying to John when he said that the timing was most crucial. However, when he
stood above his microscope and examined hours and hours of work, he suddenly
lost interest. He had lost all interest in everything except for John.
He growled, running his fingers roughly through his hair. Normally, the action
calmed him, helped him think. Now, however, even that simple action made him
think of John, and how his hair had looked with the wind tossing it about. The
image of John head-banging to the thumping beat of the music was an image that
Sherlock wouldn't soon forget. He took off his leather jacket, suddenly feeling
warm. He fumbled around for a cigarette and his lighter, before dropping both
as if he were burned. All he could hear was John reprimanding him for smoking
("those will kill you, Sherlock"), and all he could see was John handing him
the lighter. It was a gift from him, after he had seen the state of Sherlock's
old lighter ("Sherlock, this is so worn out, I'm surprised it hasn't blown up
yet!"). It was later found out that Sherlock's old lighter truly was broken to
the point where it was dangerous to use.
Sherlock shook his head, refusing to be distracted from his very important
experiment by sentiment. He turned his attention back to the microscope and was
relieved to find that he wasn't too late. He turned to prepare for the final
stages, when he suddenly jumped away from his desk with a shout.
The beaker he was working with was frothing and overflowing, giving off small
sparks that sprayed chemicals all over.
"Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit." It was all bloody John Watson's fault. If he
hadn't distracted him with thoughts that most definitely did not belong in
Sherlock's non-sentimental, logical mind. Thoughts of how John looked when he
licked his lips. How he looked when he was really deep in thought, when his
eyebrows were furrowed in thatway. How he looked in the middle of a chase, with
his eyes bright and alive, his mouth grinning in a fierce way, and his face
free from the pain of his collarbone and leg.
And despite when he had said to John in the car, he did care that John was gay,
but just not for the reason that John had thought. Of course, Sherlock had made
theories that John was gay, but until that night, all of those theories had
gone untested, and therefore unproven.
Now that he knew for sure that John was attracted to men, he didn't know if he
could control himself. Sherlock stood from his desk, giving up. He would clean
up the mess and restart the experiment tomorrow. At the moment, he had more
pressing concerns.
Like the raging erection he had right now for a boy who was supposed to be his
friend and colleague.
And who definitely wouldn't feel the same way about a mad, sociopathic
arsehole, who was so wrong for John, who was everything good. He was brave, and
kind, and loyal. Feeling selfish and guilty, Sherlock reached to undo his fly,
his thoughts filling with images of John, wrapped up in his atrocious, awful,
wonderful jumpers.
Chapter End Notes
     Whew, that was a tough chapter to write. I'm sorry it took so long,
     I'll try to be better about that...I'm not to proud of this chapter,
     but I just wanted to put it out here, so it's not edited very well,
     so if you notice anything, please leave a comment, so I can fix it
***** Chapter Seven *****
John sat at his desk, trying to listen. Truly, he was trying to listen. It was
just so difficult when the chemistry teacher's voice was low, and soothing, the
lights were dim, and John had gotten a grand total of three hours of sleep the
night before. And if that wasn't enough, Sherlock was sitting in the desk right
next to him, and he had done something different with his hair that made him
look absolutely delicious.
It was all John could do not to simply reach over and run his hands through
those curls.
He stifled a groan into his arms, folded beneath his head on the desk. He
shouldn't be thinking about this. Sherlock was his friend. His best friend.
John had made a promise with himself that he would keep it in his pants for the
sake of that friendship.
But that didn't make this any easier.
"Mr. Watson!" the teacher barked. John's head shot off of his arms, his heart
racing. "Since you appear to be so attentive to the class, perhaps you could
repeat to all of us what I had just said." She crossed her arms, looking quite
smug. John felt as if a pit had just formed in the bottom of his stomach and
all of his innards were caving in on themselves. Suddenly, he felt something
drop into his lap. He looked up to see Sherlock walking past his desk to get a
tissue from the box in the front of the classroom. On the way there, he had
dropped a small note into John's lap.
His heart fluttering, John unfolded it underneath his desk and flicked his eyes
down quickly. He read from the note, glad that for once in his life, Sherlock
had taken the time to write neatly enough that he could read it, instead of his
usual chicken-scratch.
"Hm," his teacher sniffed, obviously disappointed. "Very good." John breathed
out a sigh of relief, his stomach calming. He shot Sherlock a grateful glance
who only smirked in response.
A few minutes later, the bell rang, and the class filed out of the classroom,
talking loudly, and laughing, eager to be going home.
"Sherlock, you saved my life. Thank you, so much," John burst out, as soon as
they had exited the classroom. Sherlock looked at him, smirking. John's breath
caught in his throat. The fluorescent lights of the school, as a general rule,
made everybody look washed out and tired and slightly sick. Of course Sherlock
would find a way to make even those flatter him.
"You're welcome, John." The shorter boy looked away, working hard not to blush
at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. There was something different about
Sherlock today, and he couldn't put his finger down on what it was. They
continued to walk through the crowded halls to the exit of the school.
"Sherlock Holmes," a voice drawled as they left the school building. Both boys
turned around to see a tall blonde-haired boy leaning against the stone wall of
the school. He had a look of cool confidence about him and when he walked
slowly towards them, it was something more of a strut. John looked at Sherlock,
wondering who he was.
"Victor Trevor," Sherlock replied, without looking at John. His voice was
completely indifferent, and to other people his face probably looked the same,
but John saw tension in his jaw and a very slight crease in between his
eyebrows that only got there when he was either thinking very hard, or when he
was agitated.
"Whose your little friend?" Victor Trevor asked, running his gaze up and down
John contemptuously. John grit his teeth.
"John Watson," he said, sticking his hand out. He could speak for himself.
Trevor took John's outstretched hand, looking slightly amused, as if he had
just watched a puppy perform an especially impressive trick.
"Well I have to say, Holmes, he doesn't look like the people you usually waste
your time with." The tension in Sherlock's jaw increased just the tiniest bit.
"That's because he isn't. And I don't waste my time with those people anymore.
I'm done." Victor gave Sherlock a long, measured look.
"I know you are. You fulfilled my end of the bargain, now it's time for me to
do the same."
"No," Sherlock said, his voice still emotionless. "I don't need you anymore."
"Okay, can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?" John asked,
looking from one tall boy to the other. Victor smirked slightly before turning
on his heel and walking away. Sherlock watched him walk away with a strange
expression on his face. "Sherlock?"
"I have to go, John." John was left standing in front of the school, wondering
who the hell this Victor guy was and what he was doing there. After a moment,
he shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He made his way to his car, still
thinking about Victor Trevor. He disturbed him. There was something about him.
Maybe it was his easy confidence. Or his height. Or possibly the fact that he
appeared to be, or at one time had been, a friend of Sherlock's. After so long
of being Sherlock's only close friend, John wasn't sure he was willing to share
the title. Certainly not with someone so...attractive.
Yes, John was slightly ashamed to admit that he was jealous of this stranger.
He was tall and attractive, and mysterious, and when he stood by Sherlock, he
looked like he fit there. He knew he shouldn't be so possessive. Mostly because
he didn't possess anything. Sherlock wasn't his, never was, and never will be.
They were just friends, and Sherlock was allowed to hang out with whomever he
wanted, and John wouldn't be bothered by it.
But John was an awful liar even to himself. Hanging out with Sherlock, he had
gotten better, but still not nearly good enough to convince himself that Victor
Trevor, though they had only just met, bothered him.
John got out of his car, and entered his house, relieved to see the house was
empty. His parents were at work and Harry was probably out somewhere. He
quickly dropped his bag in his room, deciding that a shower would help him
think clearly.
He turned the water on, and stepped in before the water had a chance to warm
up, and ended up gasping as the cold water hit him as a result. He shivered for
a few moments before the water heated up to a normal temperature. John applied
soap, doing his best to direct his thoughts away from Sherlock. Yet, every time
he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself that the hand currently
roaming his chest was longer, thinner, and paler. Giving up with a groan, John
picture Sherlock standing in front of him, dripping with water. He gave his a
cock a tug, and imagined that it was Sherlock. He could almost feel the taller
boy pressed up against him, whispering things in his ear. John couldn't hold
back a moan when he thought of Sherlock's voice.
After that, it wasn't long before John came all over his fingers, feeling
marginally more satisfied and significantly more guilty.
 
...
 
