Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1052607.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms, Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Molly_Hooper, Harry_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes,
      Greg_Lestrade, Mrs._Hudson, Jim_Moriarty, Mike_Stamford
  Additional Tags:
      Teenlock, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Falling_In_Love, Mental
      Health_Issues, Developing_Relationship, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-20 Completed: 2014-05-25 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 61701
****** However Improbable ******
by earlybloomingparentheses
Summary
     When unhappy sixth-former John Watson meets the brilliant ex-Etonian
     Sherlock Holmes, he finds his heart spending more time in his mouth
     than in his chest. Soon, he's navigating a sea of unfamiliar desires,
     his father's alcoholic disapproval, and the jagged edges of his new
     friend's extraordinary mind. Sometimes, he learns, love is soft and
     safe; sometimes, it's blood and teeth and fists. But then again, so
     is secondary school.
Notes
     Trigger warnings for alcoholism, homophobia (not from major
     characters), mental health issues, and eventual (fully consensual)
     sex between teenagers.
     I plan on updating once every week or so. Please forgive any
     accidental Americanisms--I'm doing my best with the British school
     system, but I can't promise total accuracy. (:
***** Chapter 1 *****
Walking into school on the first day of his final year feels to John Watson a
little like surfacing after a long stint underwater. The sun is too bright; all
the tiny details of his surroundings—the flaking brown paint of the railings
along the front steps, the shadow cast by the hulking shape of the
auditorium—are too sharp and just a bit off, their utter familiarity turning
them, paradoxically, into caricatures of themselves. After a summer spent
mostly inside, studying for his A-levels and making sure his dad wasn’t hiding
whisky bottles in the sofa cushions, school seems oppressively garish and loud.
The shrieks of the younger children are already making John’s head hurt, and
the thought of chatting with his friends, far from being a welcome change,
seems tiresome. He feels as though he’s about to become a cog in a vast
machine, shunted through the mechanisms of classes and homework and exams until
it finally spits him out—hopefully into a pre-med program at a decent
university. He wishes he could just skip to the endpoint now. The rest of it
all seems so exhausting, and pointless. 
When the hell did he become so cynical? he wonders as he shifts his bag higher
on his shoulder and watches his sister disappear into a crowd of fellow fifth-
years, looking no happier than he does to be there. Time was he’d liked school,
well enough anyway; a year ago today he’d been looking forward to seeing Mike
and Bill and the others, to starting sixth-form chemistry and biology classes,
to snogging Sarah Sawyer (he hoped) behind the gym. Well, he had snogged
her—done more than that, too—and it had been damn good, until this past summer.
He wasn’t paying enough attention to her anymore, she’d said—and fine, it was
true enough, and his mates said more or less the same thing, though they didn’t
exactly break up with him over it. But John could hardly have any of them over,
could he, when his dad was a little pissed half the time, and John couldn’t
leave the house too much or he’d get even more pissed. And since Harry refused
to take any share of the responsibility, staying out till all hours and causing
rows when she came home half-drunk herself—well, it was no wonder John had lost
touch with people. 
And no wonder, maybe, that he’d got a bit cynical. 
He lingers on the threshold a little longer, drawing out the moment before he
surrenders himself to the machinery of Chesterton Secondary School. It’s a
mistake, though, because a second later somebody’s calling his name, far too
enthusiastically for a quarter to nine in the morning. 
“John! John Watson!” 
“Hey, Mike.” John plasters a smile on his face before turning to see a stocky,
bespectacled Mike Stamford hurrying toward him. 
“How are you? Blimey, it’s been ages.” 
“Yeah. Studying a lot.” 
Mike shakes his head, looking amazed. “Wish I had your stamina. Look, got to
run, I’m helping Acres with fourth-year bio and I said I’d get the frogs out of
freezer before school, but I’ll see you in class—and we’re getting up a game of
rugby this afternoon, you should join!” 
John nods noncommittally. He’s planning to go home right away, actually, and
make sure his dad’s doing all right, but Mike doesn’t need to know that. He
watches his friend hurry up the front steps and sighs, figuring he’d better go
in too. There’s a school-wide assembly first thing, just some stupid welcome
address from the headmaster, and he’d rather not get stuck in the first few
rows. 
“John!” 
It’s the second time somebody’s called out his name with too much energy this
morning, and John closes his eyes. But when he opens them, he’s pleasantly
surprised to see Molly Hooper standing in front of him. She’s wearing a crooked
smile and a jumper dotted with tiny cats that doesn’t match her headband, and
the fact that she and John don’t know each other well enough for her to expect
anything from him makes John’s answering smile more genuine. 
“Hey, Molly, how was your summer?” 
“All right,” she says, as they head through the front doors, dodging tin lunch
pails and stray elbows. “I spent it with my gran down in Cornwall. Bit dull,
really, but don’t you think Prince George is the most perfect baby alive? I
cried buckets when they announced he’d been born. Oh, and there was a bit of
excitement when a body washed up on the beach—that was good, I liked that.” She
looks suddenly horrified. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean it like that—I just—I only
meant—” 
“It’s okay,” John assures her, feeling a laugh bubbling up for the first time
that day. “I know you want to work at a morgue.” They were lab partners in
chemistry last year, and Molly is nothing if not irrepressibly voluble. He
knows all about her cats, her love of Kate Middleton, and, rather bizarrely,
her ambition to perform autopsies for the rest of her life. 
She smiles in relief. “Yeah. Right. How was your summer? Do anything special?” 
John shakes his head and, for a moment, is tempted to tell her the truth.
Molly’s complete ingenuousness invites confidences, and frankly he’s a bit
tired of keeping it all to himself. But as he opens his mouth, something hard
hits him in the chest, and he stumbles, catching himself on the stair rail. 
“Ah, sorry,” he apologizes, a little winded, to the young man he’s with whom
he’s just collided. “Didn’t see you coming.” 
The boy looks at him, and John blinks. The stranger’s gaze is penetrating, his
steel-colored eyes intense under a dramatic swoop of dark hair and a broad,
pale forehead. His clothes are crisp and tailored and even though Chesterton’s
not bad as far as London’s comprehensive schools go, this young man looks far
too posh to be there. John doesn’t recognize him. 
“John Watson,” he says, suddenly curious, and sticks out a hand. 
The boy shakes, briefly. His long fingers are cold. “Sherlock Holmes.” 
“I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly pipes up.
Sherlock Holmes barely glances at her. He’s gazing at John, eyes narrowed. John
feels something move in his chest, fragile and tentative as the tiny inward
curling of tissue paper that’s just caught fire. 
“Berington or Thames?” the boy asks intently. 
John’s stomach drops. He stares at Sherlock. 
“What did you say?” he asks, sure he’s heard wrong. 
“Your father, was he laid off from Berington shipyard or Thames?” 
The delicate feeling in his chest is gone, replaced by the heavy thud of his
heart. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or amazed. He hasn’t told a
single person, not one, that his father lost his job in June. 
“Berington,” he answers. Because what else could he possibly say? 
Sherlock nods, one sharp jerk of his head. John opens his mouth without knowing
whether or not he’s about to explode with anger, but then he catches the
tiniest of movements flitting across Sherlock’s face, there and gone in a
heartbeat—Sherlock just flinched. 
“How did you know that?” John asks, finding his voice. He thinks that Sherlock
relaxes, ever so slightly, but then the boy’s face assumes a lofty, almost
pompous expression, and John wonders if he imagined it. 
“That mark on your shoe, it’s oil and Thames water—no, don’t ask how I can
tell, it’s obviously the color, it’s totally unique—but it’s old, from last
spring, and there’s another like it on your other shoe, several months older
than that,” Sherlock rattles off. “You’ve spent time down by the docks,
probably in a shipyard. A relative works there, most likely your father. Or
rather, he used to work there, but doesn’t anymore. Your cuffs are mended,
inexpertly at that, and you should have got new runners for school this fall,
but you didn’t—money is tight, but only recently. Given the current economic
crisis and the recent layoffs of industrial workers, it follows that your
father was likely amongst them. Unusual, though, isn’t it, for a working class
family to live near Chesterton? Wealthy relations, perhaps? Ah, yes, probably
on the mother’s side—she’s deceased, of course, she’d never have let you grab
your brother’s schedule by accident like that. Quite careless of you.” 
John stares, open-mouthed, at the boy, until his body catches up with his
brain. He looks down at his hand, where he’s clutching not one but two
schedules, the first of which reads HARRY WATSON. 
“Oh, shit,” he swears. “She’s going to be livid.” 
Sherlock frowns. “She?” 
“Harry. Short for Harriet. I don’t…” John’s head is buzzing. He takes another
long look at Sherlock Holmes, his pale face and posh clothes, and finds he’s
grinning madly. Why the hell doesn’t he care that this boy just divulged a
secret he’d been carefully keeping all summer long? 
He doesn’t, though. He really doesn’t. 
Sherlock looks a bit like he’s swallowed a lemon upon hearing that he’s got
something wrong. He lets out an impatient noise and turns on his heel without a
further word. John has a sudden swift sensation that something is slipping
through his fingers, but then he sees that the boy has dropped a box on the
ground. 
“Hey! You forgot your…” John’s words stutter to a halt. Inside the plastic
container he’s just picked up are three small grayish balls that John cannot
fail to identify. 
“…your eyeballs,” he finishes. 
Sherlock stops in his tracks, and there’s the tiniest of pauses before he turns
around. Then he strides back over and plucks the container from John’s hand. 
“Thank you,” he says coolly, and disappears down the corridor. 
It feels to John as if the boy has teleported away—like there’s a rush of air
into the spot he’d just been occupying, and a strange lingering imprint of his
shape on the back of John’s eyelids. 
“John,” Molly says, her voice hushed and reverent. John jumps—she’d been so
uncharacteristically quiet that he’d forgotten she was there. “He’s amazing.” 
John blinks. Molly’s face is shining, her eyes round as saucers. “He’s
brilliant. Oh my god. And beautiful. And he had eyeballs.” 
“That’s—” John laughs. “Ha. That’s a good thing?” 
“Maybe he was studyingthem.” 
“Right.” John laughs again. He feels oddly light, his earlier cynicism
vanished. “Of course. Bloody hell, that’s the bell. We’re going to be late,
Molly, better run!” 
She shrieks and scurries to catch up as he tears down the corridor. They make
it into the auditorium just in time, slinking into the back row and stifling
their giggles. John hasn’t felt so good in ages. Not even Harry’s scowl when he
catches her eye and holds up her schedule can dampen his spirits. 
Eyeballs, he thinks, grinning inwardly. Christ.
 
 
 
He doesn’t think about Sherlock Holmes again until that afternoon. At first,
he’s too busy cursing himself for believing he could manage A-level French. He
doesn’t even needA-level French. He should have dropped it last fall—he’s so
bloody stubborn sometimes. For once he wishes he’d admit when he’s been beaten.
And then he’s got a study period, which, embarrassingly, he already needs. Then
the headache of irregular subjunctive verb conjugations becomes the even
greater headache of lunch with his mates, who seem to have spent so much time
together over the summer holidays that their conversation sounds to him like a
sort of code, all inside jokes and references to events he wasn’t there for.
What’s worse is that he can’t even work up the energy to care. He doesn’t
wantto know what “Charlie’s bangers and mash disaster” was, or if “Tarty Tara,”
whomever she is, finally “dropped her drawers” for Bill. All the colors seem
too bright again, the noises too loud. Mike keeps laughing with milk in his
mouth, spraying little flecks all over his lunch, and it’s making John feel
vaguely ill. 
He buries himself in his cheese sandwich and tries not to wonder if his dad has
started in on the whiskey yet. 
Then it’s biology, something John’s good at, thank god, and he peels himself
away from Mike to go sit next to Molly, whose startled but pleased smile of
welcome is just about the only nice thing in the room. 
“We’re dissecting frogs next week!” she says in lieu of a hello. “I talked to
Mr. Lestrade at lunch. It’s anatomy all this term, isn’t that brilliant?” 
John nods, because it is, actually, but before he can say anything, Molly’s
eyes widen and she freezes, her hand gripping the tabletop. She doesn’t move a
muscle. 
“Molly?” 
She doesn’t answer. John follows her gaze and feels that funny little flutter
in his chest. Sherlock Holmes has just taken a seat at a table in the back,
fixing his grey-eyed gaze on the empty blackboard and drumming several thin
fingers on the tabletop. He doesn’t take out any textbooks or even a pen, just
sits there by himself, looking deeply skeptical and attracting one or two
curious glances. 
“He’s a fifth-year,” Molly whispers. “What’s he doing here?” 
John looks away from the dark-haired boy—an oddly difficult thing to do—and
raises an eyebrow at Molly. “How do you know that, then?” 
She flushes scarlet. “I, er. I asked Mrs. Hudson. The secretary, you know?
She’s quite lovely, I used to go and talk to her at lunch when I didn’t have
anyone else to—when I, er, well, anyway, she—she says he’s a fifth-year, and
his family’s quite important—government or something—and that he used to go to
Eton.” 
John is torn between amusement and sympathy, as far as Molly is concerned, but
he can’t pretend he’s not intrigued by this bit of information. He’s been
feeling oppressed all day by the dull familiarity of Chesterton, and Sherlock
Holmes is something different. And if John thinks about eyeballs in a plastic
container, he doesn’t have to think about anything else. 
“Maybe he’s some sort of genius, then,” John suggests, half teasingly. Sure
enough, Molly’s eyes grow glassy, and he can almost see stars clustered in her
pupils. 
“Do you think?” she breathes. 
“Could be. Why else is he in upper-sixth biology?” 
“Maybe we should go and say hello,” Molly says, nervously patting down a stray
wisp of hair. “He’s all by himself.” 
For some reason, John doesn’t like the idea, though he’s aware only of a stab
of reluctance, not its cause. He feels vaguely that speaking again to Sherlock
Holmes will be somehow disappointing—maybe he worries that the boy will prove
ordinary after all, his brilliant insights that morning meretricious and his
curious aloofness mere snobbery; or maybe, though John can’t begin to
articulate how or why, that it is John himself who will be the disappointment.
He’d rather sit here, safe and distant, with Sherlock a mere possibility, a
mere notion of something better and more exciting than the rest of the world. 
It doesn’t quite occur to him to wonder what on earth he’s doing, thinking such
strange thoughts. 
He and Molly don’t go over to Sherlock anyway, after all, because Mr. Lestrade
walks in, bidding everyone a cheerful hello and then plunging into the most
detailed and complex lecture about the pulmonary system that John has ever
heard. His head is buried deep in his notebook, his hand cramping with the
rapid note-taking after a long summer of rest, and it isn’t until he comes up
for air halfway through that he notices Sherlock Holmes, sitting back in his
chair, arms crossed, looking vaguely bored, not taking a single note. 
He’s either the most arrogant bastard in the history of Chesterton School, or
he is far, far smarter than anybody else in the room. Or possibly both. 
Lestrade has noticed, too, apparently. When he finishes his lecture, he asks
them all a series of tricky questions, not just review from the lecture but
stuff they really have to think about. The class is struggling, their brains
clearly out of practice, though all John’s studying over the holidays is paying
off pretty well. Still, when Lestrade—shaking his head ruefully, as though he
oughtn’t to have expected better, but did anyway—asks something about the
effects of a malfunctioning conus arteriosusin frogs versus humans, it goes
just as much over John’s head as everybody else’s. 
“You lot,” Lestrade laments, “have had your brains turned to mush by too much
telly.” He casts a suddenly sharp eye towards the table in the back corner, and
John knows with a queer little jolt of nerves that he’s staring straight at
Sherlock Holmes. The boy hasn’t said a word all class, doing nothing but
sitting with a bored expression on his face—John’s been sneaking glances at him
to see if he’s moved. 
“And what about you—Mr. Holmes, isn’t it?” Lestrade says, crossing his arms
across his chest and giving Sherlock a look that John would rather not find
trained on him. He likes Lestrade quite a lot, but the man doesn’t have much
patience for students who don’t take his class seriously. “Do you have anything
to contribute?” 
Sherlock looks as though he’s deciding whether or not it’s worth his time to
answer. Everyone’s faces are turned to look at him now, some with curiosity,
others smirking, a few openly hostile. Next to John, Molly is gripping the edge
of her chair. John feels an odd sort of sinking feeling, as if Sherlock has
already failed to—well, to what, exactly? 
But what comes out of Sherlock’s mouth is so rapid and confident and frankly
beyond John’s comprehension that he’s not even sure what Sherlock says. Only
that it’s brilliant. He’s pretty sure Sherlock is outlining all the major
differences between frog and human hearts, largely, it sounds like, in Latin.
Lestrade’s eyes grow wider and wider as he speaks, the rest of the class is
exchanging glances and whispers, and Molly, John suspects, is having a minor
heart attack. 
John’s heart is soaring. 
“Well,” Lestrade says, after Sherlock finally shuts his mouth, not quite
managing to disguise the fact that he’s pleased with himself by adopting an
expression of utter boredom. “All right, then. We’ll have to find you some
extra work to do, mate. I’m afraid knowing all the answers doesn’t get you out
of the homework—not in my class, anyway.” 
There’s a bit of laughter, and the tension that John didn’t even know had
gathered dissipates. The class moves on. John tries to concentrate, but he
feels like something has changed. The dullness he felt before, the boredom, has
gone. It’s been replaced by a funny sort of restlessness, an itch at the back
of his brain or maybe in the tips of his fingers. Like he’s waiting for
something. Or like he’s missing out on something, right this minute. It’s the
most peculiar sensation, and it doesn’t disappear until the bell rings and John
collects his things, carefully keeping his eyes on his desk, his notebook, his
bag, only turning around when he’s ready to leave. 
Sherlock is already gone. Of course he is, but John bites back a sinking
feeling nonetheless. He wishes—oh, he doesn’t know, really. Just that he might
escape the drudgery of school for a few moments longer, he supposes. 
But that’s too much to hope for. He bids goodbye to Molly, and hello to
calculus, and by the end of the day he’s exhausted, as much by the thought of
what he’ll find at home as the rigors of school. He feels a twinge of guilt at
skipping out on his friends’ rugby game without so much as an apology, but not
much regret. Harry, as expected, is nowhere to be seen, so he sets off for home
alone, under a gray and cloud-filled sky.
 