"John, isn't it?" asked a voice. John turned, closing his car door as he did
so.
"It is," he replied, deciding that until he knew more about him, he would
remain cautiously courteous to this Trevor character.
"You're a good friend of Sherlock's?" Trevor asked as they both began the walk
from the parking lot to the school.
"I suppose. Why?" John looked at the other boy, wary. Trevor merely shrugged
like it was nothing.
"Look, John, I think you're a pretty cool guy, so I'm going to be frank with
you. Is Sherlock involved in anything...unsavory? Drugs, for example." John
raised his eyebrows slightly.
"Aside from a nasty smoking habit that I'm trying to get him off of, nothing.
Though he did tell me of his past...activities, he's been clean of everything
besides tobacco for quite a while now. Any particular reason why you're
asking?" Trevor smiled slightly.
"Sherlock and I were friends once, to. Well, I say friends, eh?" Trevor grinned
and winked at John before elbowing him. John looked at him, confused. Trevor's
grin faltered. "Wait the two of you aren't...?" His hands motions conveyed what
he couldn't put into words.
"Er...no. We're just friends," John replied, slightly irritated. He sorely
wished he could have answered that differently. "Were you and him...?" John
reciprocated the hand motions. Trevor nodded, smiling.
"Pity. You're missing out, mate. Sherlock was probably the best I've ever had,
of both mates and chicks." Trevor elbowed him again, and hearing the bell that
signified that class would start in five minutes, gave a parting wave, and took
off, leaving John standing in front of his school, his mind going wild. He
entered the school and walked to his class, thinking hard. He couldn't help the
wisp of hope that rose in him, despite how hard he tried to stamp it down. Just
because Sherlock liked boys, didn't mean under any circumstances that he would
like John.
But knowing that particular tidbit of information made it very hard to focus
during his first period.
 
...
 
"So I talked to Victor Trevor today," John said. Sherlock froze, and John tried
desperately not to look at his arse, but when he was bent over that way, it was
so difficult not to. They were in the Holmes' kitchen, and Sherlock had bent
down to dig some ice cream out of the freezer. "He asked about you." Sherlock
slowly straightened, the ice cream jar in his hand forgotten. John plucked it
from his grasp, and began to eat straight from the jar.
"What did he ask? What did you say?" John could see that Sherlock was feigning
disinterest. John's eyebrows clashed in the middle of his forehead. Sherlock
was normally a much better actor. Who was Victor Trevor and why did he make
Sherlock act this way?
"He asked if you were still into drugs, and I told him that besides cigarettes,
you're clean," John said, shrugging.
"What else?" Sherlock asked urgently, grabbing John's arm. John stopped,
looking at the hand, suddenly feeling like the temperature of room had risen
quite a bit.
"He asked if we were together, and I told him no." John replied shortly,
stuffing a spoon-full of ice cream in his mouth so nothing else would come out.
Like how much he wished that he could have said yes, they were together.
"That's it?"
"Well he also mentioned that the two of you had been together," John said after
he had swallowed. "Do you mind telling me who he is?"
"He and I were together for quite some time, until he became uncomfortable with
my...drug habit, so we made a deal. He and I were over, until I got clean. Then
he would come back." John was slightly surprised. He hadn't thought Sherlock
would say anything.
"So now you're clean, and he's back, right?" John asked, his heart sinking. Of
course Sherlock would have someone else. The tendril of hope that had been
warming John's heart all day suddenly vanished. But John was once again
surprised when he saw Sherlock shake his head.
"That was a long time ago. I've gotten over Victor, and I don't need or want
him anymore. He wasn't even the reason I got clean," Sherlock said. John held
his breath.
"Then what is the reason you got clean?" he asked, but suddenly Sherlock was
sidetracked by his phone that led to the boys running outside and Sherlock
smiling bitterly as he watched John excitedly hail a cab, suitably distracted.
It was only hours later when John was laying, exhausted, in his bed that he
remembered two things: first, that they had left the ice cream out, and was now
probably a large, sticky puddle, and second, that Sherlock never answered his
question.
***** Chapter Eight *****
Chapter Summary
     Victor comes with John to hang out with his friends, and John learns
     some new things about his new friend.
Chapter Notes
     Ok so it's been like a year since I've updated last, because I kinda
     lost interest in it, but I've decided to try and pick it back up
     again. I'll try and update regularly from now on, but no promises.
     Also, I'm American, and it's not brit-picked, so if you catch
     anything, please leave a comment and I'll do my best to fix it c:
"Hey, John," John heard behind him. He didn't even bother turning around; John
was such a common name, he tended to ignore it when it was called in public.
"Oi, Watson!" the voice continued. Raising his eyebrows, John turned to see
Trevor hurrying towards him.
"Victor," he replied, slightly confused. He was going to a get-together with
his friends at Mike's house, and he had opted to walk instead of driving. The
weather was nice, and he wasn't in any particular rush.
"Hey mate. How's it going?" Trevor asked when he reached the shorter boy. John
furrowed his eyebrows slightly. Since when had he and Trevor been "mates", and
why did he give a damn about John's life?
"Pretty good. You?" he asked with trepidation, not really knowing what to
expect. It had been a week since the two of them had been introduced and they
hadn't talked at all besides the occasional, polite "hello." Trevor chuckled
slightly and bumped his shoulder with his own.
"Relax, Watson, I just wanna talk." John threw him a suspicious glance, and
Trevor laughed again, louder this time, throwing his arm casually around John's
shoulder as if they had been best mates for years. John stiffened, fighting the
instinct to shove the arm off of him.
"What about?" Trevor shrugged, the movement jostling the arm slung on John's
shoulders.
"I don't know, but seeing as you're Sherlock's best mate, I think we should get
to know each other more. I mean you've got to be something special if Sherlock
Holmeshas taken in interest in you, eh?" Trevor chuckled again, giving John's
shoulders a slight squeeze, seeming to think that he had just given the boy a
huge complement. "Where is that nasty bugger anyway? Aren't the two of you
like, joined at the hip or some shit?" John calmly shook Trevor's arm off his
shoulders.
"No, we are not 'joined at the hip or some shit', we're just good friends, so
we see each other often. He was pissing me off, so I left. I don't know where
he is, probably at his house working on some god-awful experiment, locked in
his room without eating, sleeping, or any normal human interaction apart from
yelling at his brother and that damn skull," John replied, not meaning to get
worked up again, but really. Sherlock was acting like such a royal arse. Trevor
chuckled again (does he ever stop laughing?John thought absently).
"I can see why he likes you. You're small, but you've got a lot of fire,
doncha?" John bristled, but the taller boy continued without even noticing.
"Still has that disgusting skull, doesn't he? Ha, I used to hide it from him,
ya know? He'd always find within minutes, of course, but it was just so funny.
The damn thing was like some fucked-up teddy bear for him, eh? Ah, Mycroft! I
forgot about him. He's a funny one, eh? When I first started hanging out with
Sherlock, the pretentious fucker met me in this fucking abandoned warehouse
thing, right, like he was some fucking Bond villain or some shit. Tried to
intimidate me." Victor threw his head back and laughed, and despite himself,
John found himself laughing along. Trevor was crass and loud and obnoxious, and
had an annoying habit of turning ordinary sentences into questions, but
something about him made him engaging to talk to, and John was glad to finally
have someone to talk about the Holmes brothers with.
"He did the same thing to me," John said. "He tried to bribe me to spy on
Sherlock. Wanker, he is."
"You didn't take it, did you?" Trevor asked, chuckling. John shook his head,
grinning at the memory.
"No, but you know what Sherlock said when I told him? He says, 'shame, we could
have split it,'" John exclaimed, laughing, Trevor laughing along with him.
The two boys walked together the rest of the way, sharing insane stories about
the Holmes brothers. Too soon, John stopped in front of Mike's front door.
Feeling slightly awkward, John was about to wave goodbye, when he was suddenly
struck with an impulse that was probably stupid.
"Wanna come with me? I'm just hanging out with some mates. They're pretty
cool," John offered, partly to be polite, but mostly because he honestly
enjoyed Trevor's company. Which was something he never thought would happen.
Ever. Trevor's face lit up when John offered, and he nodded, grinning.
"Sure, thanks," he replied. John smiled back, hoping that Mike wouldn't mind.
He turned and knocked on the door, hearing the muffled sounds of loud music and
rowdy teenage boys through the painted wood.
The door swung open to reveal the smiling face Mike Stamford, whose broad smile
faltered a bit when he saw that John had brought along company.
"Hey John! Who's your friend?" he asked.
"Mike, this is my friend Victor Trevor, I met him through Sherlock. Victor,
this is my friend Mike. He and I are on the rugby team together." Mike smiled,
opening the door to let them both in, looking at Victor curiously. Mike knew
Sherlock, so he of course knew that Sherlock had very few friends. However, he
led them into the basement, where a few boys were lounging on couches, a few
were standing around the pool table, watching what looked like a pretty
exciting game.
"Watson!" someone called. John looked around, his eyes finding Lestrade,
sprawled out on an armchair with a beer in his hand. John walked over,
motioning for Victor to follow.
"Hey Lestrade, I don't think you've met my friend, Victor. Victor, this
Lestrade." Lestrade suddenly narrowed his eyes.
"Victor? That wouldn't be Victor Trevor, would it?" he asked. John's eyebrows
shot up.
"Yeah, do you guys know each other?" he asked, turning towards Victor. The tall
blonde simply stood, looking uncomfortable, while Lestrade narrowed his eyes
even more, sitting up a bit.
"I know of him yeah. This is the sonofabitch that left Sherlock when he needed
him most. Do you have any idea what state you left him in? How much better he's
gotten? Now, here you come, waltzing back into his life like nothing happened.
Wanna know how I met Sherlock? My dad's a cop, so he picked him up off the
street one night. He was lying in a gutter passed out. He had ODed. If he had
been found minutes later than he had been, it would have been too late. My dad
brought me in to ask me if I knew him. When he came to, wanna know the first
words out of his mouth? 'Where's Victor?'" Greg stood up, his fists balled and
face red. "The poor bugger needed you! And you fucking left! And now that he's
healthy and clean again you want him back? Fuck off! Go crawl back into
whatever dirty hole you crawled out of." Lestrade finished, glaring at Victor,
breathing hard. John furrowed his eyebrows, looking at Victor questioningly,
only a few seconds away from being as angry as Lestrade. Victor simply sighed,
guilt clouding his handsome features. The other boys had gathered around,
looking interested, while Mike stood to the side, ready to jump in if things
got ugly. John winced, mentally apologizing to Mike for bringing Victor, and
starting all this trouble.
"Look, believe me, I know what a dick move it must seem like, but you don't
understand"--
"I don't understand?" Lestrade roared. "No, you're right! I don't understand! I
don't understand how you could leave your boyfriend battling with a cocaine
addiction at age fifteen!"
"Shh, Greg, let him finish," John said. What Victor did was awful, but John
knew that there were two sides to every story. Lestrade shot him a glance of
betrayal, which John ignored.
"Thanks John," Victor said, flashing him a grateful smile. John merely grunted,
crossing his arms. Victor swallowed. " Okay, I know it was a shitty thing to
do, but you have to understand, I was fifteen too! I was immature and stupid.
And I tried to help him. Believe me, I tried. But at a certain point...well,
how do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped? Sherlock didn't see his
addiction as a problem, and he resented me for trying to make him see it as
one. Again, I was young and vain and didn't want to see my boyfriend hate me.
But I also didn't want to see him addicted to that shit. So I left. I didn't
know what else to do. I realized some time after that my leaving was probably
the worst decision I could have made, but I thought that me coming back would
only be worse. You wouldn't believe the amount of times I almost visited him,
only to turn back around. Once I spent six hours sitting in my car at the end
of his street, just looking at his house, trying to decide if I should go in or
not. Six hours." Lestrade grunted, looking unimpressed. John however, was torn.
He sighed.
"I'm gonna go," Victor said quietly. "I'm sorry. For everything." He looked
first at Lestrade, then at John. When neither gave any acknowledgement to him,
he turned around a left. John sighed again.
"Greg-"
"Stop, John," Lestrade interrupted. John looked at him. "Don't start feeling
bad for that fucker. You didn't see Sherlock before he got clean. He was a
mess. A right mess. How anyone in their right mind could have left him alone
like that, I don't know. He might feel bad about now, but that doesn't change
anything. I don't care how many fucking hours he spent in front of Sherlock's
house, it still won't be enough to make up for what he did to Sherlock."
"No, that's not what I was going to say. I wanted to ask you...do you know what
caused...erm why Sherlock got clean? It's okay if you don't, it's just
something Sherlock said earlier, got me wondering." Lestrade gave him a funny
look.
"Of course I know why he got clean," he said, shifting slightly. John looked at
him expectantly. Greg sighed impatiently, an action reminding John deeply of
their mutual friend. "Come on, John. he got clean because...well--Christ, he's
going to kill me for this, I mean really killme--but Sherlock got clean because
of you, John. It was always for you."
***** Chapter Nine *****
Chapter Notes
     so yeah remember when i said i was gonna try and update more
     consistently?
     Well, i'm a liar. A horrible, awful liar.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
John stared at the ceiling of his room, thinking hard. He groaned and glanced a
the clock beside his bed, staring at the glowing red numbers, watching as they
ticked away the time, getting closer and closer to midnight. After Lestrade had
told him that Sherlock had gotten clean because of him, John left, wanting to
get home and think. He didn't know what it meant. Did it mean that Sherlock had
feelings for him? John shook his head, pushing the thought away. Those type of
thoughts were dangerous. John didn't want to assume anything.
Yet he couldn't help the small grin that pushed its way onto his face, or the
feeling of excited happiness. Though John knew better than to assume anything
when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he thought he could at least be sure that that
wasn't something ordinary friends did for each other. After all, the threat of
his boyfriend leaving wasn't enough to force Sherlock get clean, so what did
that say about his feelings for John, whose mere presence was enough?
 