 
 
His dad opens the door, looking fresher and brighter than he has in days.
Startled, John notes that there’s not a trace of alcohol on his person; he’s
steady on his feet and clear-eyed. It’s been months since four o’clock found
his father entirely sober. 
“Hey, John,” his father says, a hopeful smile on his face. “How was school?” 
“All right,” John says, kicking off his runners and setting his bag on the
kitchen table. He feels wary of his dad’s mood, and guilty for his wariness.
“Did you, um…have a good day?” 
His dad nods eagerly, putting the kettle on the stove. “Yeah. Yeah, it was
good, I rang Tommy, you know, from the gym—he knows a couple people at
Hardwicke’s, the construction firm. Says there might be a foreman position
opening up—says he’ll put in a good word for me.” His dad pulls a couple of
mugs out of the dish drainer, mugs John washed that morning before school, and
plunks a pair of teabags into them. John can’t remember the last time he made
tea. “I think things are looking up, John, I really do. Got to get myself
sorted out now, yeah? Now you are Harriet are back in school. Can’t be lazing
about here forever.” 
John wants to believe him, he really does. He wants to believe in his dad’s
good intentions, wants to have faith in the mugs of tea and his dad’s keen
smile. And in fact, he feels a curl of hope rise up inside him like the steam
snaking up from his tea—but he tamps it down ruthlessly, and hates himself for
it. He’s heard this speech too many times before. 
“That’s great, dad,” he says, smiling as genuinely as he can manage. “Really
great.” 
His dad nods, then burns his tongue on his tea. “Dammit!” he snaps, and John
can’t help but flinch. His dad catches the movement, and they sit in silence
for a second, the air curdling between them. 
“So, where is your sister?” his dad asks, forcing cheerfulness back into his
voice. “Staying after to study already?” 
John almost snorts. If his dad really believes that, he’s more delusional than
John knew. “Dunno,” he says, immediately regretting the unkind thought. “I
suppose.” 
His dad frowns. “Well, I hope she comes home in time for supper. I’m making
shepherd’s pie.” 
John’s stomach clenches, and he turns briefly away to hide it. Shepherd’s pie
was his mum’s favorite. His dad used to make it for her when she needed a pick-
me-up, back in those early years that John remembers through a golden haze, the
years that seemed all low light and laughter. He knows they can’t really have
been like that, knows that it’s his mind playing with his memories, making them
seem brighter because of the darkness that came after. Still, when he imagines
heaven, he thinks of himself at nine years old, before his mum got cancer,
before his dad started drinking, back when he and Harry used to make blanket
forts together in the basement. Heaven, he thinks, is probably one big blanket
fort, lit with torches and full of shepherd’s pie. 
He pushes these thoughts aside and starts on his calculus homework. 
By half past six, all thoughts of heaven have vanished. The shepherd’s pie is
growing cold on the counter, and his dad is pacing the kitchen floor, muttering
angrily under his breath. 
“First day of school, you’d think she could make the effort for once, but no,
she’s off running around god knows where with god knows who—John, are you sure
your sister didn’t say when she’d be home?” 
John suppresses an irritated sigh. “No, dad,” he says for the fifth or sixth
time. “I’m sure she’s fine.” 
“Oh, yeah, she’s fine now, but wait till she comes back—” 
They eat, eventually, cold shepherd’s pie, and John goes upstairs to his
bedroom. He knows he should stay and keep his dad company, but he just can’t
stand it anymore. As he closes his door, he hears the distinct crack and then
hiss of a beer bottle opening, and lets out a long sigh. 
It’s not until eleven o’clock that Harry returns, and from his bedroom John can
hear the shouting. It’s the usual argument, full of curses and recriminations,
and John can’t help but tense up as he slides under his bedcovers. His dad
doesn’t get physically violent unless he’s really, really drunk, but he
certainly gets nasty, and Harry gives as good as she gets. The fight ends like
about half his dad and sister’s fights do these days, with Harry shouting that
she won’t do anything their dad says if he won’t even call her Harry, like she
wants, and with their dad retaliating that he named her Harriet and he’ll
fucking call her Harriet as long as she’s under his fucking roof… 
John shoves his head under the pillow. He can’t relax, not even when the
yelling stops, not even when the hands of his clock tick past midnight. His
mind won’t float away like it does before falling asleep; it feels crammed
full, tethered to the boring, stupid, pointless, ordinaryworld with all its
stupid, pointless problems…He casts about for something, anything, to distract
himself, something fresh and new and unsullied, something totally separate from
everything else in his life. 
He remembers Sherlock Holmes. 
With what feels like an enormous sigh of relief, John lets his mind drift away
from his body, remembering the boy’s rapid-fire deductions, his box of
eyeballs, his distant, pale face and sharply pressed clothes. The thought of
Sherlock’s strangeness is like a cool hand on his feverish forehead, and he
drifts off to sleep with a mind full of dark curls and steel-grey eyes.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     John and Sherlock grow closer in fits and starts.
The next morning, something has changed. 
John doesn’t realize it at first. Not while his dad is making the usual
apologies, not while Harry is trudging silently next to him on the walk to
school, not when he’s having a halfway-decent conversation with Mike about a
fourth-year who accidentally lobbed a dead frog into her lab partner’s face.
It’s not until he turns his face away in laughter and sees a head of dark,
curly hair emerging from a sleek black car that John realizes what’s
different. 
He’s been thinking about Sherlock Holmes all morning long. 
No, not thinking about him. Not precisely. It’s more like Sherlock has just
sort of been hovering there, at the back of his mind, since he woke up. As if
thinking about him before going to sleep has made him melt into John’s
consciousness. John realizes now that somewhere in his brain, as he ate his
oatmeal and packed up his textbooks and scuffed his shoes along the sidewalk,
was the constant hum of awareness that Sherlock Holmes exists. 
The young man himself walks past them, not five feet away, and John turns
quickly back to Mike, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. He doesn’t know if Sherlock
looks at him or not—doesn’t know if Sherlock is even aware of his presence, or
gives it a second thought. 
John hopes, with sudden intensity, that he does. 
“You okay?” Mike asks, frowning in concern, and John hoists a smile back on his
face. 
“Yeah, sorry, just—just realized how to do one of the problems in the calc
homework. Been bothering me all night.” 
Mike snorts. “You have got to get a life, mate.” 
John walks with Mike into school, feeling like his skin has been turned inside
out. Instead of his surroundings seeming garish and familiar, like they did
yesterday, everything feels a bit strange, a bit different. He opens his locker
and imagines Sherlock Holmes looking through his eyes, seeing all his books and
papers for the first time. He wonders whether Sherlock could deduce things from
them like he did with John’s shoes and cuffs the day before. He wonders how
much Sherlock has already guessed about John’s life just from looking at him.
The thought makes his stomach dip, as if John’s on a ship that has just crested
a wave. 
And all through the day, John finds himself worrying at Sherlock’s presence in
his mind, the way he’d worried at scabs when he was younger. It doesn’t occur
to him to stop, or to question his newfound preoccupation; he’s just glad that
something has replaced his worry for his dad, and that the dull depression of
the day before has been overturned. It’s profoundly interesting, whatever is
happening, and John can’t help but enjoy the strange extra awareness he has for
his surroundings—he’s got one ear cocked for footsteps, one eye open for a
flash of dark curls—now that he’s waiting for Sherlock to appear. In the
lunchroom, on the stairwell. Because John finds thinking about Sherlock a damn
sight nicer than thinking about himself. 
It’s not till chemistry that John does see Sherlock again, though—he should
have figured the boy would show up in another upper-sixth class, given how
brilliant he seems to be. Molly and Mike are both in the other section of chem,
so John walks in alone, and his stomach gives another funny little dip when he
sees Sherlock sitting at a table in back. He’s by himself, as usual. There’s
not a chance that John can get up the courage go sit next to him, but he does
walk a little closer to Sherlock than he needs to, feeling his face grow warm
as he passes by. He hopes that Sherlock—well, that Sherlock notices him, that
he thinks to notice him. That John is somehow more significant to Sherlock than
some random classmate. As John sits down and opens his chemistry textbook, his
eyes fixed firmly in front of him, he can feel Sherlock in the back row, can’t
shake the awareness of Sherlock’s presence. It’s like that all through class.
Sherlock doesn’t say a thing, and John makes no sign that he’s at all aware of
the other boy. But underneath John’s furious note taking—because chem is harder
than bio by a long shot—he knows that Sherlock is there. And that secret little
knowledge (for it does feel, in some inarticulate way, like a secret) makes
John feel alive again, awake, and both more and less real than usual.
 
 
The sensation fades a bit over the next few days, in the sense that he doesn’t
think of Sherlock all the time anymore. But it’s stronger than ever when he’s
actually in Sherlock’s presence. In chem, he takes to sitting at a table across
the room but parallel with Sherlock, so that every now and then he catches the
boy out of the corner of his eye. Molly’s crush hasn’t lessened at all, but
John—who is now spending more and more time with her—has stopped teasing her
about it. He doesn’t like to talk about Sherlock to other people. And when Bill
brings him up at the lunch table on Thursday, John freezes, feeling suddenly
exposed. But nobody even looks his way. And why would they? There is nothing,
absolutely nothing, to connect John with Sherlock. It’s all in John’s head. 
“He’s in my brother’s English class,” Bill says through a mouthful of chips.
“The teacher asked for his opinion on Romeo and Juliet, and apparently he
called William Shakespeare ‘that blithering idiot.’” 
Everybody laughs. John doesn’t know whether to be dismayed by or in awe of
stories like this—and he’s heard a few by now. Sherlock hardly blends in, after
all. 
“I hear his brother’s some government bigwig,” Charlie puts in. 
“I hear they’re both vampires,” Bill replies, grinning. “Pale enough, eh?” 
“And vicious.” 
“I hear he got kicked out of Eton.” 
“For sucking blood?” 
The table laughs again, and John hears his pulse pounding in his ears.
 
 
That afternoon, John stays after school to finish up some work for chem class.
Ms. Gregson’s given him the key to the lab—it’s kept locked ever since some
third-years snuck in and caused a minor explosion—so he sits outside with Molly
and chats about nothing for a half hour or so, till he figures he’d better go
back in and get started. The corridors are nearly empty; it’s too early in the
year for clubs to have started up, and sports practices, of course, are all
outside. John enjoys the feeling of being alone in the school. It’s one of the
perks of the upper sixth form: he’s totally at ease here, with nobody but the
teachers above him, and they all know he’s a responsible guy, so he gets a lot
of leeway. He slides the key in the lock of the chem lab, then frowns,
listening. If he’s not mistaken, there’s somebody already inside. 
“Hey, sorry, Mrs. Gregson said I could…” 
His voice peters out as he swings the door open. Perched on a lab stool,
goggles on his face and a beaker of something dark red in his hand, is Sherlock
Holmes. 
“Er,” John says, very intelligently. “I…” 
“Shut the door, will you? This is heat-sensitive.” 
John does what he’s told. 
“Mrs. Gregson said I could…finish up my lab work in here.” 
“Yes, of course, you’ve got the key in your hand, don’t you?” Sherlock says
impatiently, turning back to his experiment. “Do try not to state the obvious,
John.” 
John’s toes curl a little at how casually Sherlock drops his name. He was
starting to think Sherlock had forgotten their introduction. 
“Did Mrs. Gregson let you in?” John asks. The little Bunsen burner, the
delicate vials, and the dark liquid that is beginning to look suspiciously like
blood have absolutely nothing in common with the basic pH test they’re working
on in class. 
“No.” 
“But then how did you…” John’s eyes widen. “Did you—did you break in?” 
Sherlock scoffs. “It’s hardly breaking in when the lock wouldn’t keep out a
four-year-old.” 
“You picked the lock.” 
“Again, stating the obvious.” 
John realizes he’s standing in the middle of the floor, probably looking like
an idiot. But he hasn’t got the faintest idea, after all his strange private
fascination with the boy, how to actually hold a conversation with him. Should
he sit next to Sherlock? Should he pretend he’s not there? Really, what he
ought to do is tell Sherlock to leave, considering that he isn’t supposed to be
here in the first place. 
“What are you doing?” he asks instead. 
“Determining the effects of introducing household chemicals into blood and then
heating it up,” Sherlock responds, not taking his eyes off his task. 
John gapes. “But…why?” 
Sherlock makes an impatient noise. “Because it might be useful. Now shut up and
let me think.” 
John doesn’t even have the mental space to be offended. Anyway, he can tell
Sherlock doesn’t mean anything by it. John makes his way cautiously to the
table next to Sherlock, noticing, as he sits, that Sherlock has several
plasters stuck to his fingertips. 
That’s his own blood he’s using, John realizes, the thought making him almost
dizzy. 
They work in silence for a while. John’s experiment is far less interesting
than Sherlock’s, though, and he keeps stopping himself from casting glances at
the other boy, who is working with an intensity of focus that’s totally at odds
with the bored expression he affects when in class. John can’t quite believe
that he’s sitting here, alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes. 
Just as John is wrapping up (with great regret) his own experiment, Sherlock
lets out a startled little exclamation, and there’s a sudden hiss. The liquid
in Sherlock’s beaker—which is now a weird purple—froths up and over the edge of
the glass. It runs rapidly across the table and in his haste to get out of its
way, Sherlock knocks an open bottle of glass cleaner to the ground.
“Damn,” he curses, reaching for the paper towels. John rushes to help, fetching
a rag from the sink, but the blue liquid is spreading over the tiles faster
than they can absorb it. 
“We need a mop,” John says. “There’s a broom cupboard just down the hall, I’ll
fetch one.” 
He barely has time to take note of Sherlock’s surprised expression before
hurrying out of the room. He’s grinning madly again, glad of the sureness with
which he can find the cupboard, glad to be helping Sherlock clean up his mess,
glad of the blue liquid staining his knees and his fingers. His heart is
beating rapidly from the adrenaline rush and as he turns the doorknob of the
cupboard he smiles even wider. 
He gets a brief, confused impression of a tangle of limbs and two upturned
faces before he realizes what he’s seeing. The broom cupboard is occupied. It’s
occupied by two girls, two girls with mussed hair and swollen lips and fingers
tangled together, and one of them is— 
“Motherfucking hell.” Harry glares up at him, so hard he can almost feel it.
“Are you buggerfuckingkiddingme.” 
John blinks at her, then looks at the other girl. 
“Hey, Clara,” he says faintly. 
“Hey, John,” she replies, looking equally unsteady. 
“What the holy hell do you want, John Watson?” Harry demands. 
“Actually,” John says, “a mop.” 
He reaches for said object, removes it from the cupboard, then closes the
door. 
And then he walks back to the chemistry lab, his hands shaking. 
He leans on the wall outside for a moment, breathing deeply. A lot of things,
an awful lot of things, are starting to make sense. No fucking wonder, as Harry
would say, that his sister has been prickly as hell lately. No wonder she’d
been staying out late all summer and refusing to say what she’d been doing. In
some ways, John is relieved by this revelation. He’d been worrying she was into
something bad—drugs, maybe. This is definitely better than that. 
But…oh, god, if their father finds out… 
John hasn’t thought a whole lot about homosexuality before. He does now. He
discovers, with some relief, that it doesn’t bother him, not exactly. It’s
strange, and a little uncomfortable, and he’d rather not have to think about it
a whole lot more than this. But he’s not fundamentally grossed out by the fact
that his sister’s making out with her female best friend in a broom closet, or
not any more grossed out than he’d be to find out that his sister’s making out
with anyone, period. But, god, wouldn’t it be easier if it had been a boy. For
Harry, and for their dad. For everyone, really. 
It’s the last thing they need—something else to cause trouble at home. 
Not, of course, than John is going to tell their father. It occurs to him
suddenly that maybe Harry’s barrage of cursing when he opened the door was more
than just her usual temper. So he takes a deep breath and walks back down the
hall. 
“Harry?” he calls tentatively, outside the cupboard door. 
“Jesus Christ, John,” Harry calls back after a minute, and John wonders if he’s
imagining something deeper than annoyance in her voice. 
“I’m not going to tell dad,” he answers, keeping his voice steady. 
There’s a very long silence. 
“Thanks,” Harry answers, almost too quietly for him to hear.
 
 
 
Sherlock is hovering impatiently over the spilled liquid when John returns. 
“What took you so long?” he asks, crossing his arms as John bends down to mop
up the puddle. “I have other tests to conduct.” 
“I, er…” He doesn’t look Sherlock in the face. “I ran into my sister.” 
Sherlock gives an annoyed huff, as if he has no time for sisters, and John
feels a curious wash of relief. He doesn’t want to explain what’s just
happened, but he doesn’t want to lie about it either. Not to Sherlock. 
“Hold this,” Sherlock says, the moment John’s done wiping up the spill, and the
next second—the next utterly mad, wonderful second—John is holding a beaker
into which Sherlock, after pricking his finger matter-of-factly on a pair of
scissors, squeezes out a sizable portion of his own blood.
 
 
 
Things change again after that. 
Or rather, they don’t change, in a way that John newly has a problem with. He
expects, when he leaves the chem lab that night, after another half-hour of
helping Sherlock conduct his experiments, that from now on Sherlock will at
least acknowledge John’s existence—in the halls, in class, maybe even going so
far as to exchange a few friendly words before and after school. But Sherlock,
who seemed so very at ease with John in the lab, is more aloof than ever
before. Or maybe it just feels that way now that his distance makes John
unhappy. 
Before, his secret awareness of Sherlock’s existence was an enjoyable
diversion; now, it’s like an itch John can’t quite scratch. 
He shows up to chem class Monday afternoon hoping that maybe things will be
different in this setting. Maybe here, where John helped Sherlock with his
experiments, Sherlock will acknowledge John’s presence once again. Thinking
that perhaps he can subconsciously suggest this to Sherlock, he sits—with the
stomach-twisting feeling that he’s somehow sticking his neck out—at the table
where he and Sherlock were working on Thursday after school. He casually sets
his backpack on the other stool and keeps an eye on the door. A few of his
classmates walk in and he feigns an intense preoccupation with something in his
bag, purposely taking up both seats. Then he catches a glimpse of black curls,
and, as his heart begins to pound, he pretends (he hopes convincingly) that
he’s found whatever he was looking for, and slides his backpack onto the
ground, leaving the stool beside him empty. 
Sherlock walks right past him without even a glance. 
And there it is again, that bitter, biting wrench deep in his gut. The feeling
that a crucial moment has passed, irrevocably, and now the rest of John’s day
will be hollow and pointless. He can’t articulate why, exactly, or what he
expected to be different if Sherlock sat next to him. He thinks that maybe he’s
just thought about Sherlock too much, that it’s made Sherlock, or his feelings
about Sherlock, curdle like old milk. Because it’s not as if it makes sense,
this quiet desperation, the restlessness and discontent that seeps through him
as Ms. Gregson begins to talk about acids and bases; it’s not like John even
knows what he wants from Sherlock in the first place. And John’s not the most
outgoing bloke around, but he’s never had a problem saying hello to somebody he
doesn’t know or simply sitting down next to them. He doesn’t likeit, this
newfound hesitance. It’s making it impossible for him to be calm. 
And yet…there’s still something special about it. It makes him look around at
his classmates, caught up in school and sports and normal stuff and think, I’ve
got something else going on. Whatever it is. 
So he doesn’t quite want to let it go. 
That must be why, when Gregson announces that they’re doing another lab today
and this time they’re going to pair up, John feels his heart leap right into
his throat. As low talk breaks out around him, and his classmates’ eyes rove
around the room, he stares down at his table. Maybe if he doesn’t make eye
contact, no one will ask him to be their partner. And surely no one will ask
Sherlock. They could just sort of end up together as if by accident… 
“Hey, Watson, want to partner up?” 
John curses silently as he looks up to see a skinny, spotty boy he thinks is
called Lanner standing hopefully in front of him. He sees out of the corner of
his eye that Sherlock is still sitting alone and looking supremely unconcerned
about it. Everybody else has already got a partner; John can’t possibly say
no. 
“Yeah, ’course,” he says, attempting a smile. “Great.” 
And throughout the whole period, he feels restless and frustrated and a little
bit angry. When Sherlock leaves early, having finished his lab so easily that
even Gregson can find no fault with it, the urgent little engine that’s been
running in John’s chest goes abruptly dead. 
Maybe, he thinks, he’d better stop this, whatever it is, right the hell now. 
So he smiles at Lanner and determinedly does not think of Sherlock Holmes as he
grabs his stuff from his locker. Instead, he considers finding Mike and the
others and joining their rugby match. His dad’s been doing a little better—he
didn’t get the job at the construction firm, but at least he went for an
interview—so John could probably stay out a bit, and maybe fresh air and
physical exertion will excise whatever weirdness has been stewing for too long
in his mind. With determined optimism, he heads outside and around the gym,
where the guys usually get up a match after school. 
But halfway there he hears raised voices from a grubby little corner behind the
equipment shed. John doesn’t get involved in fights, thinks they’re rather
stupid, frankly, but as he makes to walk past he catches a name that freezes
him in his tracks. 
“—who do you think you are, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you little bastard—” 
John’s sprinting around the corner before he even knows he’s doing it. He stops
short when he sees the group gathered around the tall, pale boy, whose face has
assumed an expression of extreme unconcern—so extreme that John can’t quite
credit it. Underneath the layer of arrogance, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock is
frightened. 
“You bloody tosser, telling liesabout me in front of my mates, my girl—” 
The speaker is a boy called Jeff Hope, whom John knows vaguely from when he
used to play football, back in fourth form. Hope used to be a bit pathetic,
really, sniveling and scrawny, but he’s since grown up into something of a
bully. But John’s never seen him this aggressive. 
“And what, precisely, am I supposed to have lied about?” Sherlock asks, voice
dripping with disdain. John admires him for his imperturbability, but going
even more posh and arrogant than usual is the last thing that’s going to
diffuse the situation. 
Sure enough, Hope snarls and gets right up in Sherlock’s face. “You know
exactlywhat you lied about, you little prat.” 
“No, I really don’t,” Sherlock replies, and John realizes with a start that
Sherlock is telling the truth. 
“You said he takes pills,” pipes up a skinny boy John doesn’t recognize, with a
slight Irish accent and a bit of an eye twitch. “You said he steals his
father’s prescription Viagra and takes them before he sees his girlfriend
because he’s afraid he won’t be able to perform—” 
“Shut it, Jim!” Hope shouts. “It’s all a fucking lie—” 
“It isn’t,” Sherlock cuts in, curling his lip. “I don’t lie and I’m never
wrong. Your face was flushed, your nose was stuffy—common side effects of the
drug—and the state of your trousers—” 
Hope raises his fist, but before he can swing, John is in between them. 
“That’s enough,” he says, his voice dead calm. He doesn’t know how the hell he
got here, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to show the others that. “Back
off.” 
Hope looks confused as much as angry. John can’t blame him; he and Hope have
got on well enough in the past, and John’s never been one to get involved in
fights—not because he couldn’t handle it, but because he thinks it’s a waste of
time. 
“This is between me and him, Watson,” Hope says. “Just stay out of it.” 
John shakes his head, very determinedly ignoring the resultant flash of shock
that passes through Sherlock’s face and then disappears. “Nope. Back off.” 
“I would advise doing what he says,” Sherlock puts in. “He is clearly a
superior fighter, given that very little of your bulk is muscle mass—” 
Hope growls and lunges for Sherlock. John’s fist connects with Hope’s stomach,
sending the other boy reeling backwards. He can feel the air sharpen as the
circle of spectators draws closer. Hope, looking shocked and furious, runs
toward John, swinging his fist. John feels a smarting blow land on his cheek
and coolly retaliates by kneeing Hope in the gut. Hope collapses, wheezing. 
“What—the—hell, Watson,” he pants. 
John is panting, too, every nerve in his body jangling, adrenaline coursing
through him. He is faintly aware that he’s just done something rather
extraordinary, but he’s in no state to care. Everything seems calmly,
beautifully distant. 
“Come on, Sherlock, let’s get the hell out of here,” he says, and strides away
without a second glance at Hope. The circle of spectators parts for him
quickly, looking cowed; only the skinny boy, Jim, stares him in the face, wide-
eyed with what almost seems like delight. John doesn’t wait to see if Sherlock
will follow, but after a moment he hears him scrambling to catch up. They walk
in silence to the front of the school, where a few of the younger kids are
still waiting for their parents to arrive, and lean against a low wall. Neither
of them speaks. 
As the adrenaline begins to ebb away, along with the wonderful calm that came
over John while he was fighting, he starts to wonder if he has just made a
complete and utter fool of himself. He asks himself, with a growing mixture of
mortification and terror, what on earth Sherlock must think of him now.
Defending him like that, jumping into Sherlock’s business uninvited, must come
off as dreadfully presumptuous, as if he has some claim over Sherlock, as if he
thinks he’s Sherlock’s friend, as if…
“What you did back there,” Sherlock says abruptly. He isn’t looking at John;
there’s a peculiar expression on his face, intent, a bit agitated, that John
can’t fully read. “It was—good.” 
John feels an utterly strange spike of relief and—what else? Elation?
Excitement? The old restlessness kicks back into gear, the feeling that he
wants something from his interaction with Sherlock that he can’t place, but
this time it’s infused with a reckless sort of hope. 
“He’s a bully,” John answers, because he has to say something, and he can’t
begin to articulate why he really stood up for Sherlock like that. “Can’t stand
bullies.” 
Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment. “Your face,” he says hesitantly. “It’s…” 
John probes the spot where Hope punched him, wincing at its tenderness. “Yup.
Going to have a spectacular black eye.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s fine.” 
Sherlock begins to say something else, but then he jumps to his feet so
suddenly John worries that Hope has come back. But instead, Sherlock is looking
at a shiny black car that has just pulled up, his face, for once, a remarkably
open book: he clearly doesn’t want to get inside. 
But his mask reappears an instant later. “I must be off,” he says, cool as
ever. 
“Right,” John replies. “I…well, have a good night, then.” 
It’s a stupid thing to say, given what’s just happened, and John kicks himself
for being an idiot. But Sherlock only nods his head in a preoccupied sort of
way, as if there’s something else he wants to say but doesn’t know what, or how
to say it. John feels the air contract between them, a weird twisting,
crackling sort of sensation, and both of them turn abruptly away. 
By the time John looks back, the black car has gotten very small, with Sherlock
inside it; or else John has grown very large, or is hovering high up in the
air. 
In that moment, anything seems possible.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The next day, John sits next to Sherlock in biology class. It’s easy, so
shockingly easy. He and Molly walk in, John catches Sherlock’s eye, and before
he knows it he’s pulling up an extra chair at Sherlock’s table. Sure, his heart
is beating a little faster than normal, and sure, he thinks he sees a flicker
of shock in the other boy’s eyes as he slides in next to him, but it’s as if
the bruise on John’s face has given him a dose of courage he didn’t even know
he needed. There’s no point hiding behind his textbooks now; the whole school
knows he punched Jefferson Hope to stop him from beating up Sherlock Holmes.
Even now, John can feel his classmates’ eyes on him, eyes which he determinedly
ignores. He doesn’t know what people are saying and he doesn’t care. Mike and
the boys seemed half impressed and half confused; Molly was torn between awe at
John’s actions and professional interest in the state of his face; and his
father—well, his father looked proud. “About time you got in a proper fight, I
was getting worried you didn’t have it in you,” he’d said, and John had felt a
brief answering swell of pride, and then a deep sense of shame at the feeling.
After that, he’d decided it didn’t matter what anybody thought, because they
just didn’t matter. 
Except Sherlock. He can’t help but admit that. Because sitting next to
Sherlock, having Sherlock meet his eye and give him half a grin, sends stomach
turning dizzy circles. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what it is about this
boy that makes John feel as though he needs to run a few laps whenever they
interact, but he wouldn’t change it, not one bit. It’s as if Sherlock has
opened up another whole world for John, a secret world that nobody else knows
about. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in ages. 
“I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly says from John’s other side. She leans forward so she
can look at Sherlock. “Well, we’ve met before, actually, with the eyeballs—you
dropped your eyeballs—well, I mean, you had some in a box, not your own
eyeballs, I mean, obviously, I mean…” She takes a deep breath, her cheeks pink.
“Were they for an experiment?” 
Sherlock blinks. “Yes,” he answers. 
Molly’s face lights up. “Oooooh, I told John they must be, didn’t I, John?” 
He nods. There is an unpleasant, anxious curl in his stomach, and he can’t
articulate why—or why it lessens when Sherlock fails to show any interest in
continuing the conversation with Molly. 
Class is better, so much better, with Sherlock sitting next to him. He hasn’t
lost that peculiar awareness of Sherlock’s presence in the room, but it’s
different now he knows Sherlock is aware of him, too. Not in the same way, of
course, but John is relieved not to be just one more unimportant classmate to
the brilliant, aloof boy. And for all that Sherlock being at his side makes him
feel a bit jumpy and overexcited, it also somehow feels comfortable, too. Like
Sherlock’s opened up a sort of door for John, or pulled up a chair for John in
his own mind. 
After class, they pack up their things in silence as Molly chatters on about
frogs’ nervous systems. John is deliberately taking his time, and for once
Sherlock doesn’t vanish out the door the second Lestrade stops talking. John’s
not really listening to Molly until he realizes she’s started stuttering, her
cheeks pink once more. 
“So, er, if you, well, if you ever want to—I dunno, eat lunch with me, or, or
me and John, I mean, er—that would be, well, nice. If you want.” 
“I don’t eat lunch,” Sherlock replies. It’s not meant to be rude, it’s not a
brush-off, John’s sure of that (though Molly’s face falls anyway)—it’s a
statement of fact. 
“Oh,” Molly says. “Right. Erm. I need to…I should go to class.” She hurries
off, head down.
“That’s not healthy,” John says abruptly to Sherlock, once she’s disappeared,
because damn it, he wants to be a doctor and he knows it’s true. He winces at
how pedantic he sounds. “You must eat sometimes.” 
Sherlock lets out a huff of irritation. “Transport, John. The body is merely
transport. Digesting is distracting. It muddies my brain.” 
“That’s ridiculous,” John laughs, can’t help but laugh. “That’s the most
ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 
For a second, Sherlock looks offended, but then the corner of his mouth
twitches. “But I’m a genius. It’s been proven. I’ve taken tests.” 
John snorts. “Well, you may be a genius, but you’re also an idiot.” 
Sherlock grins, a full-on grin that shows his neat white teeth. John feels
positively high. 
“I’m conducting another experiment after school,” Sherlock says. “Not chemistry
this time, biology. In here. I could use an assistant.” 
John’s heart leaps. “I—yeah. Yeah, I’d—I’ll be there.” 
Sherlock nods, looking pleased. 
“Boys,” a voice calls out from across the room, making them jump. Lestrade’s
looking at them, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you two have somewhere to be? Other
than in my fifth-year lesson on molds and fungus.” 
John looks around. Sure enough, the room has filled with chattering fifteen-
year-olds; as his eyes land on the door, Harry walks in, a rare smile on her
face as she whispers something in Clara’s ear. John looks away quickly, picking
up his bag and hurrying to leave. He’s late for calculus. 
“Oy, it’s Sherlock!” somebody says as they walk past him, a lanky boy with
ginger hair. “Come down from Mt. Olympus to visit us lesser mortals today? Or
have the upper sixths finally kicked you out for being a know-it-all? 
John remembers, as a flash of anger shoots through him, that these are
Sherlock’s classmates—his fellow fifth-years. The idiots with whom Sherlock has
to spend most of his time. He casts a forbidding glare at the red-haired boy,
and maybe it’s John’s impressive shiner, or maybe the rumors about what
happened with Hope have travelled fast, but the boy only manages to meet John’s
eyes for a split second before he looks away. 
“Come on, Sherlock,” John says calmly. “Let’s go.” 
Sherlock doesn’t look upset when they part ways in the corridor, but it’s the
extent of his unconcern that makes John suspect the incident has hit him harder
than he’s pretending. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t much care what other people say,
but nobody looks that bored after someone has just insulted them. 
He wants to punch that red-headed boy in the face, too. 
What the hell has gotten into him?
 
 
Helping with Sherlock’s experiment is brilliant. Sherlock picks the lock on the
biology lab’s door, which makes John anxious but also undeniably excited, and
pulls a familiar box from the back of the lab’s refrigerator. 
“Same ones, yes,” he answers when John asks, taking an involuntary step back,
if those are the same eyeballs was carrying on the first day of school.
“Testing decomposition rates in near-freezing temperatures. Could come in
handy. Actually, they’re holding up quite well.” 
John begs to differ, but it doesn’t stop him from scurrying around fetching
things for Sherlock, or taking notes for him, or even holding up an eyeball on
a skewer as Sherlock pours some sort of foul-smelling liquid over it. And it
doesn’t stop him from agreeing to help Sherlock the next day after school,
either. And by the time Friday rolls around, and John’s black eye has faded to
a sickly yellow, they’re lab partners in chemistry, and John can reliably make
Sherlock smile at least twice a day. 
It’s absolutely wonderful. 
John’s never had a friend like this, somebody he wanted to spend all his time
with, somebody he thinks about when he’s at home, doing his schoolwork on the
living room sofa so his dad can’t get to the whiskey bottle that’s hidden under
the cushions. He feels a bit heart-in-mouth about the whole thing, sometimes,
like Sherlock’s a time bomb or a contraband carton of cigarettes burning a hole
in a locked box under his bed. He finds himself being overly casual about
Sherlock with everyone he talks to, especially his dad. He doesn’t know
why—maybe he’s worried that spreading Sherlock around will dilute his potency,
somehow. Maybe he just wants to keep Sherlock to himself. 
So it’s not exactly a surprise that something of a crisis occurs when John and
Sherlock try to find a place to work on chemistry homework together over the
weekend. 
“Let’s meet at the library,” John suggests first, as he shoves a bit of
sandwich at Sherlock. They’re sitting outside during the lunch hour, up against
the wall of the gym, watching a bunch of third-years stumble over a football.
Sherlock was telling the truth, he doesn’t eat lunch, but John’s found he can
get him to take a bit of food if he’s sufficiently distracted. “It’s not far
from here.” 
Sherlock’s lip curls in contempt. “I hate the library.” 
John nearly chokes on his apple, half shocked and half laughing. “What?
Sherlock, you can’t hate the library. It’s full of…books. Information. You love
information.” 
He really does. He’s continually analyzing people, deducing facts about their
lives under his breath for John’s benefit. John knows more about the dating
habits and family secrets of his classmates than the most inveterate gossip. 
“The library is full of idiots,” Sherlock proclaims, shuddering with distaste. 
“Yes, but you think everyone is an idiot,” John says in exasperation. “Surely
somebody who goes to the library is less of an idiot than most.” 
“Mmm, your logic is faulty, but I wasn’t referring to patrons. I meant the
librarians.” 
John shakes his head, sneaking another crust of sandwich into Sherlock’s
fingers. “And why are librarians idiots?” 
“They fail to recognize superior intellect,” Sherlock replies haughtily,
sticking the bread absently into his mouth. “In fact, they squash it like a bug
when it appears in front of them.” 
John takes a moment to translate this. “You’ve gotten kicked out of the
library,” he guesses, eyes widening. “What on earth did you do?” 
Sherlock almost looks abashed. Almost. “It is not my fault if the books they
choose to stock contain many factual errors. I was doing them a favor by
pointing that out.” 
John snorts. “Let me guess. You ‘pointed that out’ very loudly, didn’t you?” 
Sherlock gives a huff of annoyance that John is pretty sure is a confirmation
that he’s right. He can just imagine it, Sherlock standing up in the middle of
the quiet reading room, complaining to the scandalized patrons that the
library’s selection of texts is subpar. After all, he’s seen Sherlock correct
Lestrade in biology class more than a few times by now—Sherlock doesn’t have
much of an internal censor. 
“So you’re too embarrassed to go back?” John teases. “You, embarrassed?” 
Sherlock does look a little embarrassed, now. He mutters something that it
takes John a moment to decipher. 
“Oh, hang on,” he says, finally catching on. “You didn’t just get kicked out of
the library. You got banned from the library.” 
Sherlock looks like a cat caught with a pet bird in his mouth. John gives a
roar of laughter. 
“You’re mental, you know that?” he asks, grinning broadly. “Only you,
Sherlock.” 
Sherlock doesn’t quite know whether to be offended, it appears, but after a
moment he gives John a tentative smile.
“I cannot be blamed for others’ errors,” he says loftily, and they both
dissolve into a fit of giggles. Eventually, they sober up, and John feels a
tremor of trepidation somewhere in the realm of his stomach. 
“Okay, so the library’s out,” he says, watching as a third-year bounces the
football off his forehead. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock. “Could we maybe…” 
Sherlock cuts him off abruptly, all trace of mirth gone. “We can’t study at my
place. Mycroft is returning from France tomorrow and I assure you, the house
will not be a pleasant place.” 
John blinks. “Mycroft is…your brother?” 
Sherlock nods, staring moodily ahead, a bit of sandwich forgotten in his hand. 
“Right,” John says, heart beating a bit faster. Sherlock never talks about his
family. John’s gathered that his parents are out of the picture somehow, and
that he lives with his older brother, who—people say, with a dubious level of
accuracy—is some important government person. John’s also gathered that
Sherlock doesn’t enjoy being at home. Well, John can sympathize with that. 
“Er,” he says, because honestly, he hasn’t told Sherlock much about his family
either. “I’d say we could go to mine, but it’s, er, it’s…” 
“You don’t want anyone to come over because your father might be drinking. And
because he and your sister fight all the time, because she’s afraid he’ll find
out she’s been sleeping with Clara Bennett,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly. 
John feels steamrollered. Literally as if he’s been hit in the chest. By a
steamroller. 
“Ah,” he manages. His face is bright red. “Well.” 
Sherlock frowns at him. “What? It’s true.” 
John nods rapidly. “Yep. Yep. Although is Harry really sleeping with—no. I
don’t want to know. Jesus.” He takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his
face. “Sherlock,” he says unsteadily. “Do you ever think about, you know, not
saying things like that?” 
John’s a little too thrown off to fully take in the way Sherlock’s face slowly
shifts, like Sherlock is putting up his guards. “Things like what?” 
“Like…” John shakes his head. “Things about people’s families. Their secrets.
Stuff they don’t want anything to know about. Like, I haven’t told anyone about
Dad’s drinking, or about—about Harry. Or like when we first met, when you
talked about my dad getting laid off. I hadn’t told anyone about that either.
Or like what you said to Jefferson Hope.” 
Sherlock’s head jerks back at this last sentence, as if John has physically
assaulted him. “It’s all true, John,” he snaps back with surprising
viciousness. “Just because you’re all too blind to see what’s right before your
eyes—” 
John puts up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, Sherlock. I wasn’t—I’m not…” He takes a deep
breath, head spinning. “Jefferson Hope’s a massive wanker. We know that. I
punched him in the face, remember?” 
Sherlock looks slightly less certain, but not nearly as reassured as John wants
him to be. 
“I—look, I know you don’t mean anything by it,” John says, trying to keep his
voice steady. He’s still reeling from the knowledge that, all this time,
Sherlock knew about his dad. But of course he did—he knows everything. How
could John have thought he’d manage to hide it from the boy who reads stains as
if they were directories, fingernails as if they were encyclopedias? He sighs,
trying to let it go. “I know you’re not trying to be malicious. But—do you
understand why people might be upset when you spill their darkest secrets in
front of everybody else? Or—I guess I mean, not why, exactly, but—do you even
know that they might react like that?” 
It’s an honest question, asked without judgment, and John thinks that’s the
only reason Sherlock doesn’t storm off. The pale boy looks away, then back at
John, eyes still guarded, but with something deeper, more vulnerable, behind
them. 
“Not always,” Sherlock finally admits. “It’s just—those things are so obvious
to me. I forget everyone else doesn’t already know them. And they’re out of my
mouth before I can—” He shrugs, and crushes a bit of sandwich between his
fingers. 
John nods slowly. “Don’t you…can’t you just, well, stop and think before you
say things?” 
Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and not with the beginning of a smile. He swallows. 
“I’m always thinking, John. Always.” 
He says it as if it’s a secret—his own deep, dark secret. The one nobody knows.
And it doesn’t sound like a secret, not when taken at face value; everybody’s
always thinking, it’s what people do, and Sherlock is smarter than most, so it
only stands to reason he thinks more than most. 
But John has the feeling that that’s not what he means. 
He tries to imagine his brain is a reasoning machine, like Sherlock’s. That he
can’t help from seeing a thousand disparate bits of information in every stray
hair, every muddy shoe, every scrape or smear or mark or tear. That he knows
when somebody’s told a lie or made an error, and that it grates against his
brain like nails on a chalkboard. That he can never turn his mind to ‘off.’ 
He’d get thrown out of the library too. 
“Right,” John whispers, eyes glued to Sherlock’s, and an overwhelming desire to
protect him, to shield him, to throw a million punches for him, sweeps through
John with a force so great it nearly knocks him over. “I…” 
Neither of them says anything. Sherlock is staring at him wide-eyed, and John
is staring back. A whistle blows, shrill and piecing, from the football field,
and they both turn automatically to look. The lunch period is over. 
“Right,” John says, clearing his throat, heart pounding, looking anywhere but
at Sherlock. “So. We should…” 
“Yes,” Sherlock says hurriedly. They stand, gathering their things. 
“What about here?” John asks abruptly. “To study. We could just meet here.” 
Sherlock’s eyes light up. “The lock on the front door of the school is much
more difficult than the one on the labs. It would take quite a bit of work, but
I’m sure I could…” 
“Sherlock!” John can’t help but give a shout of laughter. “We’re not breaking
into school. I meant here. Outside the gym. It’s supposed to be sunny, it’ll be
nice.” 
“Ah.” Sherlock’s face falls, but not seriously, not with anything other than
his usual petulance at not getting what he wants, and John feels a rush of
relief. “I suppose you’re right.” 
“Good. Keeping out of jail, that’s my goal,” John says brightly, gathering his
things. 
“Oh, we wouldn’t be caught,” Sherlock scoffs. “I’m far too clever for that.” 
John grins. At least there are some things about having an enormous brain that
Sherlock clearly enjoys. “I’m sure you are.”
 