 
***
 
 
"Sherlock," Mycroft said entering his younger brother's bedroom. Sherlock
barely spared him a glance from his microscope.
"Go away Mycroft," he said. Mycroft sighed, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
"I know--"
"Mycroft, I know Victor is back. I've talked to him briefly, and I'm okay. I
wasn't lying when I said I was over him. I don't want to talk about it,"
Sherlock replied, then almost as an afterthought added, "especially not with
you."
"I just wanted to make sure you didn't slip back into...old habits." Sherlock
glared at his older brother from underneath a lock of dark curls.
"I'm clean,Mycroft. You don't have to keep checking on me," he said. Mycroft
smirked slightly.
"Yes, and where is John, by the way?" he asked, widening his eyes innocently.
Sherlock growled, not missing the hidden meaning behind the words.
"Get out!" he yelled, and Mycroft left, chuckling slightly. As soon as he left
Sherlock groaned, flopping onto his bed, experiment forgotten. Mycroft knew
nothing. It didn't matter who had caused Sherlock to finally accept that he had
a problem and seek help. And it sure as hell didn't matter why he had let
another person affect his life like that. The fact was that his feelings
weren't reciprocated. Which logically made sense. Because what would smart,
kind, wonderful John Watson with ridiculously bright blue eyes see in him? He
was nobody. Nothing. Just a sociopath with rich parents and a powerful brother.
Who also happened to be in love with his best friend, a person he had no
business loving. Sherlock ran fingers through his hair in frustration.
 
 
***
 
Mycroft exited his brother's room sighing softly. He knew that Sherlock thought
that he had only brought up John to be spiteful, but that was as far from the
truth as possible. Sherlock knew nothing. For all that he saw, he was painfully
blind. How could he not see how madly in love with him John really was? He
would try to explain it to him, but Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't listen
to him. He sighed again, pushing the matter from his mind. As much as would
like to try and help the poor fools, there was nothing he could do, especially
because he was so busy with the Korean elections coming up.
 
 
***
 
 
"John," Sherlock called down the hallway. John turned, his stomach squirming.
He had been avoiding Sherlock all day, and of course Sherlock would notice. But
after what Lestrade had told, John just couldn't face Sherlock again. He didn't
know what to believe. He desperately wanted to think that Sherlock had gotten
clean for him, but he knew that was unlikely. What would Sherlock see in him?
Sherlock was a genius. A mad genius, but a genius all the same. And John was
just ordinary. He was about as average as you could possibly get.
"Hi, Sherlock, how's it going?" he replied, struggling to act normal.
Apparently it didn't work because when Sherlock approached him, there was a
concerned look on his face. The taller boy took a deep breath.
"John, did I do something wrong? If I have offended you in any way...please let
me know. I understand that I often say things without thinking, and I don't
think I remember saying something, but as you well know, I rarely know--"
"Sherlock," John interrupted. Sherlock immediately ceased his agitated
rambling. John didn't say anything, but smiled slightly. Of course Sherlock
blamed himself. Of course he assumed that he had done something wrong. Of
course he would think it was all his fault. "Sherlock, you didn't do anything
wrong. Its just...I..." John floundered, trying to think of an explanation that
didn't involve him admitting to his best friend that he loved him. Sherlock
looked at him beseechingly, eyebrows creasing his forehead. John would have
loved to reach out and smooth it out. And run his fingers those damn velvety
curls...
John sternly trained his thoughts away from that dangerous territory.
"It's nothing, don't worry about it," John finally said, unable to think of
anything on the spot. He was sure that in a few hours he would think of a
million things he could have said in this moment. Sherlock's concerned
expression increased. He was obviously worried about it.
"I have to go," John muttered, turning away, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, not
letting him walk away. John could have kicked him.
"John, what's wrong? Please, tell me," Sherlock said. John sighed.
"Not here, Sherlock, okay? I'll tell you today after school, I promise." John
mentally patted himself on the back. When in doubt, stall. He would definitely
come up with something by tonight. Sherlock still looked a little concerned,
but let go of his arm. John gave him a parting wave and went to class, puzzled.
Why had Sherlock reacted so violently? Sherlock was often curious, but that
wasn't Sherlock being curious. That was something else. John chewed his lip,
concerned for his friend.
 
 
***
 
 
Sherlock slipped out of the school building, not able to sit through class
right now. It had been a while since he had skipped class--John's influence, no
doubt. After talking with his brother the night before, Sherlock couldn't stop
thinking about Victor. Mycroft was right about one thing--seeing him brought
back old memories. Old hurts. He could still remember when he had heard that
Victor had left him. No matter how many times he had tried to delete it, it
just kept coming back. Another reason sentiment was nothing but a disadvantage-
-it wouldn't delete properly like other memories would.
Victor leaving had the opposite effect that he had hoped it would. Instead of
motivating Sherlock to try and get better, it had drove deeper into the hole.
It gave him another reason to take a little more, a little more often. He had
more things to forget.
But he was over that.
He was.
What he was not prepared for was John suddenly avoiding him. What was that
about? Was John leaving him, to? Sherlock shivered in the cool air, wrapping
his arms around himself.
"Oi, Sherlock! Aren't you supposed to be in class?" he heard. He looked up to
see Letsrade leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. He was always
claiming to be trying to quit but Sherlock rarely saw him outside of school
without a cigarette either between his lips or his fingers.
"Aren't you?" he called back in reply. Lestrade gave a half grin, chuckling a
bit. Sherlock walked towards him, unable to decide if he wanted to be alone or
have company. Lestrade offered a cigarette, and he took one, mostly just to
have something to do with his hands. He stopped needing them as much, now that
John always scolded him when he smoked. The scolding he could deal with, but
there was always this disappointed look in his eyes that Sherlock couldn't
stand. Because John always saw him as so much better than he was, and he hated
feeling like he had let him down. And that was the heart of the problem,
really. John saw him so much better than he was, and the feeling was so
unusual, and so much better than anything he had ever experienced. It was
better than the high from the cocaine, better than the five minuet buzz from
the cigarette, better than solving a case, better than anything. And Sherlock
was addicted. Dangerously so.
The tall boy angrily flicked the ash from the end of cigarette.
He had never been good at dealing with addiction.
Lestrade chuckled looking at Sherlock.
"Who killed your puppy?" he asked. Sherlock glared at him, a stray curl falling
over his face. Lestrade let the easy grin slide off his face, getting serious.
"What's wrong, mate?" he asked, slightly worried. Sherlock considered leaving,
but then paused with a sigh. If he left, Lestrade would go running to John and
tell him that there was something wrong with him, and then John would worry and
blame himself, and then Mycroft would find out and tell Mummy and Dad, and then
they would worry, and Sherlock hated worrying his parents, especially about
something as silly as...sentiment. Sherlock scrunched up his nose at the word.
"It's John," he said, looking down.
"What is it? What's wrong? He's okay, right?" Lestrade said, suddenly
concerned. Sherlock waved a hand, nodding, trying not to feel jealous. That was
ridiculous. John and Lestrade were friends, Lestrade was allowed to worry about
him.
"He's fine...I just, I don't know. Never mind." Sherlock dropped the cigarette
butt, crushing it with his foot and was about to leave, deciding that leaving
this conversation was worth the resulting overreactions.
"Wait," Lestrade said. Sherlock stopping, surprising even himself. "Sherlock do
you...like him?" Sherlock whipped around, giving Lestrade the answer he was
hoping for. Lestrade grinned. "Mate--"
"No, don't you 'mate' me, Lestrade," Sherlock was cut off by the sound of
Lestrade trying desperately and failing spectacularly to hold back a snort.
"I'm sorry, but out of context...'don't mate me,' sounds a bit like--"
Sherlock punched Lestrade square in the face, before walking away, promising
himself he would never speak to anyone ever again. Anyone. Ever.
Chapter End Notes
     i'm so not sorry.
     so not sorry.
     Anyway, please leave feedback, i would really like to know what you
     guys think.
     also, come hang out with me on tumblr at
     alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com
***** Chapter Ten *****
Chapter Notes
     Whew, this was a hard chapter. But I finally got it up! Yayy!
     I'm not really proud of this, and I might go back and edit later, but
     I just wanted to get something out there, because it's been forever
     since I've updated.
     So yeah, here it is! Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The door to the tiny coffee shop swung open forcefully, the cheerful bells
chiming. Sherlock didn't even spare it a glance. He was deep in his mind
palace, thinking about John. Of course he was thinking about John. The boy had
taken over Sherlock's mind, and he wasn't quite sure how. He didn't understand
how he allowed this to happen again. Sherlock thought he had learned his lesson
the first time he had let someone get close to him, but apparently he hadn't.
"Sherlock." At first he didn't respond, thinking the voice was just a figment
of his imagination. He had been in John's room after all. Yet when his eyes
opened to reveal a very cold, wet, and miserable-looking John. Sherlock's
breath caught in his throat. Water droplets were glistening on the tips of
John's eyelashes, and his hair was ruffled in that way that Sherlock adored.
His cheeks and nose were a delicious shade of red from the wind and the cold.
Sherlock couldn't help but stare, taking care to add the image to John's room
in the mind palace.
"Hello John," he said curtly, dropping his gaze. He and John hadn't talked in
days, mostly because of Sherlock himself. Being around John used to be safe.
With John, Sherlock never had to worry about acting normal, or being something
he wasn't, because John understood. John understood him. However, he had
started avoiding Sherlock, and he Sherlock didn't know why. He didn't know what
to do, so he simply avoided the other boy. He wasn't prepared to handle a
situation like this one. If he had ever known what to do, he had deleted it
long ago, deeming in unimportant. So he simply did what he knew how to do best:
pushed him away.
John plopped in the armchair right next to Sherlock's, huffing out a breath. He
looked over at Sherlock, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. John sighed
sharply.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I was stupid and I don't really know how to
explain why I avoided you, but I did, and it was stupid, and I'm sorry," John
blurted out after a few moments.
"Why? Why did you avoid me? Was it something I did? Something I said?" John
violently shook his head.
"No, no it was nothing like that, I promise. If it was something like that I
would have told you, believe me."
"Then why, John?" John stopped, not knowing what to say. Sherlock would know if
he didn't tell him the truth, but he couldn't tell him. He couldn't. What would
he say? "Yes, Sherlock, I avoided you because I fell deeply, madly in love with
you, and something Lestrade said that may or may not actually be true made me
think that there may or may not have been a small, hopeless chance that you
felt the same way"? Yet he couldn't very well say nothing. He had tried it, and
obviously it didn't work. He and Sherlock hadn't talked in days. John took a
deep breath.
"Do you remember when I asked you why you got clean, and you avoided the
question?" John waited until he got a sharp nod from Sherlock before
continuing. "Well, I asked Lestrade, and he told--"
"John," Sherlock quickly interrupted, looking panicked. "John, wait, I-I can
explain--"
"Shh, let me finish. Well, Lestrade told me something that I couldn't stop
thinking about. Because how could I, simple, ordinary John Watson, cause
someone as brilliant and fantastic as Sherlock Holmes to completely change his
life in a way that nobody else could force him to do? And the more I thought
about it, the more I realized two things. The first being how improbable it was
that I am the reason for anything you do in your life. And the second being how
much I wanted it to be true. How much I wanted to be as big an impact on your
life as you have been on mine. I realized then, that the feelings I had for you
were more than just random lust, because I'm gay and you're my best friend. It
was far more than that. And that's why I avoided you. Because I couldn't face
the fact of being near you and having to pretend that I don't feel the way I
do. I couldn't face you, feeling the way I do, and having to look a you and
know that you couldn't possibly feel the same way. So, no, Sherlock, it's
not something you did, or something you said, but rather everything you did,
and everything you said. Because everything about you made it harder and harder
to ignore my feelings, and yet everything about you made it clearer and clearer
that those feeling would have to stay ignored." John finished, taking another
deep breath, and clenching his fists, realizing they were shaking. He stared at
a stain on the carpet, not daring to look his friend in the face.
"John," Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly. "John, look at me." John
raised his eyes cautiously, expecting to see disgust and pity in his friend's
face. Sherlock would stand up and sweep out of the coffee shop and join Victor,
not looking back once. And why should he? Because who was John, after all? Just
an ordinary bloke with an extraordinary best friend.
"I'm--I'm your...best friend?" Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. John
snapped his head up. That was not what he was expecting.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course you are, Sherlock. Or at least...you were. I would
understand, of course, if you no longer want to be friends with me," John
replied, dropping his gaze again.
"An--And you--you like...me? More than a friend, I mean?" John slowly
unclenched his fists, hardly daring to breathe. Because was it just him, or was
there a hint of hope in Sherlock's voice?
"I...uh, yeah, Sherlock. Yeah, I do," he said. "And you don't have to say you
like me back or anything, in fact you probably don't even like me back, but you
asked for an explanation, and that's it, and I'm really sorry if this makes
things awkward between us or anything, I just want us to stay--"
"John, shut up," Sherlock interrupted John's nervous babbling. John looked up,
meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time. Sherlock was smiling. Smiling in
that shy, uncertain way that only happened when he was smiling for real. John
could count on one hand, the amount of times he had pulled that smile out of
Sherlock. It was different from the dangerous, wild grin that appeared on
cases, and different from the tight-lipped, smug smile that came from spouting
a particularly nasty deduction about Donovan or Anderson.
"John...you know that I'm not good at...feelings. Particularly sentiment. I-I'm
not exactly sure how I feel...I know that I feel differently about you than I
have ever felt about anyone before. I'm just...not exactly sure what that means
yet, or how to...proceed. I'm sorry John, and I think that feel...the same way
you do, but I don't know. I just don't know," Sherlock sighed harshly, running
his fingers through his wild curls. He hadn't realized how hard this was going
to be. "As a rule I don't...like...people. I don't like contact with them,
physical or emotional, but John with you..." he trailed off when John placed a
hand on his and squeezed gently.
"It's okay, Sherlock," he said softly, smiling. "I know who you are, and I like
you because you're you, not despite the fact that you're you. Take any time you
need and know that you can talk to me about anything. I might not be able to
understand completely, but I'll listen and I'll do my best." Sherlock turned
his hand over under John's and squeezed back, feeling slightly breathless.
There was this feeling that was so beyond just the feeling of a hand in his.
Because it was so beyond just a hand in his. It was John's hand in his.
Hesitantly, his heart pounding in his chest, Sherlock smiled back.
Chapter End Notes
     Like I said, this was a tough chapter, so please leave feedback, it's
     really helpful!
     also, come hang out with me on tumblr, at
     alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com
***** Chapter Eleven *****
Chapter Notes
     ive been pretty sick for the past couple days with nothing to do
     besides drink tea and write. so i did both. a lot. so yeah, this
     chapter is longer than i originally planned, but hey, plans are made
     to be broken, amirite?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sherlock glanced at the clock, and cursed, hastily shoving his violin back into
its case, giving it a quick pat to apologize for his carelessness. He snagged
his leather jacket from the floor where he had dumped it the night before. He
normally didn't care about being late for school. In fact, he was late more
often than not. But he was picking up John, and he got titchy about being late.
John.
Sherlock couldn't help the faint blush that crept onto his face just from
thinking about him. He struggled to keep down a smile, but failed, causing
Mycroft to give him a strange look as Sherlock dashed past him. Despite the
fact that he was constantly running around London like a maniac, school was one
place Sherlock never rushed to. And it sure as hell wasn't a place he went to
with a smile on his face.
Mycroft nodded to himself, allowing himself a small smile as well. It seems as
though at least one of them finally came to their senses. Good. John was a good
influence on Sherlock. When he came home, he no longer smelled of smoke and
London's worst and darkest alleyways, but more like cheap drug store deodorant
and London's slightly better, though still dark and bad alleyways.
Sherlock leaped onto his motorbike, revving the engine a few times just to
annoy Mycroft and wipe that annoying smirk off of his face. Sherlock had no
doubt that his brother had already deduced everything about him and John and
the way he was looking so damn smug about it, made him want to break it off
immediately just to spite him. But that thought was discarded almost before it
had fully formed. Nothing would keep Sherlock from John. Nothing.
 