 
 
When Sherlock steps out of the sleek black car that afternoon, he knows
immediately that something is wrong. 
The house—the narrow, nondescriptly ostentatious row house he shares, under
protest, with his brother and, during the day, a part-time housekeeper and
cook—is off somehow. 
The driver pulls away, leaving Sherlock standing on the pavement, frowning
slightly, trying to determine what is tickling at the back of his brain.
It hits him very suddenly, and all at once, just like it usually does. An
onslaught of information. Welcome mat slightly askew, curtains half-open, a
light on upstairs, and—his eyes widen—the smell of a roast in the air. 
Snapping into furious motion, Sherlock strides forward and fumbles with his key
in the lock. He wrenches open the door. 
There’s an umbrella in the stand beside the entrance. 
Sherlock closes his eyes, stomach plummeting. Mycroft wasn’t supposed to be
home until tomorrow night. Of course, Sherlock thinks viciously. Of course he’d
spoil it, just when I was feeling so… 
Feeling what, exactly? And since when does Sherlock think of his feelings? 
Since John Watson punched a boy in the face, apparently. 
“Ah, Mr. Holmes, you’re here.” Mrs. Turner, the cook-slash-housekeeper, sticks
her head through the doorway. You’re finally here, Sherlock knows she means,
but she doesn’t say it. “Your brother’s back early.” 
“I know,” Sherlock replies coldly, not moving an inch. 
Mrs. Turner purses her lips. “He wanted me to tell you to dress for supper.
Seven o’clock sharp.” 
Sherlock grinds his teeth and vows to be down at half-past seven at the
earliest. 
“And if the roast is dry because it’s been in the oven too long, heaven help
you,” Mrs. Turner adds, disappearing back into the kitchen. 
Sherlock goes upstairs, to his bedroom, and sulks. He’s still sulking when Mrs.
Turner knocks sharply on his door at ten to seven, asking him if he’s ready to
come down. He gauges the satisfaction it would bring him to be late for dinner
versus the misery of sitting up here, waiting to face his brother. Somehow,
horribly, the latter option is worse. 
He heaves himself off his bed and pulls his suit from the wardrobe. 
Mycroft is already at the table when Sherlock arrives. He looks perfectly
pressed and clean, not at all as if he’s spent the last week and a half in
intense international negotiations about things Sherlock can’t be bothered to
deduce. 
“I see you’ve made it down to dinner on time for once,” Mycroft says by way of
greeting. 
Sherlock grinds his teeth and pulls out his chair, letting its legs scrape
loudly on the floor. “Stating the obvious again, Mycroft. Your brain is
deteriorating in your old age.” 
Mycroft gives a weary glance at the ceiling, looking for all the world like the
long-suffering father of a rebellious teenager. Sherlock thinks this rather
proves his point. Mycroft is twenty-three, but he acts—and has always
acted—like he was about sixty, with the weight of the world resting on his
shoulders. Sherlock finds this utterly infuriating. 
Mrs. Turner brings out the roast, and they don’t say anything else until
Mycroft is finished tucking in. Sherlock attempts to boycott the meal, but much
to his irritation, the roast smells delicious and he caves in and eats some as
Mycroft is helping himself to seconds. It does not improve his mood. 
“So,” Mycroft says finally, as he sips his glass of wine. “I hear you’ve made a
friend.” 
Sherlock freezes, his breath stopping in his throat. He understands, very
quickly, that this is why Mycroft is home early. He’s been monitoring Sherlock,
somehow. Keeping tabs on what he does, who he sees. Spying on him. 
And now he’s going to—what? Interrogate Sherlock? Throw it in his face? Either
way, this time he’s stuck his nose in too far. 
Because John is none of Mycroft’s business. 
“I don’t have friends,” he snarls, almost too angry to be shocked by the
intensity of his feelings. 
Mycroft merely raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. Then I suppose John Watson must be
merely…what? A convenience? A sort of pet? A pawn in the undoubtedly byzantine
politics of the British comprehensive school?” 
Sherlock nearly growls. “We’re talking about me, Mycroft, not you,” he says as
venomously as he can. 
Mycroft almost flinches. “Well then,” he says, voice even smoother and colder
than before. “I must have misinterpreted the situation. I see now that John
Watson is simply—nothing at all.” 
“He is not nothing!” Sherlock retorts, burning with fury. His knuckles are
white, his fingers clenching the table. Mycroft looks, briefly, shocked. 
“I see,” he says, and now there’s something different in his tone, something
quiet and concerned and totally new to Sherlock and Sherlock wants it gone. 
God, he’s an idiot for showing his hand like that. 
“Sherlock,” Mycroft hesitates—Mycroft never hesitates, so it’s frankly
terrifying now—“I hope…” His voice trails off. Sherlock meets his eyes with the
fiercest glare he can muster. 
“I would advise you to be careful,” Mycroft says finally. “He may not be what
you think he is.” 
Sherlock nearly laughs in relief. This, this is familiar ground. “Oh, please,”
he says contemptuously. “This is my life, not yours. You truly think John
Watson will prove to be, what, a Russian spy out to infiltrate himself into the
Holmes family to get to you? That he’s harboring terrorist sympathies and plans
to bomb the embassy, with my unwitting aid? That—” 
“I only meant,” Mycroft cuts in, and damn it, his voice is still serious and
quiet and new, “that other people don’t…understand. What it’s like to be us.” 
Sherlock stares at Mycroft. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His
heart is steady and slow, as loud and rhythmic as a drumbeat. Everything else,
it seems, has gone silent. 
“We can be…too much. For…ordinary people.” 
Mycroft looks twenty-three now, and not a second older: young and uncertain and
struggling to make the words fall from his lips. 
And for all that Sherlock spends an enormous amount of time disassociating
himself from his brother, Mycroft isn’t wrong. They’re very much alike. The
insides of their heads are very much alike. 
And very, very different from everyone else’s. 
Sherlock places his napkin back on the table with trembling fingers.
 
 
 
After dinner, after Mycroft has retired to the living room with a glass of
Scotch and an unusually pensive expression, Sherlock locks himself in his
bedroom and calls John to cancel their study date.
***** Chapter 4 *****
“Hot chocolate?” 
John looks up. He’s sitting on the low wall outside school, staring at the
empty space in the road where Sherlock disappeared into a fancy black car—what,
five minutes ago? Fifteen? 
“My gran gave me a Starbucks gift card for my birthday last year, and I still
haven’t used it all up,” Molly Hooper says, a little anxiously. “I thought
maybe….you needed a hot chocolate.” 
“Thanks,” John says, waking up a bit. He smiles at her and takes the drink.
“Want to sit?” 
Molly smiles back and hops up on the wall next to him, kicking her feet against
the bricks. “It’s getting chilly.” 
John nods. He hasn’t noticed till now, though. 
“Are you…have you been…are you okay?” Molly asks hesitantly. 
John forces a smile onto his face, cursing himself for being so obvious. “Yeah,
’course. Just—lots of work to do. Putting it off.” 
“Right.” Molly is quiet for a moment. “Is…is he okay?” 
John looks at her, heart in his mouth. What does she know? he wonders, then
thinks confusedly, There’s nothingto know. 
Only that Sherlock has stopped being his friend. 
Oh, they still talk. They still sit next to each other in class. But the easy
camaraderie—and whatever else was between them, that spark of closeness John
has almost convinced himself he imagined—is gone. There have been no more
after-school experiments in the bio lab, no more lunches by the gym, and it’s
like Sherlock has put up an invisible wall around himself. 
It hurts John far, far more than it should. 
“I mean, is Sherlock okay,” Molly clarifies, misunderstanding his silence as
lack of comprehension. “It’s just that he’s been…quiet. This past week.” 
John sighs and digs his thumbs into the hollows between eyes and eyebrows.
“Yeah, he has.” 
Molly’s forehead puckers with concern. “I’m worried about him,” she confesses,
then goes pink. “Well, not just me, I—I told Mrs. Hudson I’d keep an eye on
him.” 
John blinks. “The secretary?” 
Molly nods. “She met Sherlock when he registered here. And his brother. She
told me she thought he might have a hard time fitting in. She liked him.” 
John can’t help it—he laughs. “She likedhim?” 
Because Sherlock may be many things—brilliant, fascinating, elegant,
striking—but likeable isn’t one of them. 
Molly laughs too. They grin at each other through their giggles and for the
first time in a week John feels a small amount of weight lift from his
shoulders. 
“We are a bit mad, aren’t we?” Molly says as their laughter peters out. She’s
half joking, but John knows exactly what she means. 
“Maybe we are.” 
“Do you know what’s wrong?” she asks quietly, sober now. 
John pauses, then shakes his head. “Sometimes I think Idid something wrong,” he
admits. “But then…I don’t know. It seems bigger than that. It’s like he’s gone
very far away. And he just…keeps going.” 
John can’t quite express how he felt when Sherlock called to cancel their study
plans. Crushedis the word that comes to mind: as if something fragile and
delicate, that had just begun to stretch a thin web of roots into the earth,
was trampled underfoot. He’s been trying to coax that green and growing thing
back to life all week long, but Sherlock is proving to be stubbornly barren
soil. 
John thought it was his fault—that he’d been found wanting—until Sherlock
refused to answer a direct question from Lestrade in bio. He’d shaken his head
as if to dislodge something inside it and shrugged a bony shoulder, his face
pale and blank. Lestrade had looked nearly as gobsmacked as John felt. 
Something is happening to Sherlock. 
“I wish I could help him,” Molly says softly, staring at her shoes. John feels
a rush of sympathy for her—if it’s been hard for him, who still gets to sit
next to Sherlock in class every day, to talk to him while they do chem labs
together, how much more difficult must it be for Molly, who can barely get two
words out of the brilliant boy on a good day? 
Not that she and John feel exactly the same way about Sherlock, of course. But
still. 
“Are youokay?” he asks. 
She looks startled, like she’s not used to being asked that question. John
feels a stab of guilt that he hasn’t thought to wonder about her wellbeing
before. 
“Oh, of course,” Molly says. “I’m fine, yeah. Always.” 
She smiles at John. He doesn’t believe it. 
“There’s a football match on this weekend,” he says abruptly. “Here, I mean.
We’re playing Riverside. Do you want to go with me?” 
She looks surprised and a little awkward for a second. John frowns, then
catches on. 
“Oh! Oh, not as…not as a date. Just. Hanging out.” 
She grins, relieved. “Yeah! Yeah, that’d be lovely. Are…are you sure you want
to?” 
John smiles. “Of course. It’ll be good to have some fun, yeah?” 
She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it will.” 
And hopefully it will stop John from worrying about Sherlock, at least for a
few hours. 
 
 
 
It isfun, and John does manage to put Sherlock from his mind for the duration.
Mostly. There is a nasty moment when he remembers that they were supposed to
study together in that same location the weekend before, but then he turns his
attention determinedly back to cheering on Chesterton. Molly’s excellent
company, funny and bright once you get past her tendency to stumble over
sentences and make awkward jokes about cats and corpses. Her cheeks are flushed
pink as she shouts her support for the team (she doesn’t know a thing about
football, but she’s got boundless enthusiasm so it hardly matters), and for a
fleeting moment John wants to push a stray strand of her brown hair behind her
ear. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks, if this were actually a date? 
He glimpses Sarah Sawyer in the crowd, huddled under the arm of her new
boyfriend, and feels his stomach sink. He can’t be in a relationship right now.
Not with his dad back to sneaking whiskey at night and stumbling around half-
dressed all day. He hasn’t got time, and he can’t take anybody home with him.
It wouldn’t work out. 
Besides, he doesn’t like Molly that way, not really. And she likes Sherlock. 
He isn’t going to think about Sherlock. 
But he can’t help himself, once they’re back at school on Monday. Sherlock
barely says hello when they pass in the corridor in the morning; he barely
looks like he even knows where he is. John resolves that when he sees Sherlock
in class that afternoon, he’s going to ask if Sherlock is okay. If something is
wrong. If there’s anything he can do. 
His heart is pounding when he sits down at the table, but Sherlock never
appears. 
Sherlock skipping class is unprecedented. 
After school, John decides to hunt him down. 
The black car that usually picks Sherlock up is waiting in the street out
front, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John strides rapidly through the
corridors, checking the chem room—Gregson is in there with a student—and the
bio lab, where he finds no one but Molly, who has been coming in occasionally
to do extra credit work for Lestrade. Sherlock isn’t near the lockers or in any
of the practice rooms. John tries outside, next. Sherlock isn’t near the gym.
He’s not out front and he’s not out back. 
John isn’t sure whether to be exasperated or worried. 
He’s close to giving up when he sees that the black car is still out front,
parked now, a thin plume of cigarette smoke snaking out the driver’s window.
Sherlock is still here, somewhere. Unless he ran off, but… 
John has a thought. It isn’t a good thought. 
He hurries back towards the equipment shed, making for the grubby little corner
where he’d found Jeff Hope bullying Sherlock what seems like ages ago. He
rounds the corner, and sure enough, Sherlock is there. 
He’s sitting on the patchy grass, leaning against the brick wall, knees pulled
up nearly to his chest. He’s staring at the ground as if it he can bore a hole
into it with his steel-gray eyes. 
“Sherlock?” John asks tentatively. Sherlock doesn’t move, not a blink, not a
twitch, no sign he’s heard him. John tries again, and Sherlock still says
nothing. With mounting concern, John goes over and sits down next to him,
leaning against the cold wall. 
“Sherlock,” he says softly. 
This time, Sherlock looks at John, his eyes so blank and distant that John
feels a stab of terror. 
“Are you okay?” he asks. 
It’s a stupid question. Sherlock is obviously not okay. But the boy doesn’t
give the snort of disdain he typically reserves for stupid questions. He merely
goes back to staring at the ground. 
“You skipped class today,” John tries. Sherlock says nothing. “You’ve never
skipped class before.” 
“Wrong,” Sherlock says dully. The absence of his usual triumph in proving
himself correct makes John’s stomach curl in fear. “Conclusion based on
insufficient data.” 
“Okay,” John responds, as neutrally as possible. “So you have…skipped class
before.” A possibility occurs to him, revelatory, frightening. He wonders if he
should risk asking for its confirmation. Normally he wouldn’t dare, but right
now, all bets appear to be off. He tries to keep his voice casual. “Did that a
lot at Eton, did you?” 
Sherlock looks startled for a fraction of a second, and John applauds himself
grimly for breaking the other boy’s terrifying blankness. 
“Yes,” Sherlock says, going flat again. “Apparently it became ‘so unacceptable
that they could no longer overlook it, no matter what my family connections or
exam results.’” 
John exhales. So that’s it: the secret of Sherlock’s expulsion. He played hooky
one too many times. 
It doesn’t sit well with John, not well at all. 
“Why would you skip class, Sherlock?” he asks. “You’re brilliant at class. And
you love to learn, I know you do, chem and bio at least.” 
“I already knew everything that mattered, and didn’t care about anything else.”
Sherlock’s flatness is tempered ever so slightly by a note of contempt. “Eton
was boring and hateful. When I was expelled I wanted to stop going to school
altogether. Mycroft wanted me to try Harrow. We compromised, and I ended up
here. In the nature of compromises, it satisfied neither party.” 
John swallows. Sherlock would never be giving him this information normally,
and as much as he’s been dying to know everything about the boy, he finds his
openness disturbing. "Your brother's your official guardian, then?” he asks,
trying to find the most innocuous question to ask. 
Sherlock’s lip curls. “Yes.” 
His tone is momentarily so dark that John knows he mustn’t pursue the subject.
He files the information away for later—Mycroft Holmes, not an acceptable topic
of conversation—and casts about for something else to say, feeling very much at
sea. 
“Chesterton’s that bad, then?” he asks, licking his lips nervously, trying to
sound normal. “Ha. I mean, the cafeteria food is dreadful, but really…” 
Sherlock shakes his head, a sharp, abortive movement, and John falls silent. 
“You all have no idea,” Sherlock says, and his voice is even duller and deader
than before, “you, with your tiny little brains. You have no idea how littleit
all means.” 
John stares at him, his heart in his throat. 
“You sit there, in your classes, in the corridors, in the bathrooms, and you
don’t think. You don’t see, you don’t hear, you don’t observe. But I do. I take
in every single bit of information that enters my proximity, whether I want to
or not, and it is all so small.” 
John breathes in, watching Sherlock’s eyes grow dark and wide. 
“When my brain is being properly stimulated, when there are problems to solve
and experiments to conduct, everything is fine, I can tune the rest out. But
when there’s nothing new, nothing but ordinary, boring, useless information, I
can’t help but focus on it. Every single moment my head is full of a hundred
separate trivialities: Lestrade had two eggs for breakfast, this table used to
be in a kindergarten, Violet Hunter’s bicycle broke down this morning, there
are three grammatical errors on this page of the textbook, Sebastian Wilkes is
cheating on his girlfriend, Sebastian Wilkes’ father is cheating on his wife,
the dried gum under my chair has been here for thirteen months and two weeks—” 
“Sherlock.” John stops him, can’t help himself from stopping him, because
Sherlock looks almost manic now, rattling off this list of useless facts as he
stares into something dark and distant that John can’t see. 
“I am always thinking,” Sherlock whispers, fingers clenching white. 
John swallows, feeling the ghost of Sherlock’s despair, the pressure of a
hundred thoughts a second whizzing through his brain, impossible to slow or
stop. John would go insane. Perhaps what he took for blankness, for deadness,
is really just Sherlock’s response to constant overstimulation: glazed eyes,
dulled reflexes, as Sherlock’s mind tries to process all that information at
once. 
“You broke our study plans,” John says suddenly. “Am I—were they…” 
Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending, maybe uncaring. 
“Were they boring,” John finishes lamely, embarrassed that he didn’t stop
himself from expressing the fear the moment it occurred to him. “Am
I…a…triviality?” 
John hates himself for saying it aloud. He sounds utterly pathetic. And
Sherlock says nothing, merely staring at John. John cannot tell, not for the
life of him, if Sherlock is thinking about his response, or if John is just so
small to him that Sherlock can’t even manage to answer. 
“Sherlock,” he begins, feeling suddenly dizzy with nerves, “I…” He crouches
down next to Sherlock, heart beating wildly. “I just…I want to understand. I
want—” He swallows. “I want to help.” 
Sherlock’s eyes widen—yes, there, John’s gotten through to him—but the next
moment his face looks awful, derisive and angry and he’s actually stumbling
backwards, standing up against the wall, and John is stumbling backwards, too,
shocked. 
“I’m not your project,” Sherlock snarls. “I don’t need your pity.” 
John feels a rush of horror, hears the blood roaring in his ears. “I didn’t
mean—Sherlock, no, I only meant—” 
“You meant that I’m broken, and you want to fix me,” he replies cuttingly, and
then—horribly, and John hears the words like they’re coming from some kind of
distant nightmare world—he says, “Trust the son of an alcoholic to think he has
the power to save someone from himself. Go home and babysit your father, John,
and leave me alone.” 
John feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. Something bitter rises in the
back of his throat, thick and nauseating as bile, and he stares at the other
boy for a long, silent moment. 
“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” he says quietly, and walks away. 
 
 
 
He almost shouts at his father that evening for having a beer with dinner.
Harry is sulky and silent, picking at her peas and potatoes, and John wants to
shake her. Instead he goes up to his room and locks his door. He breathes in
deeply and kicks the wall. Just once. It hurts. 
He feels a little better. 
He can’t get Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s words, out of his brain. Trust the son
of an alcoholic to think he has the power to save someone from himself,
Sherlock said, and John would be more than upset by that even if he weren’t
worried that Sherlock was right. 
What if, a treacherous little voice in his head says, what if that’s all this
is. This thing, this—this interest in Sherlock. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s
just you being drawn to him because you think he’s broken. Maybe it’s your
goddamn savior complex kicking in. 
Or what if Sherlock has just been some kind of massive distraction for John?
After all, he hardly knew a thing about Sherlock when this—this fascination
started. What if John never really liked the other boy at all, but was just
drawn in by the ideaof him, of a difficult, unapproachable, secretly fragile
genius? 
Wouldn’t Sherlock be justified in saying what he did? 
John lies down on his bed, fully clothed, shoes still on. He stares blankly at
his bedside table, at the empty glasses and miscellaneous pens and the
secondhand copy of Grey’s Anatomy. For some reason, the thought that John’s
interest in Sherlock is based on a lie is the most upsetting idea that John has
encountered all day, worse even than what Sherlock said about his father. If
John’s friendship with Sherlock isn’t real—if what they have, or had, that
thing between them that John swears he felt, those times they worked together
on Sherlock’s experiments after school—then something utterly devastating has
happened. Something good has gone out of the world, and now everything is
brown, and very, very small. 
The sun goes down as John is fretting, and John, despite his consternation,
falls asleep.
 
 
 
He wakes up just past midnight. It’s strange, but when he opens his eyes, he
feels nothing but calm. 
He’s not angry with Sherlock. Either not at all, or not right at this
particular moment, he’s not sure which. In the darkness of his room—rendered
weird and alien by the fact that he is still wearing his clothes and his
trainers—he feels only a deep sadness, coupled with a restlessness, a desire to
escape his bedroom, his house, his family, his hemmed-in existence. He feels
damaged, too, and liable to damage others, like a cracked window, broken into
jagged bits of glass. Just this once, he can admit that, yes, his life is crap,
and that it hurts. 
He swings his feet off the bed. It’s a bad idea to walk around London alone at
night, even in a decent neighborhood like this one, but John needs air. He pads
quietly downstairs. He notes, distantly, that his dad appears to have made it
up to his bedroom tonight. 
He slips his key into his pocket and steps outside. 
The night is sharp. John takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn his
throat. Yes. This is what he needs. He starts walking, past the darkened
houses, everything still in the yellow glow of the streetlamps. A car passes
by, its headlights briefly blinding, then turns the corner, fallen leaves
settling in its wake. John walks down one block, then another, with no
particular purpose in his head, just a clear cold feeling of melancholy, so in
tune with his chill, silent surroundings that John feels strangely peaceful.
There’s nothing specific going on in his head. He’s aware only of the darkness
and the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the depth of the peculiar calm
within him. 
He can’t say he’s surprised when he finds himself walking onto Chesterton’s
campus, as if some homing signal has led him there. He also isn’t startled to
see the glow of a cigarette and the shadowy outline of a long thin figure
sitting atop the low wall at the front of the building. It’s Sherlock, of
course. 
It’s almost as if John knew he would be here. 
He walks over the boy, whose pale face is half in shadow, half yellowed by a
nearby streetlamp. Sherlock looks at him silently, taking a long pull on his
cigarette and then exhaling, his mouth a small O as he releases a thin plume of
smoke into the air. 
“Mind if I sit?” John asks. 
Sherlock shakes his head. John slides onto the cold ledge. For a long moment,
they don’t say anything. They don’t need to talk; this is enough. John’s
fingers are growing numb, and the sky is vast, and he can see a couple of stars
even through the lights of the city. He imagines Sherlock’s cigarette is
another star, a point of light that is burning itself down, pulled in bit by
tiny bit by the gravity of Sherlock’s lips. 
“Can I have a drag?” John asks. 
Sherlock looks taken aback, but he offers John the cigarette. John places it
between his lips, savouring the unfamiliar feel of it, the paper, the heat. He
sucks in a shallow breath and lets it out, watching the smoke curl from his
mouth, and hands it back to Sherlock. 
“You’re doing it wrong,” Sherlock says abruptly. “You have to take deeper
breaths. Like this.” 
He demonstrates, his chest rising and falling. John watches, imagining
Sherlock’s lungs, what they look like expanding and contracting. 
“Just because I don’t smoke doesn’t mean I don’t know how,” he answers mildly. 
Sherlock looks perplexed, but says nothing. They lapse again into silence. A
couple of cars pass, loud in the stillness. John thinks again of the stars, all
of the ones he can’t see, invisible under the blanket of light pollution. He
remembers that Sherlock once professed proudly not to know anything about the
solar system. It’s a shame, John thinks now: the universe is so vast and
mysterious; he’d imagine Sherlock would like that. 
He holds out his hand again, and Sherlock passes him the cigarette. It’s
shorter now, and John can feel the heat of the tip closer to his fingers. He
takes another shallow drag and lets it out. 
“You don’t smoke,” Sherlock says, sounding frustratingly bemused. 
“No,” John agrees. 
“Then why are you smoking?” 
John thinks, Because it’s as close as I will ever get to kissing you. 
And somehow, the thought—which has arrived crystal clear and unbidden in his
head—doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t surprise him. He surveys it calmly; it
seems as removed from him as the bricks beneath him and the gaps in the chain-
link fence across the street. Ah, he thinks, now I understand. 
He shrugs, giving Sherlock half a smile. 
Sherlock doesn’t smile back, but after a moment he offers John another drag on
the now nearly spent cigarette. 
“You can’t help me,” he says abruptly, tossing the butt on the ground and
grinding it elegantly under his shoe. He doesn’t look at John. “No one can. It
simply has to pass by itself. They do, eventually, these black moods.” 
John knows it’s as near as Sherlock can get to an apology. He feels a glow of
warmth in his chest, like the hiss of a Bunsen burner starting up. “I
understand,” he answers, choosing his words carefully. “But you did say certain
things make it better. Puzzles, experiments.” 
Sherlock nods, not meeting John’s eyes. “But you can’t simply conjure those
things into being.” 
“Sure you can,” John says. “Those experiments of yours, for one. You’ve stopped
working in the labs after school. How come?” 
Sherlock’s face contracts in displeasure. “Gregson realized someone was
breaking in. She changed the locks. They aren’t too difficult for me to pick,”
he adds quickly. “But if I get expelled from Chesterton, Mycroft says he’ll
send me to boarding school in France.” 
John thinks he doesn’t like Mycroft Holmes very much. 
“And what about the bio lab?” he persists. 
Sherlock hesitates. “Molly has been working there.” 
John frowns, puzzled. “Yeah, I know. She’s been doing extra credit. Lestrade
gave her permission. But she’d be happy to share the room, I know she would.” 
“She would be distracting.” Sherlock’s voice is petulant. 
John hides a smile. “You could ask her to be quiet. I know she talks a lot, but
I promise you, she’d stop if you asked her to. And she might surprise you. She
wants to work in a morgue, you know, seems like something you’d be interested
in.” 
Maybe in the morning John will curse himself for saying anything that might
make Sherlock take an interest in Molly, now that he recognizes his real
feelings for the boy. But tonight, under the hidden stars, nothing seems like a
threat besides the possibility of losing Sherlock to his own unhappiness. 
“Why don’t you ask Lestrade?” John presses. “I’m sure he’d let you use the lab
after school. You wouldn’t even have to break in.” 
Still Sherlock hesitates. “He’d say no,” he answers quietly, after a long
moment. 
“He wouldn’t,” John promises, wanting to kick whomever last denied Sherlock
such a request. He puts a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, unthinkingly,
without realizing he’s doing it, and both of them freeze. 
John has never taken that kind of liberty before. He’s half afraid Sherlock
will wrench himself out of John’s grasp. But instead, they both simply look at
each other in silence, until, finally, Sherlock speaks, his voice gravelly. 
“Would you like another cigarette?” he asks. 
“I’ll share one,” John answers. 
As Sherlock cups his hand and flicks on his lighter, John looks once more at
the empty sky. A solitary plane is flying overhead, just a tiny yellow light
blinking on and off, a couple hundred people suspended miraculously in space
between Point A and Point B. Sherlock and John sit in silence down below,
passing their own tiny glowing light back and forth. Through the smoky flavor
of the cigarette, John can taste the ghost of Sherlock’s lips against his own.
Only their fingers touch as they brush against each other to make the exchange,
but John feels as though he and Sherlock are mouth-to-mouth, breathing the air
from each other’s lungs, warm and alive against the chill of the night. 
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the longish wait! Working in a toy store at the holidays
     takes quite a bit of time and energy. (:
     I am changing the title of this story because I have been informed by
     a thoughtful reader that bleachers are not a usual feature of schools
     in the U.K. Whoops! ACD canon reference instead.
The next morning, John awakens to find that he has a bomb ticking away in his
chest. 
Or that’s what it feels like, anyway. Surely his heartbeat can’t be that
powerful, that intense, that fast. And surely the sensation that he’s volatile,
that he’s live, that a single touch could set off an explosion, shrapnel
flying, noise booming, all heads turning to stare directly at John and the
perilous device lodged deep in his chest—surely that can’t all be in John’s
imagination. He’s sure, too, that the traces of Sherlock’s cigarette, stale and
bitter on his lips the morning after, are just on the edge of visibility, like
special ink that needs only a blacklight to show up brilliantly, eye-catchingly
neon. He’s got to be sending out waves, tremors, invisible ripples of thought
and desire that penetrate the walls, the floor, the ceiling, so that not only
his hungover dad downstairs and his cranky sister next door but even the older
couple who live in the third-floor flat above them must be feeling their skin
prickle, the hairs stand up on the backs of their necks, a developing sixth
sense that’s going to send them noses-first in John’s direction. 
Sherlock. 
Sherlock.  
Sherlock. 
That’s what they’re going to hear when they get close enough, instead of a
heartbeat, instead of the breath entering and exiting John’s lungs. They will
know. 
Everything looks different when John switches on the light, resting his elbows
on his knees and his hands in his head, trying to calm himself. His knees look
different. His floor looks different. The angles and corners of his room, the
old rugby posters on his wall, the heaps of schoolbooks on the floor, all look
different, too, and unfamiliar—just barely, though, as if somebody’s tinted the
world just a fraction, or as if the rules of geometry have been altered almost
imperceptibly. Actually, the room looks like it did when John came back from a
month-long holiday with his family the summer before his mom died: as if it’s
grown smaller in his absence. Only this time John hasn’t been away. 
He goes into the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face. His face in the
mirror looks unfamiliar as well—shell-shocked, a bit, and sort of pleading. 
What is happening to me? John asks himself, staring into his own wide eyes. 
He really, really can’t answer that question. Because he knows there’s no
retracting the revelation he had last night—the one that came upon him so
calmly, under the cold night sky. That John Watson seems a world away now. He’s
anything but fatalistic this morning, anything but calm; the only thing that
remains the same is his desire to—well. To kiss Sherlock Holmes. 
But how can I want that, and—and why? he asks himself desperately, even as the
thought of Sherlock’s cigarette against his lips sends a fiery jolt deep into
his gut. What does thatmean? 
He’s never, in his conscious memory, felt attracted to a boy before. He’s liked
girls since he was ten and kissed Angela Potter on the lips in the park and
she’d run away shrieking and laughing, her golden hair tangled in the wind.
He’s kissed quite a few girls since then, once they stopped running away. He
thinks of Sarah Sawyer, the soft press of her lips, the curves she’d finally
let him touch after months of dating, the feel of her hand slipping tentatively
between his legs for the first time. He shifts, swallowing; yes, the memory is
still as potent and powerful as ever. 
He isn’t gay. 
And he’s not an idiot, he knows about bisexuality, but this doesn’t feel like
that. It doesn’t feel as though he likes women and men. It feels as though he
likes women and Sherlock.
He slumps down onto the closed toilet seat, running his hands over his face. Is
that even possible? he wonders. Or is this just some—some trick of his brain?
Sherlock is extraordinary, brilliant, and unquestionably beautiful even by the
most objective standards. Could it be that John’s yearning for something
different, something new, something that isn’t his dull friends and his
difficult family has somehow transformed into physical desire? After all, this
attraction began as a purely mental one; John was fascinated first by
Sherlock’s brain, his curious history, his aloofness and, underneath, his
vulnerability. He wants to take Sherlock in his arms and squeeze the pain out
of him. He wants to kiss Sherlock until Sherlock forgets—until they both
forget—that anything, anyone else exists. 
“Oi!” There’s a sharp knock at the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there,
drowning yourself in the toilet?” 
John jerks out of his revelry. “For goodness’ sake, Harry,” he answers, trying
to sound as ordinary as he can. “Give me a minute.” 
She kicks the door. “Hurry up. Some of us want to get the hell out of this
house as soon as possible.” 
John squeezes his eyes shut. Harry. Christ. Somehow he hadn’t made the
connection till now: Harry, in a closet, kissing Clara Bennett; John, sitting
on the wall, wanting to kiss Sherlock. His mind kicks into overdrive, thoughts
blossoming like violent pools of color in his brain. He thinks of the word
gayand he thinks of closets, literal and figurative, and he thinks of Harry
whispering secretly into Clara’s ear, and secrets, and why secrets remain
secrets—the faces of his friends, shocked and laughing, his father, the
inevitable anger and derision if he ever found out—talk about explosions… 
“John!” Harry kicks the door again. 
“Fine! Jesus Christ!” John shouts, opening the bathroom door so fast he almost
slams it in into Harry’s nose. He strides into his room, ignoring his sister’s
startled expression, and grabs his backpack, then plunges down the stairs like
he’s taking a dive into freezing water. His dad is sitting in the darkened
kitchen, rubbing away a headache, but John doesn’t even pause to be angry about
it. He snags his coat and hurries out into the cold gray morning. 
The stupid thing is, he thinks, as he walks toward school, feet suddenly
dragging, is that there’s not a chance in hell Sherlock is going to want to
kiss him anyway.
 
 
 
And yet, God, there’s somethingbetween them that morning; even in his confused
and overwrought state John can tell he isn’t imagining it. Sherlock joins him
before class, outside his locker, and something sparkswhen their eyes meet.
They both look away, quickly, and John’s heart is pounding. 
Shit, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he can hide his feelings if
Sherlock’s gaze does thatto him. 
“We should talk to Lestrade today,” John says to the inside of his locker. 
Sherlock makes an indecipherable noise. He seems better today, a little more
present than he has been for the past week or so, but John isn’t fooling
himself that Sherlock’s black mood is gone for good. The sooner Sherlock has
interesting things to do, the better. 
“About using the bio lab after school,” John clarifies. He swallows, then pulls
his head out of his locker to look at Sherlock. But the pale boy is staring at
the floor now. 
“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, his tone clipped. “That isn’t necessary.” 
John has an overwhelming impulse to crush his friend in a tight embrace.
Instead, he levels his gaze and puts his hands on his hips. 
“I’ll talk to him myself,” John says, trying to ignore the nervousness he feels
at making the offer. Is he being too transparent? “Don’t worry about it.” 
Sherlock looks up at John, startled. He starts to say something, then stops.
After a long moment, he jerks his head once in acquiescence. 
John swallows down his smile, trying not to notice how warm the air around them
has become.
 
 
 
“Mr. Lestrade?” John pokes his head around the open door of Lestrade’s office.
It’s the end of lunch hour. “May I come in?” 
“John, hi,” Lestrade says, smiling. “Of course.” 
John steps inside. Lestrade’s office is small and dim, cluttered in a cozy way
with books and discarded remnants from the bio lab—an old microscope, a plastic
model of the inner ear, a skull (possibly real) atop a bookshelf. “I have a
question for you,” John begins. 
“Okay, shoot,” Lestrade says amiably. 
John shouldn’t be nervous. He and Lestrade get on quite well. If he were asking
to use the bio lab for himself, he wouldn’t bat an eye. But asking on
Sherlock’s behalf is another story. It draws so clear a connection between
himself and the other boy. Do friends do things like this for each other? Is it
normal? John can’t tell. 
“You know how Molly has been using the bio lab after school sometimes for extra
credit?” he begins. 
Lestrade snorts. “Did she tell you that? Molly doesn’t need any extra credit.
She’s doing independent research, just because she wants to.” 
John nods, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Molly has got to
give herself more credit, he thinks. 
“Well, anyway,” he continues, “er, I was wondering if you might—if you might
let other students use the lab as well.” 
Lestrade’s eyes narrow. “That would depend on the student. I wouldn’t give
anyone the opportunity to be in the lab unsupervised if I didn’t think they
were responsible enough.” 
John wonders, with a flutter in his stomach, if responsibleis a term that can
be applied to Sherlock. “Right. Of course. The thing is, I was wondering—well,
I was wondering if Sherlock and I might use it sometimes. He, er, has ideas for
some experiments he wants to conduct.” 
Lestrade scratches his head. “Sherlock, huh? I don’t know, John. I’m not sure I
trust him not to blow up the lab—and given that it’s a biology lab, not
chemistry, that’s saying something.” 
John nods but feels disappointment rushing through him. “It’s just—he—well, he
gets bored,” he says, anxious not to betray Sherlock’s trust, but feeling as
though he’s got to try harder before giving up. “And I think—he likes science,
more than he likes most things, and…” 
He trails off. Lestrade is giving him a long, hard look. John feels as though
he can see right through John’s skin, to where his heart is racing a mile a
minute. 
“Okay,” Lestrade says finally. “I’ll make you a deal. Sherlock can use the lab,
but only when you’re there too.” 
John feels a rush of relief, tinged with nearly overpowering excitement. “Thank
you. Yes. I can do that.” 
“And check with Molly about when she’s working there—she’s got first dibs.
You’d better go talk with Mrs. Hudson, too, so she can schedule the room for
you. And John—” Lestrade hesitates, his gaze assessing. “Take Sherlock with you
when you see her. You shouldn’t have to do all the work for him.” 
“Oh, I’m not—he didn’t—” John takes a deep breath. “I don’t mind.” 
“Even so,” Lestrade says. “It’ll be good for him.” 
John nods. “Okay.” He pauses. “Er—I just—well. Thanks,” he finishes lamely. 
Lestrade smiles. “Of course. You’re a good student, John, and a good kid. And
for God’s sake don’t tell him I said this, but I think Sherlock is too, deep
down. Impossible though he may be.”
John feels a rush of gratitude for Lestrade. He hovers for a moment, struck
with the mad desire to confess everything to his teacher—what a relief it would
be, to talk to someone older and wiser about the tumult in his chest and in his
mind—but he can’t quite bring himself to speak. 
“Thanks,” he says again, and Lestrade smiles back. 
“You’re welcome.”
 
 
 
It’s exactly as difficult as John expects, getting Sherlock to talk to Mrs.
Hudson with him. Molly’s no problem—she agrees enthusiastically to Sherlock’s
occasional presence in the lab while she’s working, a fact which John tries not
to worry jealously about. But Sherlock is less than pleased at the idea of
asking for something politely from a school administrator. It’s a mark of how
much he must want the use of the lab that he agrees at all. 
Still, John practically has to drag him to Mrs. Hudson’s office after class.
She’s stationed outside the headmaster’s office, of course, and John can hear
low voices coming from behind the closed door to the side of Mrs. Hudson’s
desk. The administrative assistant herself, though, is unoccupied, and her face
lights up when she sees them come in. 
“Hello, boys! So good to see you again, Sherlock, I hope you’re settling in
well! And John Watson, I haven’t seen you in here since the football incident
back in your fifth year, shame on you for keeping away so long—not that I’m not
glad you haven’t been breaking any windows recently, of course.” 
John feels his cheeks turn pink. Mrs. Hudson has quite a long memory. “It was
an accident,” he replies automatically. 
“Yes, yes, of course,” she says with a knowing smile. John can sense Sherlock
smirking beside him. “Do sit down, both of you. Would you like a biscuit?” 
She offers them a tin. They both demur politely—John is startled, actually, at
how well Sherlock is behaving. Usually he finds small talk unbearable. 
“So what can I do for you boys?” Mrs. Hudson asks. 
John glances at Sherlock. “We, er, got permission from Mr. Lestrade to use the
bio lab after school sometimes. He said to talk to you so you can reserve the
room for us.” 
Mrs. Hudson’s face lights up. “Oh, lovely! I’m sure Molly will be glad of the
company. All of you, so smart.” She types rapidly on her computer. “How shall
we do this? Molly just pops in every week to tell me when she wants to stay
after. But I can give you specific days if you like.” 
John looks questioningly at Sherlock. 
“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Sherlock says. “That is—if that works for you,
John.” 
John swallows. There’s no reason whatsoever that the question should have made
him pulse quicken. “Yeah. Good.” 
“All right, then,” Mrs. Hudson says, making some definitive clicks with her
mouse. “All set. And if you need to change it, then just come right in. You’re
welcome anytime, just to chat.” 
John smiles at her, genuinely grateful. “Thank you.” 
“That goes for you, too, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says, eyes suddenly adamant as
they rise to go. “Anytime.” 
Sherlock stares at her, looking as though he can’t figure out what she wants
from him. John has a sudden fear that Sherlock is going to say something that
isn’t very nice at all. But all Sherlock does is nod. 
“Good,” Mrs. Hudson says. “That’s settled, then.” 
John swears Sherlock almost smiles as they leave the office. “So,” he says,
faltering as his eyes meet Sherlock’s and it happens again, that spark,
sizzling through the air between them, shriveling the words to dust in his
mouth. They stare at each other for a moment, and then the sound of somebody
whistling behind them breaks the spell. 
They turn around. Emerging from the headmaster’s office is a scrawny dark-
haired boy, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that ought to sound merry
but somehow doesn’t. It takes John a moment to recognize him—it’s Jim, Jim
Moriarty, one of the kids who was tormenting Sherlock that day behind the gym.
His hackles rise. 
Moriarty stops short and gives them a long, smirking glace. “Hope I didn’t
interrupt anything,” he says in an Irish lilt. 
Neither John nor Sherlock replies, but the tension is palpable. Sherlock has
clearly recognized Moriarty, too.
“You’re not waiting for the headmaster, are you?” Moriarty asks. “Thing is, I
wouldn’t talk to him now, if I were you. He’s just received some very
unfortunate information. He’s not in the best of moods.” Moriarty grins, and
for some reason his smile makes John want to punch him in the face, too. 
“Come on, Sherlock,” he says roughly. “Let’s go.” 
But Sherlock is staring at Moriarty in a way John doesn’t like at all—intense,
utterly focused. Fascinated. “What did you tell him?” Sherlock demands. 
“Oh, got you curious now, have I?” Moriarty asks. “Mmm. You’ll figure it out,
I’m sure. Clever Sherlock Holmes.” He examines his fingernails. “Let’s just say
a certain star athlete is about to be in lot of trouble. His own fault, of
course.” Moriarty raises his skinny shoulders. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 
And with that, he saunters off, whistling again. 
Sherlock stares after him. “He’s done something,” he says, his voice intense
and low. “Something isn’t right.” 
“Well, he’s a little shit,” John answers, with more bite than he intends.
Sherlock looks at him, startled. “Not worth our time, Sherlock. Let’s—” 
But once again, they’re interrupted. Sherlock’s eyes widen as they focus
somewhere behind John, and suddenly he’s grasping John’s wrist and pulling them
both down the corridor, nearly at a run. 
“Sherlock, what—” John pants, looking wildly over his shoulder. All he can see
is Mrs. Dimmock, the fifth-year English teacher, her head bent over a pile of
papers. 
“She musn’t see me,” Sherlock hisses, half-dragging John past rows of metal
lockers. “I was supposed to turn in a paper for her this afternoon, and I
haven’t got it done.” 
John snorts. “Sherlock! You can’t just avoid her forever, she—” 
“Shhhh!” Sherlock says, and then, as Mrs. Dimmock begins to look their way, he
grabs John’s hand and starts to run. 
John lets out an undignified yelp and then he’s laughing and streaking down the
corridor with Sherlock, dodging past a couple startled first-years, barreling
around a corner and down the stairs. His heart is racing, his hand is hot in
Sherlock’s and he feels as if he might simply leap into flight at any moment. 
“Why the hell,” he pants as they race past empty classrooms, “are you even—” he
gasps for breath “—taking English in the first place? You shouldn’t have to,
not in your—hah—in your fifth year.” 
“Mycroft,” Sherlock spits out, still racing along. “Wants to keep me
occupied.” 
“Git.” 
“Yes.” They burst through a side door to the outside and skid to a halt,
falling back against the brick wall of the school. Their hands fly apart but
they’re practically pressed together, panting with effort, giggles rising in
their throats. 
“You,” John puffs out, “are utterly cracked.” 
Sherlock lets out a laugh. “You followed me.” 
“You grabbed my hand!” 
“You didn’t let go.” 
They double over, laughing and wheezing, and John feels giddy, head spinning,
pulse racing; he can’t stop grinning at Sherlock, can’t stop his heart from
feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. Nobody’s around and he’s so
closeto Sherlock, and Sherlock is looking at him with the same giddy
expression, and they are nose to nose all of a sudden and John can feel
Sherlock’s heart galloping, and they are standing on the edge of a cliff, a
precipice, about to hurtle headlong into empty space with dizzying speed— 
And then they are kissing. 
Sherlock grabs John’s upper arms and John fists his hands in Sherlock’s shirt
and pulls and they come together with astonishing force, lips hard and
desperate against each other; it’s more like a fight than a kiss, teeth
clicking together and hands gripping hard enough to bruise, and when Sherlock’s
tongue breaks into John’s mouth it’s like an invasion, an attack, but God is it
a welcome one. John shoves Sherlock back against the wall and Sherlock’s eyes
widen. He goes still and John breaks away, terrified and elated. 
They stare at each other, still panting. John feels so keyed-up he might just
jump right out of his skin. Get it together, some distant part of his brain
commands, but John can’t do anything but gasp for air and stare at Sherlock,
who looks somewhere between having just survived an atom bomb and having just
become one. 
“John,” he says, voice cracking, and then they’re kissing again, just as
urgently, just as messily, all teeth and tongue and terror. John’s afraid of
breaking off again, even though he can’t breathe, afraid that if he and
Sherlock move away from the wall it will collapse on top of them. They might
both collapse, in a heap of bones and sinew and muscle, if they ever stop
kissing. 
So they don’t, not for a long time. Not until both of them slowly become aware
that they’re outside, in public, and even though no one’s around this side of
the school, between the main building and the auditorium, they could appear at
any moment. Neither of them voices this concern, but John can see his own
realization reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. 
They pull away slowly, suddenly looking anywhere but at each other. John feels
as if his whole body has been turned inside out. He waits for his breathing to
steady, but it doesn’t. 
It seems that he and Sherlock find their courage at exactly the same time. As
John looks up at Sherlock, Sherlock is just looking up at him. They meet each
other’s eyes, and John wishes desperately that he could read Sherlock’s mind. 
He doesn’t ask what Sherlock is thinking. He doesn’t say anything at all. He
can’t find the words—or maybe it’s that any words, any at all, would break
whatever fragile thing is now between them. Or maybe words would solidify
it—and John isn’t ready for that, either. 
Instead, with a feeling almost, but not quite, like dread, he places his hand
on Sherlock’s chest. His friend’s heart is beating wildly, strong and forceful
as if it’s trying to leap right through his ribs. John shuts his eyes for a
moment, relief flooding through him. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s doing,
either. Thank God. 
He lifts Sherlock’s pale hand very gently and, as Sherlock gives him a startled
look, he places it on his own chest, over his own erratic, leaping, terrified
heart. 
Sherlock exhales, long and slow, and together they stand there, motionless,
finding momentary peace at the center of a hurricane.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Sherlock’s fingers are very close to John’s. 
They’re sitting in biology class, listening to Lestrade’s lecture. Or rather,
pretending to; John, at least, hasn’t heard a word. His whole body is focused
on Sherlock’s pinky, half an inch away from his own thumb. Sherlock hasn’t
looked at him the whole class period, which is how John knows he’s aware of
their proximity, too. He could swear there’s an actual electric charge in the
air between them—it’s miraculous that no one else seems to have noticed. Molly,
for instance, sits on his other side, completely oblivious, taking detailed
notes and dotting her i’s with little hearts. John’s brain takes a brief
respite from thinking about how the perfect curve of Sherlock’s fingernail
would feel against his cheek to be grateful Molly can’t tell that anything is
different—John is afraid it will break her heart if she ever finds out. 
Sherlock shifts slightly, bringing their skin almost in contact, and John feels
a shudder run through him. The clock ticks down with maddening deliberateness.
John breathes deeply, his heart racing faster as the end of the period
approaches. 
The bell rings. Lestrade dismisses them. John mumbles something to Molly about
seeing her later and he scrambles to his feet, hurrying out of the room. 
He’s got French and Sherlock’s got physics, but John is damned if he’s waiting
till the end of the day, and he knows from the way Sherlock’s foot slid against
his just before Lestrade let them go that his friend feels the same. There’s a
single bathroom at one end of this floor, which is meant for teachers, but
John’s not above breaking the occasional rule. He ducks inside. He catches his
own gaze in the mirror—his eyes are huge, dark and hungry. He swallows hard. 
Twenty seconds later, Sherlock whirls into the room like a tornado, latching
the door behind him in one graceful movement and knocking John back against the
tile wall, his mouth unerringly finding its target. They’re gasping within the
first few seconds; they still—after nearly a week of snatched kisses in
bathrooms and corners and empty corridors—are afraid of breaking contact, even
just to catch their breath. John runs his fingers up the back of Sherlock’s
neck and through his dark hair, pulling him closer till their bodies collide,
warm and so alive. Sherlock kisses with such intensity, such single-minded
focus, that John finds it a harrowing experience, but for all that, the
distance between always them seems too great. Clearly Sherlock thinks so
too—John makes a strangled noise as Sherlock’s tongue slides deeper into his
throat, and he digs his fingernails into the back of Sherlock’s neck to keep
himself from whimpering. 
Outside, in the corridors, a bell rings, signaling that both of them are late
to class. They have to push themselves away from each other to break the kiss.
Sherlock wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist, and John nearly goes weak-
kneed at the sight. 
“Right,” he says, catching his breath. “Er. I’ll…see you after school?” 
Sherlock nods. They stare at each other—lips swollen, pupils dilated—and
finally, Sherlock turns to go, with what looks like physical pain. 
John buries his head in his hands, breathing deeply. His mind is awhirl with
confusion and desire. His whole body is protesting against Sherlock’s sudden
absence. 
He can’t imagine how he’s going to make it through French.
 