 
***
 
 
John got dressed, happy to see that he was almost completely uninhibited by his
collarbone. That among other things (the beautiful and amazing boy that was
about to come pick him for school) caused a large grin to stretch his features.
The grin that hadn't been able to completely leave his face since two days ago,
when he spilled his feeling for Sherlock.
"Johnny, there somebody here for you," his father called from downstairs. John
smiled even bigger, if that was possible, and almost ran downstairs in his
eagerness to see Sherlock.
"Ugh, what is that?" Mrs. Watson screeched when she saw the motorbike Sherlock
was proudly sitting on top of. When John joined her at the window, his breath
caught in his throat. He had rarely seen Sherlock look so beautiful. His cheeks
were flushed with the wind, and his curls were an absolute mess. His white t-
shirt was a slightly lower v-neck than Sherlock usually wore, showing off his
collarbone and creamy, pale skin. John wanted to kiss every inch of that skin.
From the expression on his mother's face, however, she didn't share his
opinion. John ignored her, grabbed an apple from the counter, and rushed out
the door with a parting wave to his parents.
"Hi, Sherlock," he said when he reached the roaring motorbike. John shoved the
apple into his backpack and swung a leg over the seat sliding onto the bike
right behind the taller boy. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's slim waist,
mindful of his mother still watching from the window.
"Hey, John," Sherlock replied before backing out of the driveway and speeding
off toward the school. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, John
wrapped his arms more snugly around Sherlock, pressing his chest into his back.
Sherlock's breath hitched. Sherlock had done quite a lot with Victor, but
everything he ever did with him didn't amount to even a simple touch from John.
It was ridiculous. He and John hadn't even kissed yet, and he still held an
enormous amount of power over Sherlock. Ordinarily, that would absolutely
terrify Sherlock, but John was far from ordinary. Sherlock smiled again,
leaning back into John's warm, broad, jumper-covered chest.
When they arrived at school, John clambered off the bike, his hair in complete
disarray. Sherlock grinned at the sight, loving how pink his cheeks got with
the wind and how his eyes got a glint in them that suggested that there was
more to this boy than jumpers and biology textbooks. John, seeing the look,
stuck his tongue out.
"Don't laugh, you think my hair looks messy? Take a look at your own, Curly
Sue,"  John said, trying in vain to flatten his hair back to its combed
neatness. Sherlock chuckled slightly.
"What did you call me?" he asked, running his fingers through his dark hair in
a halfhearted attempt to undo the knots in it. He gave up after a few seconds
however, finding that he didn't really care. John giggled slightly, but didn't
repeat the ridiculous nickname. The two boys made their way to the school,
laughing and joking.
"Hey mates," Lestrade said, joining them.
"Hi, Greg. How're you doing?" John greeted with a grin. Lestrade smiled back,
slightly puzzled, looking back and forth between the two grinning boys.
"What did the two of you eat for breakfast?" he asked, chuckling. John and
Sherlock laughed, but didn't answer. Lestrade continued to look oddly at them
for a moment before he let it go, far too used to the wild things John and
Sherlock got up to to be too bothered by it.
 
 
***
 
 
Come over after school -SH
 
sherlock, im in class, ill txt u later
 
also, ik its u, u dont have to sign ur initials
 
John, simply because we are texting, doesn't make it okay for you to write like
you're an illiterate idiot.  -SH
 
So you'll come over, right? -SH
 
i have it on pretty good authority that i am an idiot
 
and yeah, i guess
 
now stop txting me, im in class!!
 
John, you and I both know that you are in health class, and aren't listening
anyway. That class is useless. I could teach you more about health in 2
minutes, than that moron who calls himself a teacher  could in 2 years. -SH
 
And I said you were an idiot in comparison to me. In comparison with the rest
of the world, you are actually quite intelligent. -SH
 
wow, a complement?! from sherlock holmes?! what has the world come to?!
 
Shut up. -SH
 
wait is mycroft going to be at ur house?
 
John, what is with your irrational fear of my brother? And no, he is not going
to be home. -SH
 
its not irrational!! ur brother is terrifying!!
 