 
 
John can’t think about anything but Sherlock. Mike and the others won’t shut up
about football, and Molly (bless her heart) keeps going on about her new cat,
and the whole school is abuzz with the news that Carl Powers, the star of
Chesterton’s swim team, has been arrested for shoplifting and kicked off the
team and suspended for a month, but John’s entire existence is focused around
the brilliant boy he’s currently snogging in secret every chance he gets. He’s
never been so caught up in somebody else. Part of it is just blind lust—he can
literally feel his lips aching for Sherlock’s when they’re around other
people—compounded by the fact that they’ve never managed to be alone long
enough to kiss for more than a couple minutes at a time, and they’ve constantly
got their ears pricked for approaching footsteps. The secrecy, the hurry, the
bursts of adrenaline somehow make the whole thing a thousand times more
intense. John also can’t quit thinking of Sherlock because it’s all just bloody
terrifying: it’s so incredibly wrong-footing to find himself ducking into
bathrooms and closets to sneak passionate kisses with a boy, so frightening,
frankly, to feel that he’s suddenly become a stranger to himself. And he can’t
look at Harry, or his dad, without worrying that somehow they’ll know—and he’s
not ready for that, not by a long shot. He knows nothing, nothing at all, about
where this is going, about his own feelings, about what any of this means for
him. He only knows that when Sherlock is near, his heart beats so hard and fast
that it feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest. 
It’s also difficult because Sherlock is impossible to read. 
John knows Sherlock wants to kiss him. He’s got ample evidence for this, as
over and over again Sherlock pins him against the wall, hands on his shoulders
and tongue delving into John’s mouth like it’s searching for a secret hidden
deep within. And he knows Sherlock likes the feel of John’s lips on his neck
and his ear and his collarbone because of the little half-noises he makes every
time, tiny gasps and catches of breath that send a jolt of desire straight
through John’s body. But he knows very little else. They don’t talk about what
they’re doing—they haven’t said a word about it, not once, not before or since
that first kiss. Sherlock is clearly just as keen as John to avoid being seen,
but whether that’s because he’s afraid of what others will say or ashamed of
kissing a boy or conscious of John’s wishes or just plain secretive by nature,
John hasn’t the slightest idea. And John doesn’t know what Sherlock wants from
him, other than kisses. Maybe nothing. 
Maybe everything. 
That possibility scares John more than anything else. 
Frankly, he’s so confused and keyed-up and full of adrenaline all the time that
he’s possibly a little less freaked out than he should be when he’s sort-of-
almost kidnapped about a week and a half after he and Sherlock start, well,
doing whatever it is they’re doing. He’s taking a walk after dinner—his dad and
his sister have been snapping at each other all evening, and he’d desperately
needed to get out of the house—when a black car pulls up alongside him,
headlights gleaming in the half-light. John’s stomach dips woozily when he
recognizes it as the car Sherlock takes home from school every day. For a wild
moment he has visions of kissing Sherlock senseless in the backseat, but then
the driver’s window rolls down and he realizes no one else is inside. 
“John Watson?” the driver asks, face quite neutral. 
John nods, confused. 
“If you would get in, please.” 
John blinks. He wonders if it’s possible that Sherlock has sent for him. Maybe
he’ll be taken to meet him somewhere? 
“What exactly…?” 
“Sherlock’s brother wants to see you.” 
John goes cold. After a moment he realizes he’s standing there with his mouth
open. The driver looks unlikely to budge unless John complies, so, at a loss
for what else to do, John climbs in. 
They drive for perhaps ten minutes. John’s well-established dislike of Mycroft
Holmes in theory battles furiously with overwhelming curiosity. He can’t deny
that he’s wondered what Sherlock’s brother is like; sometimes he thinks if he
knew a bit more about Sherlock’s life outside school, he’d find the boy less
inscrutable. When the car pulls into a private parking garage, John’s pulse is
jumping anxiously but he’s making an effort to appear calm. The driver ushers
him into an elevator—it’s entirely nondescript—and then along a similarly
neutral corridor, and into a stunningly unremarkable room. 
Behind a plain brown desk, underneath an indifferent watercolor of Kensington
Gardens hanging on an off-white wall, sits a man who cannot quite be described
as unremarkable. He’s in his early twenties, John guesses, but he’s wearing a
perfectly tailored suit and carries himself with the assurance of a much older
man. He dismisses the driver with a slight raise of his gingery eyebrow and
beckons for John to sit. John does so, sinking into a leather seat with
trepidation and mounting irritation. The latter only grows as the man—whose
sole resemblance to Sherlock lies deep in his intelligent eyes—continues to say
nothing, merely surveying John with a penetrating gaze. 
“So,” John says, breaking the silence more belligerently than he’d quite
intended. “You’re Mycroft Holmes, I’m guessing?” 
The man purses his lips, as if already unsatisfied with the conversation. “I
am. And you are John Watson.” 
It’s not a question, so John doesn’t grace it with an answer. 
“What exactly am I doing here?” he says instead, after another long pause. 
Mycroft Holmes sighs. “I wish to discuss your…relations…with my brother.” 
John swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Fear courses through his veins. “What do you
mean, my relations with him?” he asks, keeping his voice as steady as he can. 
Mycroft’s eyes flutter briefly shut. “Mr. Watson. Surely I do not have to spell
it out for you. You are a reasonably intelligent young man. My brother would
not be wasting his time with you otherwise. Besides, your A-levels, current
grades, and aspirations to be a physician indicate as much.” 
Mycroft smiles slightly as John stares at him, shocked. Surely there’s no way
Sherlock’s brother can know what his grades are. Surely not. 
“No?” Mycroft says with another sigh. “Very well, then. By ‘relations’ I mean,
of course, your…physicalrelationship with Sherlock.” 
John breathes in through his nose, very slowly, fighting panic. Were he and
Sherlock seen? Could Mycroft have seen them? Could someone else have, too? 
“And what makes you think we have a physical relationship?” he asks, meeting
Mycroft’s eyes with great effort. 
Mycroft’s smile is utterly humorless. “It is possible that Sherlock split his
own lip three times in as many days. It seems unlikely, however, that he bit
his own earlobe.” 
John flushes deeply. His embarrassment, however, proves a boon: his anger
finally starts kicking in again. 
“What do you want, exactly?” he retorts. 
Mycroft hesitates. “I want to know what your intentions are towards my
brother.” 
And that stops John short. Because John hasn’t the faintest idea what his
intentions are towards Sherlock, any more than he knows what Sherlock’s
intentions are toward him. Other than getting his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth as
fast as he can the next time they’re alone, of course. Other than gripping
Sherlock’s shoulders as tightly as possible, running his lips just above the
collar of Sherlock’s shirt, daring to slide his fingers a little lower down
Sherlock’s body, and ignoring the beginnings of both of their erections with
all the willpower he can muster. Because that is just too frightening for
words. 
And absolutely noneof Mycroft Holmes’ business. 
“I think that’s between him and I,” John says coolly. 
“Between him and me,” Mycroft corrects immediately. There’s a pause. 
“Yes,” John answers pleasantly. “That.” He smiles, and it’s just as insincere
as Mycroft’s earlier expression. “Basically, what I’m saying is, it’s none of
your business.” 
Mycroft’s face goes blank with shock. Grimly satisfied (despite his still-
racing heart) John gets up and heads for the door. 
“Mr. Watson.” 
Mycroft’s voice is soft and dangerous and John cannot help but turn around. 
“If you hurt my brother, you will be very sorry.” 
John swallows, hard, and then—with a great deal of effort—turns away and leaves
the room.
 
 
 
“What’s happened?” 
The question is immediate and, though not entirely unanticipated, John had
hoped it might take Sherlock a little longer than that to read his mind today.
Not much chance of that, though. 
“Nothing,” he attempts, walking over to lean against the bricks of the
auditorium, where he and Sherlock are half-concealed from the student body,
fifteen minutes before the start of school. 
“Don’t lie, it’s pointless,” Sherlock says, voice intent. “What happened?” 
John rubs a hand over his face. “How do you know something’s happened?” 
“You are making approximately seventy-five percent less eye contact and
standing a full two feet farther away from me than usual, and you are worrying
at the bottom of your jumper with you right hand.”
John clasps his hands behind his back. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens
them again. Sherlock is staring at him, looking intensely focused and, John
thinks, just a little bit afraid. 
“I met your brother,” he admits. 
Sherlock goes still. 
“In what circumstances could you possibly meetMycroft?” 
“Actually,” John says, feeling warier than ever as he surveys Sherlock’s
utterly motionless body, “he sort of kidnapped me.” 
Sherlock’s eyes grow wide, and then suddenly he’s grabbing John by the
shoulders and practically shaking him. 
“What did he do, John? What did he do to you?” 
John puts up a hand, bemused and a little frightened. “Hey, hey, Sherlock.
Nothing. He didn’t doanything, really. He just wanted to…er. Ask about
our—this...our thing.” 
It’s a poor choice of words, and John can’t tell if it’s him or Sherlock’s
absent brother that the boy turns abruptly away from, pacing several feet off
and staring, his fingers hovering over his mouth, at something John can’t see. 
“Sherlock,” John says, a little alarmed. Sherlock says nothing. “I told him to
sod off, you know.” 
Sherlock whirls around. “You did what?” 
John swallows. Is it possible that Sherlock is angry about that? “Well, not in
those exact words. But I did say it was none of his business.” 
Sherlock stares at John for a long moment and then, to John’s utter surprise,
begins to laugh. It’s long and deep, nearly a cackle, and John’s eyes grow wide
in confusion. 
“Sherlock, what—I don’t—did I do something stupid, or—what did I do?” 
“Only,” Sherlock gasps out, “what a dozen foreign diplomats and half the
Cabinet can’t manage.” 
John’s jaw goes slack. “Sherlock. No. You’re joking. Right? Sherlock, you’re
joking, aren’t you?” 
Sherlock just shakes his head, still doubled over with laughter. “No,” he
wheezes. “I’m really not.” He chuckles, rubbing his hands together with glee.
“You told Mycroft Holmes to mind his own business!Oh, this is brilliant. This
is Christmas. John Watson, you are magnificent.” 
And he takes hold of John’s face and kisses him squarely on the mouth. 
They both freeze. Sherlock’s laughter dies abruptly. John’s eyes dart from side
to side—no one saw—and then land again on Sherlock’s face. 
It’s by far the closest thing to a declaration of feeling either of them has
come to making. 
“Class,” Sherlock says abruptly. “Mustn’t be late.” 
“I…right,” John says, scrambling for his bag. Sherlock strides out from behind
the auditorium, into the oblivious crowds of students, and John follows, ears
still ringing with Sherlock’s words.
 
 
 
“Let’s go somewhere private,” John suggests the next day, after they’re nearly
caught mid-snog by a gaggle of third-formers who want to use the space behind
the auditorium to braid each other’s hair. He says it out of sheer
exasperation, though he’s been thinking about it more and more. He’s been too
nervous to bring it up to Sherlock until now—he doesn’t know if his friend
wants more than this, to be honest. 
Sherlock’s eyes widen and for a moment John’s worried that he’s trying to
figure out how to refuse. But then Sherlock nods, just once, and breathes out a
nearly inaudible yes. The sound goes straight to John’s gut. 
“So,” he says, fumbling to cover up his blush, “where, do you think?” 
They fall silent. 
“Mycroft will be at home for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock says grimly. “He
works long hours but they’re unusual ones. There’s no predicting when he’ll
turn up.” 
John doesn’t much fancy the idea of doing anything where Mycroft Holmes hangs
about, anyway. “My dad—erm—” 
“Yes.” 
John bites his lip. The problem is, there are a couple of truly private places
he can think of—a shed in an abandoned lot where some of their classmates go to
drink and smoke weed, Bill Murray’s car, if he lets John borrow it—but he can’t
quite bring himself to suggest them. Part of him is frightened by the thought
of being totally alone with Sherlock—frightened of what might happen between
them. He doesn’t know how far he’s ready to go. Really and truly just doesn’t
know. 
He wonders if Sherlock is worried about the same thing. Surely his enormous
brain would be able to come up with half a dozen solutions to the problem of
privacy if he truly wanted to. 
“There’s an empty lot a few blocks from here,” John says finally, throwing
caution to the winds. “There’s a shed there. We could, er…” 
Sherlock blinks, looking away, then nods. “Okay.” 
“Yeah?” John asks, his heart rocketing into his throat. 
“Yeah.” 
John licks his lips nervously. “Okay. Good. Well, er—Saturday, maybe? In the
morning? Shouldn’t be anyone else there that early.” 
“Fine.” 
“Eleven?” 
“Fine.” 
“Okay.” 
Neither of them can quite meet each other’s eyes after that.
 