Don't be ridiculous, John -SH
 
John, feeling quite petulant, didn't text back, but tuned back into the lesson,
feeling that perhaps Sherlock was right about this class.
 
 
***
 
 
"John!" Sherlock called across the school parking lot from his motorbike. John,
who was exiting the school building and talking to Molly, ignored him.
"So how are things going with Jim?" he asked. He didn't really care about their
relationship, but he thought Molly might appreciate it. As he predicted, a
large smile bloomed on her face.
"Really good," she replied. "He's such a gentleman." John smiled.
"That's really great, Molly. I'm really happy for you," he said, quite
surprised to find that his words were genuine. He liked Molly quite a lot, and
was glad to see that she seemed to have finally gotten over her crush on
Sherlock.
"So, what about you? Anybody special?" she asked.
"John, hurry up!" Sherlock called loudly. John sighed, and acted annoyed, but
was secretly glad to have an excuse not to answer Molly's question. Not because
he thought she would mind, he just wasn't sure what to say about him and
Sherlock. They acted differently around each other now, but hadn't talked about
what their relationship was.
"I gotta go, Molly, sorry. See you tomorrow!" he said, walking quickly towards
Sherlock who was impatiently revving the engine of his bike. John gave him an
annoyed look, but it was lighthearted, and he didn't really mean it, and
Sherlock knew it. John barely had time to jump onto the bike and wrap his arms
tightly around Sherlock's waist before they were speeding off. John furrowed
his eyebrows, wondering why Sherlock was in such a hurry. The genius was always
impatient, but he was especially so today, muttering angrily at red lights, and
swerving around other cars with reckless abandon. John felt his heartbeat
thundering in his chest as they took a particularly tight turn at a
particularly high speed. He grinned, loving the speed, the danger, the smell of
leather, and gasoline and Sherlock that assaulted his nose.
A loud laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Sherlock spared a quick
glance behind him to see John's face and laughed as well.
All too soon, the ride was over, and Sherlock carefully maneuvered the large
bike into the garage before cutting off the engine.
"What's the big hurry?" John asked, slightly breathless, as he clambered off
the bike, his legs unsteady. As an answer, Sherlock took John's face in his own
calloused hands, and gently pressed his lips onto John's. John let out a soft
gasp before returning the kiss eagerly, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's
messy hair. John parted his lips, and met Sherlock's tongue with his own with a
small gasp. Kissing Sherlock was extraordinary, and no amount of imagination
could have prepared him for what he was experiencing.
"Sherlock," he gasped, pulling back slightly until their noses were brushing,
their lips less than inch away from each other. Sherlock gave a low whine and
tried to capture John's lips with his own once more, but John pulled back
reluctantly. "Sherlock, we're outside," he said, looking around. Sherlock
sighed sharply, before grabbing John's hand and quickly dragging him inside. As
soon as they made it through the door, Sherlock pressed John against the wall,
and attacked his lips with his own once more. John grabbed Sherlock's hips, and
pulled himself flush against the taller boy, so they were touching from chest
to thigh. Sherlock couldn't help the small moan the escaped past his lips and
was swallowed by John's. He ducked his head, licking and sucking his way down
John's jaw, dragging his teeth lightly on a sensitive area of John's neck.
"Sherlock," John gasped, running his hands down Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock,
wait." Sherlock lifted his head slightly, glaring at John from under his messy
curls.
"Sherlock, we need to stop," John said. Sherlock whined against John's
neck. Stop? Now? When everything was going so well? "Sherlock please," John
said, pushing at Sherlock's chest lightly.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, now slightly worried. It had been going well
for him, but maybe John didn't feel the same way...
"Nothing," John said quickly, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. "Trust me
Sherlock, nothing wrong. I just think we should take this...slower. I don't
want all of this to happen at once." Sherlock glared some more.
"Why not? I'm okay with it. According to the erection that's currently pressed
against my thigh, you're okay with it to. What's the problem?" John blushed,
and pulled away slightly, so that said erection wasn't being pressed into
Sherlock's thigh anymore.
"Sherlock, it's not that I'm not enjoying it--I am, very much so--it's that I
found out you like me just a few days ago, and this was our first kiss, and I
just think we should be taking this slower, is all. We have time, Sherlock,"
John reached up and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek, thumb rubbing over his
damn cheekbone. Sherlock leaned into his hand slightly. He stuck his lower lip
out petulantly, but nodded, seeing that John was probably right.
"Fine. Do you want any sweets? Mycroft just bought a box, and I want to finish
all of them before he gets home so he doesn't get any," Sherlock said grinning
wickedly. John bit his lip, looking unsure, so Sherlock sighed sharply in
annoyance. "It's good for him, he's trying to lose weight anyway. He shouldn't
be eating sweets. So really, by eating them, we'll be doing him a favor. In
fact, not eating them would be almost cruel," Sherlock said wicked grin
reappearing. John returned the grin.
"Well, when you put it that way, it would be most heartless of me to allow
Mycroft to eat them by himself and not continue his diet." Sherlock's grin
widened and he quickly clambered up the counter-top and stood on it, searching
the top of the cupboards. John really did try not to watch his arse. He really
did. But when it was so beautifully displayed in those tight pants, it was
almost impossible. Sherlock shot John a knowing glance and wiggled his arse
quite a bit more than was necessary. John cleared his throat.
"Er--Not that I'm not enjoying the view, but what are you doing?" he asked,
cheeks turning hot and red.
"Mycroft hid the box up here, thinking I wouldn't find it," Sherlock replied
with a quiet snort. "Fool." He gave a small crow of victory when he found it,
and jumped down from the counter. Taking John's hand, he led them to the large
living room. He flipped on the TV, finding one of those shows he knew John
liked (Doctor What, or some such) and opened the box of sweets happily. When
John sat down, Sherlock snuggled up close, burying his face in John's chest,
snorting at the show. Really, "it's bigger on the inside"? This show was
ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. But John giggled and carded his fingers
through Sherlock's hair, so it was bearable.
 
 
***
 
 
He watched on the street corner as John and Sherlock--his Sherlock--roared by.
John's grip on Sherlock's waist was just a bit too tight to be platonic, and
the glance Sherlock threw at John as they laughed together was far from just
friendly.
Victor grit his teeth in frustration, as he glared. He quickly jumped into his
car to follow them, a hard task, considering how fast Sherlock was going.
Victor had a faint idea why Sherlock was so eager to get home, and the thought
made him even more angry than before. Sherlock had promised. He had promised to
always be there for him. He said he was different from everyone else in his
life, because everyone else left. But Sherlock promised he would stay. Nobody
knew Sherlock like he did. Nobody knew him back then, when they were just two
broken boys running around London trying to find a way to piece it all together
again. And they had never managed it, but they had come close. Together, they
had come close.
But now Sherlock had John, and he didn't need Victor anymore. Victor, who had
been there for him when he was at his lowest point. Victor, to whom Sherlock
had gone to when he had no one else. Was replaced by John Watson, a nobody as
ordinary as rain in London.
Victor's hands gripped the steering wheel when he saw them kissing in
Sherlock's garage. He knew exactly what Sherlock tasted like after a fast ride
on the motorbike. Like wind and freedom and laughter.
Victor growled slightly. Yes, he had left, and he regretted it more and more
every day, but John had never been there to begin with. John hadn't been there
to see all of the nervous breakdowns, all the over doses, both unintentional
and intentional. John hadn't been there to see all the arguments and hadn't
been there to comfort Sherlock after each one. How that bastard could forget
everything that Victor had done for him, he didn't know.
He saw Sherlock pull John inside the house, and Victor knew exactly what would
happen from there. He knew because he had done it countless times. On the
counter-top, the dinner table, against the wall, against the front door. Every
time he half-expected Mycroft to walk in on them, but the adrenaline had only
added to the pleasure.
Victor slammed his head on the steering wheel, willing the tears to go away.
 
 
***
 
 
He giggled like schoolgirl when he saw them kiss. Ickle Sherly-kins wasn't such
a virgin after all, was he? he thought gleefully. He had to admit, he was
grateful the two idiots had finally stopped dancing around each other. Now that
Sherlock knew what it was like to have Johnny, it would be so much more fun to
tear him away from him. Jim giggled again. It really was Sherlock's fault. He
chose such an ordinary plaything, it would be almost too easy to put his plan
into action.
And he let John make him so unobservant, he hadn't even noticed that he had
been followed the whole way home by that Trevor fellow. Jim smiled sadly. He
really had hoped for a competent adversary, but it seemed that Sherlock was
just as hopelessly ordinary as the rest of them.
Chapter End Notes
     the plot's picking up, finally (woohoo!) sorry about the sorta
     cliffhanger, but actually, not sorry at all. I'll try and post again
     soon, but I missed two days of school, so I'm about to slammed with
     work (yay) so idk.
     as always, leave feedback please!
     if you wanna hang out with me on tumblr, my url is
     alwayswritewithtea.tumblr.com
     until next time, my lovelies!
***** Chapter Twelve *****
Chapter Notes
     hi remember me? yeah, i'm still alive. i'm sosososo super sorry i
     haven't updated in like months, i had ACTs and schoowork, and then
     some other stuff, and yeah i just really wasn't up to writing. but
     its ok, because im back now!
     enjoy and please don't hate me
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"Sherlock?" John said softly, entering the boy's room. He had been let into the
house by Mycroft, who took one look at him and snorted a soft "good luck." It
had been two weeks since Sherlock had left his room. "Sherlock, it's John."
"John!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, his head snapping up, his eyes unnaturally
bright.
"Sherlock, how long has it been since you slept?" John asked wearily. Though he
asked, he really didn't want to know the answer. Sherlock, knowing this, didn't
even spare him a glance; he was too engrossed in inspecting something
underneath his microscope. "Sherlock, really, what are you doing? This is
ridiculous! Is this still about that Carl Powers bloke? Should I be jealous?"
John's lame attempt at a joke fell flat as Sherlock didn't even lift his head
from his microscope. John sighed sharply, taking a seat on Sherlock's bed and
pulling out a book, figuring that if he was going to be ignored he might as
well do it in comfort.
"No," Sherlock said after about twenty minutes. John lifted his head from his
book, looking at him blankly.
"Hmm?" he asked. He was pretty interested in the book, but he didn't think he
could miss an entire conversation. He was no Sherlock, after all. Sherlock gave
him his John, You're Being an Idiot look.
"You asked if you should be jealous. And the answer is 'no.' Stop being
ridiculous, John. You know that," Sherlock explained as though talking to
someone very young. John blinked at him.
"Sherlock, that was about twenty minutes ago," John sighed. Sherlock looked at
John as though slightly worried for his mental health.
"Don't be silly, John, that was just a moment ago." John rolled his eyes, but
let it go, not wanting to spend the few moments he had of Sherlock's attention
to be spent on pointless bickering. He knew Sherlock would win anyway--he
always did, by sheer determination (all he had to do was wait for John to give
up, which usually happened fairly quickly) and what John called "unfair use of
cheekbones," which Sherlock claimed was nonsense, but John was convinced he did
it on purpose.
"Fine. Are you still focused on the Carl Powers thing?"
"Yes." John sighed.
"Sherlock, it's been a week since you've left your room. You haven't talked to
anyone in over two weeks, including me. Lestrade's convinced that you're dead.
The police said the case was closed! They don't understand why you're so
convinced there was some sort of foul play, and frankly, neither do I.”
"His shoes, John, his shoes! Where are they?" John sighed again.
"Sherlock, he was swimming. I'm not sure about you do, but most people wear
their shoes to go swimming," John said. Sherlock gave him a scathing look.
"John, stop being daft, it doesn't suit you. He had to wear his shoes to enter
the building, didn't he? He would have left his shoes in the locker room along
with all the rest of his clothes, but they aren't there! Where did they go?"
Sherlock exclaimed sharply. John rubbed a hand over his face.
"Sherlock," John said, his voice soft, "fine, conduct your mad experiments or
whatever you're doing, but eat something, yeah? Maybe get a few hours of sleep?
Come on, what you're doing can wait just a few minutes so you can eat, right?"
Sherlock barely spared him another glance before turning back to whatever he
had been doing. John sighed again, turning back to his book, even though he had
just reread the same paragraph six times and still had no idea what he was
reading.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock suddenly whispered. John looked up from his book to see
Sherlock staring at him with a strange look on his face.
"It's okay," he replied. Sherlock's lips pressed together in a thin line.
"No, it's not," he said abruptly. John looked at him blankly.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock sighed sharply, carding his fingers through his
hair, unsure of how to phrase what he was thinking.
“John, I think we need to break up,” Sherlock said abruptly. John choked, half
smiling, before looking at Sherlock and realizing he was serious.
“You—you’re serious?” he asked, slightly breathless.
“Do you really think I would joke about something like this?”
“Why?” John demanded. Sherlock shook his head, avoiding John’s eye.
“Many reasons, if I tried to explain them to you in full”—
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Sherlock. A few weeks ago, we were snogging in
your kitchen and everything was fine, now suddenly you want to break up? What
happened?”
“I don’t…feel the same way about you. What happened before was just me
being…confused.” Sherlock pushed the words through gritted teeth, hating how
much he was hurting John. Yet it had to be done. He couldn’t allow himself to
be so emotionally attached. John exhaled in a large puff of air, eyes hard on
Sherlock. After a few moments, he blinked and looked away.
"If you want to end this we can, I won't stop you. But Sherlock, please, make
sure it's what you really want. I...I don't want this to end. But if you feel
like it's what you need...I won't stop you." John said, squeezing the words
past the lump that was currently forming in his throat. Sherlock nodded
tightly, his full lips pursed. John looked at him, unable to stand it. He
leaned in abruptly, pressing his lips against Sherlock's hard, one last time.
"One condition," he breathed against the taller boy's lips.
"What?" Sherlock replied, his voice a low murmur.
"We stay friends, okay?”
“John, I don’t know if that’s”—
“No, Sherlock, I can't lose you. Not all of you." After a moment, Sherlock
nodded, his lips brushing against John's. He leaned closer for one last kiss,
before pulling away sharply, knowing that if he didn't he would never stop
kissing John. Both boys looked away and pretended not to notice as they each
wiped at their eyes surreptitiously. A few minutes later, John fled, unable to
meet Mycroft's eyes on his way out the door.
Chapter End Notes
     so um. oops. i swear this was supposed to be pages of nonstop porn to
     make up for the fact that i can't update like EVER. but then this
     happened. whatever, i'll roll with it because OMG ANGST.
     I'm a terrible person, i know.
     i promise it'll get better soon.
     don't hate me
***** Chapter Thirteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Our boys have a tough time adjusting to being single.
Chapter Notes
     as always, I'm super sorry about the late update. I don't even have a
     good excuse.
     I know, I'm horrible.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Shut up,” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. He was lying face-down on his bed,
where he had flung himself after John’s departure.
“I haven’t said anything,” Mycroft said from the doorway to Sherlock’s room.
Sherlock pitched a spare pillow from his bed towards his brother without
lifting his head. Mycroft watched calmly as it landed several feet from where
he stood. After a few moments, Sherlock lifted his head, glaring at Mycroft
under his mop of disheveled curls. Mycroft could see the telltale redness
around Sherlock’s eyes and knew that he had been crying. He didn’t bother to
mention it however, knowing Sherlock would only deny it. He didn’t want to
upset him further.
“What are you still doing here?” Sherlock asked sharply. Mycroft sighed,
wishing, not for the first time, that he was better at this. He could deduce
everything about how his brother was feeling right now. He knew exactly why he
had done what he did—obvious, really, there was never any doubt that Sherlock
was madly in love with that Watson boy—yet for the life of him, he had no idea
what to say or do that would make him feel better. Yet he did know someone, he
thought suddenly, who would know exactly what to say and do. Though she wasn’t
really supposed to be working today, Mycroft knew she wouldn’t mind. He walked
away, pulling out his phone.
“Mrs. Hudson?” he said when she answered. “May I ask you a small favor?”
 
 
***
 
 
How John made it home that night, he had no idea. Though he kept trying to
convince himself that he was going to be okay, that everything was fine,
really, it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t see because of the tears
that kept annoyingly blurring his vision. It didn’t change the fact that his
hands were shaking so badly it took him seven tries to start the ignition.
Yet, he did make it home, and was relieved to see that nobody else was home.
Harry had a dance recital that evening, and John had been hoping to make it
home before them. He immediately made for his room and pulled the door shut,
reaching into the back of his closet. His fingers closed around the cool neck
of a whiskey bottle. He quickly unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and
poured the contents into his mouth. He closed his eyes as the alcohol burned
down his throat, dissolving the lingering feeling of Sherlock’s mouth on his
own. He sat down on his bed, drinking.
When he was suitably tipsy, he picked up his phone, deciding that drinking
alone was becoming too pathetic even for him. After a few tries, he managed to
find Mike Stamford’s contact.
heu mate u bsuy?
 
at a party with some of the rugby lads. wanna join?
 
whrre?
 