 
 
By Saturday, John has worked himself into quite a state. He spends half an hour
picking out what to wear, as if he and Sherlock are going on a date, for
heaven’s sake, instead of to a grubby lot overrun with weeds and cigarette
butts. Finally he growls with frustration and grabs some clothes at random. His
skin feels super-sensitive as he slides the shirt over his head; he’s been
thinking about—in between determinedly notthinking about—how Sherlock’s hands
would feel sliding over his bare skin. He can’t tell if the cold that washes
over the crown of his head at the thought is fear or arousal. What would it
mean if it all went wrong—if they tried, well, more than kissing, and it failed
spectacularly? Then again, what would it mean if it didn’t? 
John shoves such thoughts to the back of his brain and hurries out the door. 
The lot is empty and grey, the sky overcast and the air thick with the chill of
oncoming winter. It’s truly a miserable day, bitter and damp, and John finds it
a bit mad that he’s venturing out. Then again, it’s all a bit mad, really. 
He only has to wait a minute, leaning against the peeling wood, before Sherlock
appears, wrapped in a long coat and scarf that make John go weak at the knees.
They look at each other awkwardly for a moment, and then John swings open the
door of the shed. 
“Come on, then,” he says, with far more bravado than he feels. 
Sherlock steps inside. Grey light filters in through the cracks in the roof,
casting pools of shadow around the tall boy. John steps forward, heart
pounding. Expectation is thick between them; he can feel the warmth rising as
he and Sherlock lean in, heads tilting, lips opening in anticipation. The blood
is racing in John’s ears and he thinks recklessly, I am going to snog you
senseless, Sherlock Holmes. 
A loud bang from outside and then a snort of laughter sends them reeling away
from each other. They freeze, listening to the footsteps—it sounds like a
couple of people, and they’re coming closer. John hopes desperately that they
won’t come into the shed, but soon enough, he hears the scrape of fingers
against wood. His mind is utterly blank. He can’t think of any excuse, other
than the truth, as to why he’s in here, alone, with Sherlock Holmes. 
As the door swings open Sherlock drops suddenly to his knees, turning away from
John, scrabbling in the dirt. For a split second, John wonders what on earth
he’s up to, but then his mind hurtles off in another direction when he sees
who’s just come in. 
It’s Harry. 
“I’ve got the soil sample, John, this should be enough for our experiment—oh,
hello, I—oh.” Sherlock’s false surprise turns real as he sees John’s sister,
standing next to Clara Bennett, her mouth wide open. 
“Soil, erm. Samples,” John stutters. “For—chem class.” 
Harry stares at him. 
“We’re—done here—you can—” John gestures helplessly. 
“Come on, John, haven’t got all day,” Sherlock says, a hint of strain evident
beneath his careless tone, and steers him out of the shed. John glances back at
Harry, who’s glancing back at him, and neither of them says another word—but
they both know how well she can sense when he’s lying. 
He and Sherlock walk several blocks away before stopping to lean against the
metal railing outside a petrol station. Neither of them says anything for a
long moment. 
“Well—” John says, just as Sherlock says, “So—” 
They fall silent. 
“Maybe we should…” Sherlock looks away, his gaze landing on the cracks in the
sidewalk. “Maybe this isn’t…” 
“Wait,” John says, as panic spikes through him. “No. Wait. I—I have an idea.” 
He does, too. It’s just arrived fully formed in his brain, and it’s simple and
frightening and just might be the perfect solution. 
“I know where we can go.” 
Sherlock looks at him warily, the question in his eyes. 
“Come on. Tube’s this way.” 
“But where—” 
“You’ll see.”
Sherlock’s frown deepens as they board the train, studying the map, looking,
John knows, for clues as to where they’re going. He wonders how long it’ll take
Sherlock to figure it out, and if he’ll object when he does. 
They get off at Blackfriars, stepping out into a blast of cold air off the
Thames. Sherlock looks around, puzzled, and then his eyes widen with
understanding. 
“John—” 
They both look at the long steel footbridge, arcing out over the grey river. As
John expected, the damp and the cold have made the bridge much emptier than
usual, handfuls of pedestrians trudging along with their coats up against the
wind. It’s not exactly deserted, but from either side of the river it’s
impossible to make out more than vague figures as they walk across. John bites
the inside of his cheek, waiting for Sherlock’s response. 
He jerks his head yes. John’s stomach lurches, his heart picking up as they
walk in silence toward the bridge. The air is colder and harsher above the
water, but somehow John feels uncomfortably warm. Somewhere near the middle of
the bridge, they stop, looking out over the edge, their bodies close together
as if seeking shelter from the wind. 
They can’t see anyone passing behind them, and John supposes that everyone is
too concerned with getting out of the cold to pay them much mind anyhow. He
darts a glance at Sherlock, uncertain how to begin. What do they do, now that
the urgency and the secrecy and the adrenaline rush aren’t pulling them towards
each other on a collision course? How exactly, John wonders, is this supposed
to work? 
Hesitantly, Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s. They are clear and as grey as
the sky, and full of all the questions that are crowding in John’s mind. 
John places his hand on the railing and Sherlock slowly covers it with his own.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, nose red, black curls tousled by the
wind. He leans in slowly, and John bends to meet him. 
It’s the softest kiss John’s ever known, breaths mingling gently, cold lips
giving way to warmth as their mouths open ever so slightly, sweet and slow as
honey. John’s stomach dips and he feels heat travel all the way into his toes,
curling them up against the insides of his shoes. He slides his hand behind
Sherlock’s neck, deepening the kiss—but not too deep, not too fast, just soft
lips brushing against each other, unhurried, deliberate, light as air. And then
it does intensify, tongues sliding into each other’s mouths, fingers gripping
hair, eyes falling shut and then opening again and shortening breaths and low,
tiny moans. 
John’s nearly forgotten that they’re in public, nearly forgotten the people
walking behind them. But not quite. As long as he and Sherlock remain angled
towards the river, their backs to the rest of the world, everything is fine;
but turning around seems impossible right now. So they kiss long and slow atop
the Millennium Bridge, in the middle of London and yet separate from it, public
but anonymous, shutting their eyes to the crowds and hiding in plain sight. And
it’s lovely, and breathtaking, and nearly, very nearly, enough.
***** Chapter 7 *****
When Carl Powers walks back into school three weeks later, something happens. 
Sherlock hasn’t given a thought to the disgraced athlete, as far as John knows,
for the whole time he’s been suspended. John hasn’t given much thought to
Powers either, despite the fact that his arrest for shoplifting and subsequent
removal from the swim team has been the chief gossip around Chesterton since it
happened. John’s been too caught up in the all-consuming heart-in-mouth
existence that is being secretly involved with Sherlock Holmes to pay much
attention to the rest of the world.
But when Sherlock catches sight of the swimmer’s hunched-over shoulders and
averted gaze as he makes his way through silent crowds of curious students, he
stiffens, his hand moving involuntarily to clasp John by the elbow. 
“What—Sherlock?” John enquires, his stomach dipping queasily at the uncommonly
familiar touch in public. “What is it?” 
“Carl Powers,” Sherlock murmurs. And then, in a whisper that sounds oddly
Irish, “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 
“Sorry?" 
Sherlock whirls to face John. “Carl Powers didn’t steal those shoes.” 
John blinks. “Oh?” 
Sherlock shakes his head furiously, dark curls whipping from side to side.
“Look at the shoes he’s wearing now. He can’t possibly have stolen the
others.” 
John looks at Powers’ feet, then back at Sherlock, bemused. “I don’t…” 
Sherlock huffs impatiently. “Wide feet, he’s got wide feet, the other shoes
wouldn’t have fit right.” 
“But how do you know what kind of shoes—” 
“Because I know things, John, obviously.” Sherlock’s lips grow thin. “Which
means he was set up.” 
John trusts Sherlock, he does. He knows the younger boy’s brain is far quicker
and brighter than his. But he wonders if just this once, Sherlock’s desire for
complex problems is getting the better of him. He licks his lips, trying to
think of how to put this thought politely into words. 
“No, no, John, I’m not imagining it, do keep up,” Sherlock says, sounding more
distracted than irritated. “Carl Powers was framed. And you know who did it,
too.” 
John shakes his head. “I—is that something I’m supposedto know?” 
Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed, trained on Powers’ progress down the corridor.
“Yes, of course, you were there. Outside the headmaster’s office, the day
Powers was suspended. He practically told us it was him—god, how did I miss
it?” 
John thinks back. It’s not actually difficult to remember the incident Sherlock
is talking about, given what happened right afterwards: running down the
corridors, falling into each other’s arms. Basically. He blinks, shaking his
head, and pictures the scene outside the office. A certain star athlete is
about to be in a lot of trouble. His own fault, of course. 
“Jim Moriarty?” John asks, skeptical, thinking of the pale, scrawny boy. Nasty,
but not terribly threatening. “You think he framed Carl Powers?” 
“I know he did,” Sherlock replies, something dark and electric thrumming in his
voice. “Now we just have to prove it.” 
He strides off down the hallway. Startled, John fumbles to keep up, trotting
quickly after Sherlock despite the fact that his brain is protesting—we?
 
 
 
Sherlock’s on some sort of mission now. For all that he couldn’t have cared
less about Carl Powers, the star swimmer or Carl Powers, the center of gossip,
he is obsessed with Carl Powers, the wrongly accused shoplifter. Or, John
amends, he’s obsessed with the mystery of how Moriarty pulled it off. And maybe
a little bit with Moriarty himself. 
“But why would he do that?” John asks for the thousandth time as Sherlock
performs some sort of chemical test on a sample of water from the school
swimming pool, hovering over a table in the biology lab. “What does Moriarty
have against Powers?” 
“Nothing,” Sherlock answers, as the water turns faintly yellow. “Or he was
jealous of his popularity. That’s possible, I grant you, but I’m more inclined
towards the former explanation.” 
“It’s not really an explanation at all, Sherlock,” John protests, and then the
beaker hisses and steams and Sherlock pulls his face hastily away. “And what
does the pool water have to do with it, anyway?” 
Sherlock sticks a thermometer into the still-steaming beaker and frowns.
“Apparently,” he says, sounding disappointed, “it doesn’t.” 
John lets out a noise of frustration. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in his
direction, smirking. “Oh, John, don’t pretend to be annoyed. You love this.” He
swoops in and kisses John on the mouth, then turns to clean up the beaker. John
sits there, dumbstruck, heart pounding, eyes flicking to the door. No one is
peering in the window, of course, but they couldhave been— 
“Come along, John,” Sherlock says cheerfully, not seeming to notice that he’s
done something utterly extraordinary and unprecedented. “We’re taking a
different tack now, I think. Should be quite good.” 
A different tack, John thinks dazedly. He supposes, as he follows Sherlock out
the door, that you could call it that.
 
 
 
“No,” John says firmly, crossing his arms in his best “don’t-argue-with-me”
pose. It’s worked on Harry before. Once or twice, anyway. “Absolutely not.” 
“But whynot?” Sherlock asks impatiently. 
“Because I don’t fancy being arrested.” 
“Oh, John.” Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh, linking his ankles together and
leaning against the wall of the school auditorium. “Don’t be boring. There’s
very little chance that we would get arrested for watching the CCTV tapes of a
local shoe store—” 
“Illegallywatching the CCTV tapes,” John corrects. 
“—and anyway I’m the one doing the illegal bit,” Sherlock continues, unabated.
“You’ll just be distracting him.” 
John rubs a hand across his forehead. “How do you even know they’ll be there? I
bet the police confiscated them when they were looking into Powers’ case.” 
“Yes, yes, but they’re digital, John, they’d have copied them, not taken some
VHS tape back to the station, this isn’t the nineties. All I have to do is
sneak back into the office and watch them while you distract the manager.” 
John frowns. “Why don’t you copy them yourself? It would be quicker, so there
would be less chance of getting caught.” 
Sherlock smirks, and John realizes belatedly that he’s just been tricked into
behaving like he’s already agreed to do this. 
“I’m not saying I’m going to help you—” 
“Oh, come on, John,” Sherlock breathes, and suddenly he’s standing very, very
close. John’s pulse speeds up. His well-honed senses prickle—there are people
around, other students—but god, he can feel the warmth emanating from
Sherlock’s body and his pale eyes are alight with the promise of adventure and
for a mad moment John imagines grabbing his face and kissing him breathless
right there. He restrains himself with a tight swallow but he knows Sherlock
saw. 
“Have a little fun, for once in your life,” Sherlock whispers. “Stop being so
responsible. That’s not really who you are, John.” 
The truth of this hits so hard that John is almost angry, but then Sherlock
slides one finger across his wrist and Christ, there are sparks exploding
before his eyes and he’s nodding his head violently up and down. 
“Yes. Yes, fine, yes, I’ll help you break into the shoe store’s security
system, damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” he says in a rush. “You win.” 
A smile cracks open across Sherlock’s face, and he looks positively gleeful. 
“I thought I knew my John Watson,” he says smugly, and John wants to wipe the
smirk right off his face. Preferably with a very long kiss.
 
 
 
It’s easier than John expected—and a hell of a lot more fun. John goes in
first, with some story about having holes in his winter boots and needing new
ones that are waterproof and lightweight and preferably a particular shade of
brown and in a certain price range and he’s being difficult enough that the
manager hurries over to help the salesperson, and John sees Sherlock step
inside, nodding nonchalantly in the direction of the employee behind the
counter. As John hems and haws over the width of the soles, Sherlock wanders
nearer and nearer to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door near the counter, studying the
merchandise as he goes with precisely the right amount of intent and
indecision. John can feel his blood pumping just below the surface of his skin,
like he’s more alive than usual, his heartbeat louder, his breath sharper in
his lungs. He marvels at Sherlock’s ability to look utterly innocuous at the
same time he’s watching the person at the counter, waiting for her to ring
someone up before he slips into the back room without anyone noticing. 
“I could see if we have these in your size,” the manager offers, tilting his
head towards the door Sherlock just entered. Adrenaline spikes through John,
throwing all his senses into overdrive. Just as he’s afraid he’ll seize up,
giving the whole game away, a sort of miraculous calm comes over him, and he
feels as though he’s looking at the situation from quite some distance. As if
it’s purely academic, the question of what to do next. 
“You know,” John says thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure about them after all. It’s
this buckle, see…” He shrugs. “I just don’t think it suits me.”
He notes with some satisfaction that he can see a vein pulsing in the manager’s
forehead. “Ah, sorry,” he says, apologetic. “I’m being difficult. Look, don’t
worry, I can sort it on my own…” 
“No, no,” the manager answers hastily. “We’re happy to help.” 
“Thanks, really, I appreciate it,” John replies, pleased with himself even as
his mind is calculating how much longer Sherlock should need to copy the tapes.
“Can I see those tall ones again?” 
The manager and the salesperson scramble to find the right size, and John sees
the EMPLOYEES ONLY door open a crack, a sliver of Sherlock’s face visible,
searching the room to make sure no one is watching. John gives him a tiny nod
and Sherlock slips out, switching immediately into casual customer mode. John
can’t deny it: it’s hot. 
As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock gives John a quick wink before sauntering
out of the shop. Warmth creeps across John’s cheekbones, and for the first
time, he feels a little off-kilter. 
“Er,” he says, feeling a genuine flicker of guilt, “you know what.” 
The manager’s forehead vein throbs. He knows what’s coming. 
“I think I’m going to hold off,” John says. “I just—nothing is quite right.
Sorry. Thank you. Actually,” he improvises, since the manager looks like he’s
contemplating turning homicidal and the salesperson is near tears, “I do need
socks. Let me just…yes. Erm. I’d like to…buy these socks?” 
He emerges onto the busy sidewalk two minutes later, clutching a pair of cheap
white athletic socks and feeling both elated and embarrassed. The latter
emotion vanishes when he catches sight of Sherlock, leaning against a lamppost,
looking rather flushed himself, the ghost of a smile on his face. 
“You got it?” John asks, suddenly breathless. 
Sherlock takes John’s hand and slips it into his coat pocket, where John can
feel a flash drive nestled next to a smooth glove. Sherlock’s fingers are cold.
John is hyped up on adrenaline. 
“Sherlock…” he murmurs. 
He tries to removes his hand from Sherlock’s pocket but Sherlock tightens his
fingers. The cars rushing past them seem louder than normal; somebody’s handbag
jostles them, but they don’t move. A horn honks. A siren blares. Sherlock
brings his face close, and slides his tongue into John’s mouth. 
“Not bad, back there. With the manager,” he says after a moment, his lips
brushing John’s. 
John lets out a half-strangled noise as his world turns upside-down, and he
kisses back, hard. 
“You were brilliant,” he manages, despite the terror that’s spiking through
him, despite the glances they’re getting from a couple passersby, one curious,
one mildly disapproving. He pulls away. “Are you…are we…can we watch it now?” 
Sherlock laughs, looking flushed and beautiful and happy. Sherlock, happy, is a
marvelous thing. 
“Yes,” he says, and turns on his heel. John has to hurry to keep up.
 
 
 
They take the flash drive to a library branch Sherlock has never frequented
before, hoping that his banned status doesn’t extend throughout the entire
London Public Library system. John wouldn’t put it past the librarians to have
sent out Wanted poster-style photos of Sherlock to all their co-workers: DO NOT
LET THIS BOY INSIDE IF YOU VALUE YOUR CONTINUED SANITY. But they enter without
incident, thankfully, and find a quiet corner in which to plug the flash drive
into Sherlock’s laptop. John hasn’t asked how Sherlock knows how to hack into a
security system; he suspects it has something to do with lessons learned
(directly or otherwise) from Mycroft. He doesn’t really want to know. 
But he is impressed. Very impressed. 
He’s keeping that to himself if he can manage it—he does have his pride, after
all. Though it’s hard not to hide his admiration as Sherlock passes him an
earbud and opens up the security footage for the date Carl Powers supposedly
shoplifted, expertly speeding it up so they don’t have to watch it in real
time. He and Sherlock hunch over the computer, shoulders touching, excitement
and anticipation sharp in the air between them. 
They watch the footage for the camera just inside the door of the shop, which
shows every person who walked in and out that Saturday afternoon. Or at least,
it’s supposed to. 
“What on earth…” Sherlock murmurs, raising his fingers to his mouth. He looks
more at a loss than John has ever seen him. 
“Did I see that right?” John asks quietly, just as confused as Sherlock. “Did
Carl Powers not go into the shop that day at all?” 
Bemused, Sherlock shakes his head. “It looks like it.”
They’d been working under the assumption that Powers had been in the store at
the time, but hadn’t actually taken anything. John couldn’t see how else the
accusation of shoplifting would have held up otherwise. 
“But—didn’t the police look at the CCTV? Didn’t the manager?” 
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Apparently not.” 
“But—why? That’s the first thing you’d do, isn’t it? Check the security
footage?” 
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, steepling his fingers, “unless you so sure you don’t
even bother with it.” 
John frowns. “But the only reason you’d be that sure—” 
“Is if Powers himself confessed. Yes.” 
John looks at Sherlock, shocked. “Why would he do that?”
Sherlock stares into space. “I can think of at least seven reasons. Eight,
under certain circumstances. But theorizing without proper data is a beginner’s
mistake.” He stands, snapping his laptop shut. John scrambles to his feet. 
“So how…” 
“We’re going to ask him, of course.” Sherlock shoves his hands in his coat
pockets, eyes gleaming with sudden alacrity. “We’re going to question Carl
Powers.
 
 
 
Powers, unsurprisingly, does not want to talk to them. But Sherlock whispers a
few words into his ear—John catches shoe storeand CCTV—and the athlete pales
and agrees to come along. They shut themselves in the bio lab after school,
ignoring Sherlock’s experiments for a more immediate mystery. Sherlock settles
himself on a stool, looking positively alight with gleeful anticipation, and
John sits beside him, excitement and curiosity mixing with a slight sense of
guilt for the suspicious way Powers is looking at them. 
“You lied to the police,” Sherlock says simply, without prelude. “You weren’t
at the shoe store on the day you supposedly shoplifted.” 
Powers’ eyes widen. He glares at Sherlock, his broad forehead furrowed below
his chlorine-bleached hair. “Yes, I was. And I didshoplift. I never tried to
deny it.” 
“No,” Sherlock says, “you didn’t. That’s precisely my question. Why didn’t you
deny it? I’ve seen the security footage of the store that day. You weren’t
there. The police didn’t bother looking because you admitted to stealing as
soon as you were accused. Why?” 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Powers replies stubbornly. 
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John can almost hear the gears whirring in his head. 
“Where were you really, that day?” Sherlock asks. 
Alarm flashes in Powers’ eyes. His muscled shoulders tense. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about, Holmes,” he says. “How the hell would you have seen that
footage, anyway?” He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Forget it. I have
places to be.” 
Sherlock opens his mouth angrily, and John can see what’s coming
next—Sherlock’s rudeness, Powers’ quick exit. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s
shoulder, holding him back. 
“No, look,” he says to Powers. “We’re trying to help you, here. Somebody
accused you of a crime you didn’t commit. Do you know who? Or why?” 
Powers turns back to him, looking wary. “I—I don’t know who told the
headmaster, no.” 
“Well then,” John says, darting a glance at Sherlock, “we…we want to find out.
It’s not right that you were wrongly accused.” 
Powers’s fist clenches. “No,” he says, voice low. “It’s not. But just leave it,
okay? You’ll only make things worse.” 
“A party,” Sherlock says out of the blue. John and Powers’ heads swivel to look
at the younger boy, whose eyes are gleaming. “You were at a party.” 
Powers stares at him, then crumples. “Shit. Fucking shit. Who told you?” 
Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “No, no. Nobody told me. It’s obvious.” 
“Obvious?” Powers looks panicked. “How?”
Sherlock lets out an impatient noise. “Shirt cuffs, fingernails, the frequent
bags under your eyes. The absence of Facebook photos of you on Friday and
Saturday nights. Your haircut. Does it matter?” 
“Yes, if there’s any chance of someone else figuring it out,” Powers retorts. 
“Oh, everyone else is an idiot,” Sherlock says dismissively. “Well, almost
everyone.” His gaze grows sharp, avid, and John feels a twinge of discomfort,
as he’s been doing lately whenever Sherlock gets intense about James Moriarty.
“Someone else didknow, didn’t they? They knew to accuse you of shoplifting on a
day you were doing something you couldn’t use as an alibi. Brilliant, really.” 
“Sorry,” John interjects irritably, “but what’s wrong with being at a party?” 
Powers and Sherlock look at him, and he feels, briefly, like one of the idiots
Sherlock was just talking about. 
“He was drinking,” Sherlock says. “Underage, and especially forbidden for
athletes. Something else, too, yes?” he asks Powers. 
The boy nods resentfully. 
“Marijuana, most likely.” 
Powers says nothing. 
“But surely stealing is worse?” John hazards. 
“They’re going to let me back on the team next year,” Powers explains to the
floor. “If I don’t get into any more trouble. But if they knew I’d been
drinking and smoking, that would be it. They’d never have me back.” 
There is silence for a moment. John has a hazy feeling that something is not
quite making sense. “But why…” he says, then stops. Sherlock looks at him
keenly. 
“Yes?” 
“Why not just tell the headmaster Powers was at the party? Why go through the
trouble to frame him for something else when the truth would get him kicked off
the team anyway?” 
Sherlock shoots him a swift, almost predatory grin. “Very good, John. Why
indeed?” 
John’s stomach turns over, his whole body flushing with heat. He has to look
away from Sherlock for a moment. 
“They wanted him off the team,” Sherlock says slowly, “but only for a year.
That’s the most likely explanation.” He turns to Powers. “Can you think of
anyone who would want that?” 
Powers’ brow furrows. “Well…a couple of guys from other schools’ teams, maybe.
Guys who’d have a better chance at winning—and at scholarships—if I weren’t
competing.” 
“Anyone from Chesterton? Any of the upper-sixth swimmers who fancy the
spotlight?” 
Powers hesitates, then shakes his head firmly. “No. No one on our team would do
that.”
Sherlock looks deeply skeptical, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he paces back
and forth a few times, then turns abruptly to Powers. “I know who set you up.
Not who they did it for—you’re probably right, it was probably another
swimmer—but I know who knew you were at the party, and who accused you of
shoplifting.” 
Powers’ head snaps up. “Who?” he demands, looking murderous. 
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at John. For the first time, he
seems uncertain. 
“I’m not sure…” he starts, then falls silent. He backs away from Powers, who
still looks like he’s inclined to punch the living daylights out of whomever
set him up, and steers John into the farthest corner of the room. 
“I…” Sherlock says, swallowing. John studies him, bemused. 
“What is it, Sherlock?” he asks in an undertone. 
“What am I supposed to do with this information, John?” he asks, eyes
flickering embarrassedly to the floor. 
“Oh,” John says, blinking. “Er…” 
Sherlock looks at him, the question still in his face, and John feels a flutter
of warmth in his chest—Sherlock is asking for hishelp. 
“Well….” John glances over at Powers, thinking. “Okay, so, if you tell Powers,
he’s going to confront Moriarty. Probably beat him up.” 
John doesn’t think this is such a bad result, personally, but Sherlock’s face
darkens. 
“And then he’ll really be sorry,” he mutters. 
John frowns. “Well, but if you tell the headmaster Powers was framed,” he says
slowly, “Powers will be kicked off the team for good. I don’t see what other
options we have.” 
Sherlock’s eyes smolder. His fingers clench. “Then what good,” he hisses, “is
knowing all this?” 
John is at a loss for words. Sherlock looks fierce and helpless, pushing his
hands against invisible barriers like the wings of an animal caught in a trap.
John feels a sharp stab of sympathy, and a low rumble of anger gathers deep in
his gut. Damn Jim Moriarty. 
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice tight. 
Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration, then strides back over to Powers. 
“You don’t need to know,” he says curtly. Powers starts to object, but Sherlock
persists. “If you do anything to anger him, he will have you kicked off the
team in a heartbeat. Or worse. Think about it, Powers, don’t be stupid, you
don’t want to mess with him.” 
Powers looks mutinous, but after a moment he slumps. “Shit,” he mutters. 
Sherlock purses his lips, then picks up his bag and marches to the door. 
“John,” he snaps. 
John scrambles to follow. He hesitates on his way out, glancing over at the
slouching figure of the disgraced athlete. 
“Sorry, mate,” he says awkwardly, then follows Sherlock out. 
The younger boy is striding rapidly down the corridor, past dawdling students
and empty classrooms, a look of concentrated fury on his pale, angular face. 
“Sherlock, wait up,” John pants, hurrying to reach him. “Sherlock, listen, it’s
not your fault—” 
“I know it’s not,” Sherlock snaps, still walking at the same unholy pace. 
“Well—” John struggles to say something useful. “Look, Moriarty’s a little
shit, that’s all, just a bully—” 
“No.” Sherlock comes to an abrupt stop. “He’s not just a bully. He didn’t do
this to Powers to bully him. He did it because somebody else paid him to—or
just because they asked him, and he could. He’s detached. And he’s very, very
smart. He’s dangerous, John.” 
John licks his lips nervously. “Dangerous, Sherlock? Really? Don’t you think
that’s going a bit far?” 
Sherlock makes a noise of impatience. “Don’t underestimate him, John, just
because he looks harmless. He’s anything but harmless.” 
John is probably imagining it, but below the fury and the resentment, is there
a trace of admiration in Sherlock’s tone? Grudging admiration, yes, but still… 
“I have to go,” Sherlock says abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 
John blinks, taken aback. “What? Sherlock—” 
“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock says, and whirls around, his long coat billowing out
behind him as he heads down the corridor. 
“What…” John stares after him, confused, and a little hurt, and—yes, more than
a little bit concerned. That look in Sherlock’s eyes, cold, determined,
furious… 
John bites his lip and frowns, sharp prickles of worry erupting in his stomach.
 