Dimmock’s place u ok?
 
didnt u say u were gonna be with Sherlock tonight?
 
John?
 
A party. The perfect place to get wildly drunk and forget all about Sherlock
and his cruel words and sharp cheekbones and perfect lips and wonderful curls.
After replacing the whiskey bottle, he grabbed his keys. His mind momentarily
flicked to his health teacher, sternly telling the class to “never, ever, ever,
under any circumstances, drink and drive,” but he pushed the thought away. He
had barely had anything to drink, and the conversation with Sherlock playing on
repeat in his head was making him feel reckless. So he shrugged into his jacket
and made his way to his car. The alcohol steadied his hands, so it only took
him five tries to start the car, and those pesky tears were thankfully staying
away.
It took longer than it usually would have for John to find Dimmock’s house,
caused by a combination of the alcohol he had already drunk, the quickly
growing darkness, and the loss of an excellent—if horribly rude—navigator.
When he finally did find it, he was astonished that there was any way he had
missed it before. The party was clearly in full swing. The whole street shook
with the force of the bass pounding to a song that John didn’t know. The front
lawn was covered in streamers, empty beer bottles, and plenty of other things
John had no interest in investigating.
John parked by the other cars, knowing Sherlock would take one look around and
scoff. “A party, John?” he would say. “Really? How pedestrian.” John shook his
head and got out of the car. He didn’t care what Sherlock would say. Sherlock
wasn’t here.
He let himself into the house, knowing that once people began to drink there
was no point in trying to be polite.
“John, mate! Alright? Didn’t you say you were going to Sherlock’s tonight?”
Stamford called from across the room. John merely waved in response, with a
vague motion towards his ears, pretending he couldn’t hear. He seized a beer
bottle from the counter, and drank it, wondering of Dimmock had anything
stronger. He noticed Mike starting to make his way over to him, and he quickly
turned away, searching for a familiar face that wouldn’t ask too many
questions.
“John!” he heard. He looked toward the call and saw none other than Victor
Trevor, leaning against the wall waving. Wondering what he wanted, John walked
over to him.
“Hi Victor,” said John warily. “How are you?”
“Great! I’m so great, John,” Victor replied, gesturing largely. Taking a closer
look, John could see his eyes were red and he was swaying slightly.
“Are you high?” John asked. Victor looked insulted.
“No, I’m just a little drunk,” he said. John leaned in, looking at him closer
and shot him a doubtful look. “Fine, maybe a little bit high. But only on weed,
I promise,” admitted Victor. John merely nodded in response.
“So what are you doing here?” he asked. Victor shrugged, grinning.
“Getting high.” John smiled in return. Even though he should be mad at
Victor—should hate him—for what he did to Sherlock, at that moment, with a few
too many drinks in him, he found that he didn’t. Instead, he was mad at
Sherlock. At that moment, he hated everything about Sherlock. He wanted to hurt
him. It really is understandable, what Victor did, John thought. He was young,
and it might not have been the greatest decision, but it was understandable.
“How are you?” As an answer, John merely chugged his beer. Victor nodded,
seeming to understand. They talked for a few more minutes, speech getting
steadily more slurred and movements getting steadily clumsier. All of the
sudden, Victor swayed on his feet, and John tried to catch him by the
shoulders, but found that he was just as unsteady. The result was them both
leaning heavily against the wall, faces less than an inch apart.
Without any sort of planning beforehand, or even having any sort of knowledge
about what he was doing, John leaned over, pressing his lips hard against
Victor’s. He stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second, before
enthusiastically returning the kiss. John pushed Victor against the wall, their
kiss turning fierce. His hands were in John’s hair, pulling lightly, and he
scraped his teeth against Victor’s lips.
“What about Sher”— John pressed his lips against Victor’s, cutting him off. He
seemed to get the idea, and didn’t try and ask again. Instead, he ran his
large, calloused hands—so different from Sherlock’s—down John’s back, and
grabbed his arse, pulling his groin closer to his own. John moaned into
Victor’s mouth, already half-hard and feeling Victor’s own erection against his
hip. Victor pulled away and grabbed John’s hand.
“Come here,” he said his voice rough, his lips swollen. Gripping John’s hand,
he led them down the hall to an empty bedroom. Sparing a brief, apologetic
thought to Mike, John pushed Victor on the bed, slipping his hands under
Victor’s shirt. He shoved it up, pulling it off and throwing it on the ground
carelessly. His hands immediately found Victor’s nipples, brushing his fingers
over them, and rolling the peaks between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for
the gasp of pleasure, and kicking himself mentally when it didn’t come.
Right.
That was Sherlock who was absurdly sensitive. All of the sudden, everything
just felt so wrong. The tanned skin under hands, the thin lips under his own,
the straight hair that was threading between his fingers. He pulled away
abruptly, a look of disgust on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but I—just I can’t.” He pushed himself off of the
bed, straightening his shirt to avoid Victor’s eye.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. John just shook his head, unable to answer past the
lump in his throat. What had he just done? “He broke it off, didn’t he?” John
glanced up at the unexpected softness in Victor’s voice.
After a few moments, he nodded once, then turned and left, fearing that if he
opened his mouth to talk, he would vomit. He made his way unsteadily back to
the party, grabbing a glass of water. He chugged it, but he couldn’t get the
taste of Victor’s mouth off his tongue.
Suddenly, the thick atmosphere seemed suffocating. The noise was overwhelming.
The putrid stink of sweat, beer, and weed was making him feel nauseas. He
pushed his way to the door, breathing in the cool night air when he got
outside.
He was more careful driving home—finding himself snogging his boyfriend’s ex-
boyfriend having sobered him quite effectively.
Ex-boyfriend, he corrected himself, feeling like he was being punched in the
gut. His ex-boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend.
When he arrived back home, his parents were home with Harry. Somewhere in the
back of his mind, he worried about the way he smelled and the way he looked,
but he let himself in anyway, deciding that there was only so much worse this
day could get.
His parents were sitting at the kitchen table, tea set in front of them,
talking quietly. He tried to slip past them without being noticed, but he
tripped on his way to the hallway that led to his room. He lay there, dazed and
confused.
“John?” he heard his father say worriedly. He rolled over onto his back,
staring up at the ceiling, telling himself the tears were from the pain of
falling down. His father’s face hovered within his line of vision, creased with
worry. He hated putting that look there. He wanted to jump up, say he was fine,
and laugh it off. He wanted to be the John his dad thought he was.
Instead, he curled in on himself, giving a soft groan.
“Okay, come here,” his dad said, scooping him up in his arms, grunting softly.
“Tom? What’s going on?” John’s mother called from the kitchen.
“Nothing, Johnny’s just a bit sick. I’ll put him into bed, and be there in a
moment,” his father replied, giving John a look that told him that even though
he didn’t tell John’s mother, Tom Watson knew what was going on.
When they reached John’s bedroom, his dad gently placed him on his bed.
“You were drinking.” It wasn’t a question. John buried his face into his
pillow, not wanting to talk, not wanting to see the disappointment in his
father’s eyes. “Is everything alright?”
“No.” The word escaped him unbidden, in a sob. And with that, the tears were
coming in waves that John couldn’t hold back even if he had the energy to try.
His dad sat down on the bed and wrapped his arms around his son, stroking his
back soothingly, and not minding that is shirt was being ruined.
“What happened?” he asked softly after a few moments. John took a deep breath,
calming himself somewhat.
“Sherlock broke up with me,” he replied, his voice rough. “And I know it’s
stupid—we weren’t even dating for that long, but it’s just…I thought it was
going so well, you know? And I don’t understand where I went wrong. And I just
feel like…he was special, you know? He was my best friend. And now I don’t know
if it will be the same. So I…did something stupid tonight, and I did it because
I was angry and sad, but now he’ll hate me forever.” John took a deep breath
when he was done, already feeling a little bit better. His father continued to
stroke his back comfortingly.
“Oh, John, I’m sorry, champ. I’m sure he wouldn’t hate you if you just
explained to him why you did what you did and that you’re really sorry. And I’m
sure the two of you can be friends. It might be hard, but you’re such good
friends, it will be okay.” John nodded, allowing himself to be soothed. He
leaned on his dad, his eyes drifting shut.
Within a few moments, he was asleep. Tom Watson stood carefully, gently placing
John on his pillow and covered him with the blanket. His pressed a light kiss
to his blonde hair before turning out the light and leaving, quietly closing
the door.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm so sorry about the angst...it will get better soon, I pinky
     promise.
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