 
 
When Sherlock rounds the corner of the equipment shed near the gym, Moriarty is
already waiting for him. 
“Hello, Sherlock,” the scrawny boy says with a smirk. 
Sherlock doesn’t reply. He stares at Moriarty, feeling very cold and very calm
and very, very angry. 
“Oh, you’re unhappy with me,” Moriarty pouts. “Didn’t you enjoy my little
game?” 
Sherlock doesn’t blink. 
“You liked it, didn’t you, Sherlock? Following the clues? Playing the
detective? I must say, I’m gratified by your attention—though it took you long
enough to notice me. Disappointing, that.” Moriarty leers at him. “I thought
I’d got your attention outside the office that day. But you were…distracted.”
He licks his lips. “John Watson is quite tasty-looking, I do admit. But don’t
you think he’s a bit slow for the likes of us?” 
Sherlock stops himself from lunging at Moriarty, but the boy sees, laughing
silently. Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears. He knows about John. 
“Of course I know, Sherlock, you’d have to be blind not to notice,” Moriarty
says breezily. “Haven’t shagged him yet, though, have you? Odd, that. Afraid
he’ll run away if he remembers you’re a boy? Or are you worried about
disappointing him? You’re not his first, after all.” 
“You are a pathetic little bastard,” Sherlock snarls. 
“No doubt,” Moriarty says agreeably. “But a brilliant one.” He steps closer,
too close, his face inches away from Sherlock’s, and Sherlock has to struggle
to keep breathing. “No one else is as smart as us,” he says, petulant and
satisfied all at once. “Come play with me, Sherlock. We could have so much fun.
Idon’t mind if people know. And life is so much less boring when you’re not
worried about being good.” 
He places a pale, spidery hand on Sherlock’s chest and, very slowly, leans
forward. 
“Get the hell away from me, Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock gasps out when his lips are
centimetres away from the other boy’s, when he’s so close he can almost taste
the mint of Moriarty’s gum. He stumbles backwards, heart pounding wildly,
repelled and disturbed and aroused and so angry. 
“I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it,” he spits. 
Moriarty looks shocked, then furious, and then utterly blank. 
“You’ll be sorry, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, voice low and venomous. “You’ll be
very, very sorry.” 
He turns and leaves, and Sherlock stands there, shaking like a leaf.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     I have changed the rating to Explicit, mostly because I'd like to err
     on the side of caution. There is sex in this chapter--see the trigger
     warnings that follow--and though I've read (and written) much more
     graphic stuff, I know people's boundaries vary.
     Trigger warnings for this chapter: first off, the sex is underage,
     just barely. Sherlock turns sixteen (the age of consent in the UK) on
     January 6, shortly after this chapter takes place. Also, by U.S. law,
     they are both underage. However, the sex is fully and explicitly
     consensual.
     Trigger warnings also for alcoholism, mental health issues (see notes
     at end), and homophobia and homophobic language.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sherlock Holmes happy, John thinks, is just about the most wonderful thing in
the world. 
The whole time they’re working on the Carl Powers problem, Sherlock is
luminous. John can almost see the thoughts pulsing through him like
electricity, his brain making lightning-fast connections that crackle like
sparks in his silver-grey eyes. Sherlock is sharp and focused and there’s no
trace of the teeth-on-edge frustration that comes when he’s bored, nor the
lethargy that ultimately follows. It’s contagious, too; John’s never felt so
reckless and free, and it’s the first time in a very long time that he’s
forgotten to feel guilty about not being at home. His dad’s been doing better,
anyway—he still drinks, but less, and he’s got a temporary job for a few months
and he and Harry seem to have made a tentative truce. For once, John feels like
things are really looking up. 
He should have known it couldn’t last. 
It starts the day after the Powers business is so unsatisfactorily resolved.
Sherlock comes to school the next morning and he’s just…quiet. Subdued.
Skittish, too—John dares to touch him on the shoulder in the crowded corridor
and Sherlock stiffens and quickly turns away. John’s stomach sinks, or swoops,
really, a nauseous sort of dip that feels as though he’s on a ship that’s just
crested a wave. It’s more a sensation of foreboding than anything else, or so
it turns out, because Sherlock gets worse as the day goes on. He hasn’t snapped
this much at John in ages. 
John’s not the only one who notices, not after three days of Sherlock
alternately prowling the school like an irritable panther and leaning against
walls for long periods of time, staring bleakly into space. Molly starts
enquiring after him nervously (which makes John feel guilty, as he still hasn’t
told her what’s going on between them), and Mrs. Hudson slips him a couple of
biscuits as she passes him in the corridor one, asking if she’ll give them to
Sherlock, “the poor dear, he looks so peaky, is he unwell, is there anything I
can do?” 
There isn’t, and there isn’t much John can do either. Even when kissing
Sherlock, he’s aware that the boy is slipping out of his reach. There’s a
distance between them that hasn’t been there since they started—well, whatever
it is they’re doing. And it isn’t as though John has forgotten the last time
Sherlock was like this; he knows that Sherlock’s head gets crowded and muddled
and difficult sometimes. But they weren’t—whatever they are—then. John realizes
now, feeling foolish and angry, that he was hoping Sherlock might be better
with him. That he might make Sherlock better. That this wouldn’t happen again. 
He tries not to resent the fact that he’s not enough. He tries not to feel
insecure about the way Sherlock doesn’t shove him urgently into broom cupboards
anymore, tries to tell himself Sherlock is just upset about Moriarty getting
away with the Carl Powers business. It’s not that he doesn’t want John anymore.
And John isn’t useless, just because his presence doesn’t make Sherlock feel
better. He isn’t. 
Surely there’s somethinghe can do? 
He drags Sherlock into a practice room at lunch—it’s too cold now to go
outside—and sits him down on a piano bench. John sits, too, crammed between a
couple of music stands and the corner of the cupboard-sized room. Sherlock
looks at him, lifting an eyebrow and waiting, like he expects John to start
snogging him and is more resigned to the idea than excited by it. Instead, John
crosses his arms and looks him over, gathering his courage. Sherlock doesn’t
tend to appreciate being questioned about his feelings, and John’s mindful of
how badly he lashed out the last time they had a similar discussion. 
“What’s going on, then?” he asks, finally gathering his nerves. He tries to
sound mild, calm, self-assured. “You’ve been a right terror, these past few
days.” 
Sherlock scowls deeply, looking affronted. “I don’t know what—” 
“Is this about the stuff with Carl Powers?” John interrupts, keeping his voice
steady. No need to scare Sherlock off. No need to betray how anxious he is.
“And—and Jim Moriarty?” 
Sherlock hesitates. He looks down at his shoes. After a moment, he nods
mutely. 
“Listen,” John says, looking Sherlock straight in the eye and saying the words
he’s rehearsed over and over in his head. Rational words—Sherlock likes
rational, surely that’s best. “It’s horrible, what he did. And I’m angry, too,
about not being able to fix it. But Moriarty is going to get caught eventually.
If he keeps trying stuff like that. He will get found out, and he’ll get what
he deserves.” 
Sherlock’s eyes flicker away. His fingers twitch, just a fraction. The unhappy
look on his face doesn’t change—if anything, he looks more miserable and more
guarded. 
“He won’t,” Sherlock says in a low voice. “He won’t get caught. But
that’s…that’s not…” 
John waits, something twisting inside him. He wants to contradict Sherlock—he
doesn’t share his friend’s strange, twisted sort of faith in that pasty little
bully, not one bit—but he’s sensing what he probably knew already: that maybe
that’s all a bit beside the point after all. 
“The puzzle,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “It’s solved. It’s…over.” 
Yes. That’s it, then. It isthe same as before—Sherlock is bored. Even now, even
with John occupying so much of his time, he needs the puzzles, the experiments,
the questions burning to be answered. Of course he does, John thinks, pushing
weakly against a tendril of shame, he’s still Sherlock. You can’t expect to be
all he needs. 
“Right,” he says mechanically. “Like…like before.” 
Sherlock nods, nudging his toe against a stray piece of sheet music on the
floor. “Like all the other times. Last fall. And at Eton. Only it’s…I think
it’s worse. Going to be worse. Because it was so good, John.” He looks almost
pleading. “Wasn’t it good?” 
And it was. Reckless and brilliant and dangerous and just a little insane. 
“Yeah,” John admits. “It was really good.” 
They sit in silence for a moment. 
“Well,” John tries, feeling impotent but needing to do something, “do you want
to go to the bio lab? Work on the mucous experiment? You left off halfway
through when the Powers stuff started.” 
Sherlock looks doubtful, and John understands—mucous can’t really hold a candle
to illegally obtaining security footage or solving a real-life mystery. But
it’s something, right? 
Sherlock seems to be thinking along these lines, because he shrugs and gives a
halfhearted nod. “Okay.” 
They make their way to the bio lab, and Sherlock dutifully sets up his
experiment, leveling off beakers and lighting Bunsen burners and taking notes.
But the light of discovery is gone from his eyes, and even when the mucous
samples turn a garish green that would normally make him chuckle with delight,
he simply ticks something off in his notebook and sighs. 
“Not helping?” John asks, stomach sinking in disappointment. 
Sherlock shakes his head, then pulls off his safety glasses and slams them on
the counter in frustration. He buries his face in his hands, rubbing furiously
at his forehead. 
“Hey,” John says, a little alarmed. “Hey, Sherlock. Stop.” 
Sherlock looks up at him, skin pink, eyes like a cornered animal’s. 
“What can I do,” John asks helplessly. “Can I do something?” 
“Kiss me,” Sherlock says, voice low and raw and a little bit desperate. “Will
you kiss me?” 
John hates that his first thought is of the window in the door and the not-
quite-deserted corridor outside. He nods all the more emphatically for that,
grasping Sherlock by the wrist and pulling him across the room, into a blind
corner, and drags Sherlock’s head down to meet his. 
It’s open mouths and wet tongues straight off, needy and urgent and nothing
like the distant kisses of the past few days, and it’s Sherlock who makes it
that way, Sherlock who scrabbles for purchase on John’s chest, Sherlock who
pushes him against the wall, Sherlock who’s kissing like he’s fighting, like
he’s holding on for dear life. John gasps, dizzy, barely able to keep up,
trying to give Sherlock everything he needs and he’s failing, he knows it from
the way the boy just pushes and pushes for more, but God, is it a glorious
failure, Sherlock’s hands sliding between him and the wall, down his back and
down farther and Oh Godthat’s new, John’s heart nearly rockets out of his
chest, and Sherlock’s teeth are on his lips and Sherlock is feverishly warm and
Sherlock gives one hard thrust against him— 
“Sherlock,” John chokes out, palm suddenly flat against his friend’s chest and
it’s instinct, pure instinct, his hand solid and unmoving, a barrier between
their bodies. 
Sherlock steps swiftly backwards, breaking contact, the shutters slamming
behind his eyes. He reaches blindly behind him, grasping at the edges of a
table, holding himself up against it as he pants for breath. He won’t look at
John. 
“Sherlock…” John says weakly. His head is spinning. He can’t think. His body is
a whirl of want and need and fear and adrenaline and yes, it’s as eager as
Sherlock’s, that’s visibly evident, but it’s also on high alert, twitching and
jumping and screaming run. 
John wills himself to hold out a hand. “Sherlock,” he says. His voice is
feeble, unconvincing even to himself. “Come here.” 
Sherlock shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.” 
“But…” 
“I’m going.” 
John’s instinct is to call after him, follow him, drag him back as Sherlock
strides from the room; but his instinct is also to stay silent and let him go
and not deal with the thing that just happened, the thing, and before he can
sort it out Sherlock is gone, that’s the edge of his coat whipping around the
doorframe, and John is alone.
 
 
 
Sherlock starts skipping classes again. Not enough to land him in serious
trouble, but enough that John begins to wonder, every time he sits down next to
an empty chair, if Sherlock is slowly vanishing. He gets the sense that the boy
is fading away, growing as pale and colourless as his eyes and blurring around
the edges, where before he was all sharp angles and electric vibrancy. John
can’t skip classes, not with exams coming up and university admissions to worry
about, but whenever he can he trails Sherlock like a shadow, following him to
whatever corner of the school he’s chosen to occupy that day. He sits in
silence next to him, their shoulders not quite touching, sometimes for entire
class periods; he’s not at all sure he’s welcome, but he doesn’t know what else
to do. He won’t leave Sherlock alone. Not when he’s like this. 
It’s difficult, though: difficult not to feel as though it’s somehow his fault,
difficult not to wonder if he ought to be doing something more concrete to help
his friend. He thinks about therapists and psychiatrists and medication in a
twitchy, guilty kind of way—is it his responsibility to tell someoneabout
Sherlock’s—depression, if that’s what this is? That’s what they’ve been told by
teachers and administrators on the subject of mental health: tell someone, get
help, don’t let your classmates and friends go through it alone, and it all
seemed so reasonable in the abstract. But Sherlock once let slip that Mycroft
made him see a psychologist on his expulsion from Eton, and the mix of anger,
bitterness, and hidden but undeniable fear with which Sherlock spoke of the
experience made John extremely wary of suggesting anything along those lines.
Anyway, last time Sherlock sank into a black mood like this, he said that it
just had to pass, that it would eventually go away of its own accord, and John
wants to respect Sherlock’s wishes. 
Or, a traitorous little voice whispers in John’s head, you want to be the only
one who can help him. 
John pushes that thought down violently, furiously. He’s sticking with Sherlock
because that’s what friends do. Because he doesn’t want the other boy to go
through this alone. Because he cares about him. This is about Sherlock, not
about John. 
And if sometimes John feels a tiny bit like a knight stubbornly guarding a
crumbling fortress against dragons—solitary, steadfast, and sort of, well,
virtuous—he tries not to admit it to himself. And if at other times he feels a
sort of strange déjà vu when settling down next to Sherlock for a long, silent
vigil, he certainly doesn’t connect it to all those hours spent preventing his
father from drinking by keeping him company. Because this is nothing like
that. 
This is about Sherlock. Not John. 
December creeps along and soon the holidays are upon them. Sherlock has shouted
at Professor Lestrade twice now, and John knows he’s ended up in the
headmaster’s office at least once, though it’s possible that was Mrs. Hudson’s
doing, a ploy to stuff him with tea and biscuits. John hopes so, because he’s
never seen his friend eat less. They also haven’t kissed since that day in the
lab—Sherlock seems to be deliberately avoiding John’s touch—and if Sherlock
were anyone else John would probably have concluded that their thingwas over
for good. As it is, the only thing keeping him from assuming that Sherlock has
simply lost interest in him is the fact that Sherlock has lost interest in
everything—it isn’t personal. That’s the best John can tell himself, and
frankly, that’s pretty fucking bleak. 
But he shadows Sherlock all the same. Truth be told, he’s more determined than
ever not to let him go. Not when Sherlock needs someone to stick by him. John
isn’t giving up, and he won’t leave his friend alone. 
The end of term is suddenly upon them. It’s the day before the holidays start,
and John’s last class is a free period. He’s sitting next to Sherlock, who is
skipping his physics class, and the clock is slowly ticking down to the end of
the day. They haven’t said a word so far, just sat on the floor in this disused
corner by the janitor’s office, staring into space. Or rather, Sherlock is
staring into space; John is staring at Sherlock.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. It’s nearly the end of the day. They’re
about to depart for two weeks off school and John has been worrying about what
exactly that means for him and Sherlock. They haven’t talked about it yet, and
John is uncomfortably conscious of the fact that this is his last chance. 
“I’m glad its, erm, nearly Christmas,” he tries. “I’m ready for a break.” 
Sherlock says nothing for a long moment. Then he sighs. 
“I hate Christmas,” he says, a trace of bitterness colouring his voice. “All
the meaningless noise just gets louder.” 
John isn’t sure what to say to that. He nudges his toe against the opposite
wall, feeling the silence press in. 
“Mycroft is coming home today,” Sherlock confesses abruptly. “He’ll be in
London at least through the New Year.” 
John winces. Mycroft is the last thing Sherlock needs right now. “I’m sorry,”
he says. 
“Mmm.” 
Sherlock is looking at the floor again. John casts about for something to say,
however inane it might be. 
“Got any…plans for the holiday?” 
“Locking myself in my room to avoid being interrogated by my brother, mostly,”
Sherlock responds. 
John would laugh, normally, but there’s not a hint of a joke about the way
Sherlock said it. He tries, with the doomed feeling of steering blindly towards
an iceberg, to bring the conversation to safer waters. “I meant for Christmas.
Do you—celebrate at all, or—” 
“We shall have an obscenely large dinner,” Sherlock answers, still staring at
the floor, “not that there is anything specifically Christmasy about that. It
is a common practice when Mycroft returns to London. Perhaps he thinks his mere
presence is worth celebrating.” 
“What about—lights, or a tree?” John pursues desperately. “Do you, you know,
decorate?” 
Sherlock looks at him, finally, but his face is so blank it curdles John’s
stomach. “Why would we do that?” 
John gives up. “No reason. No. You wouldn’t.” 
There’s a silence. The question John really wants to ask is growing more
insistent, filling up the air around them. 
“Will I see you at all over the holiday?” he bursts out. 
Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, save for an infinitesimal lift of an
eyebrow. “Do you want to?” 
He sounds a tiny bit surprised, but mostly as if he doubts very much that the
answer will be yes and has long since resigned himself to it. John feels a
twist deep in his gut, a painful sort of wrench. 
“I—Sherlock—of courseI—” 
“You don’t have to do this, John,” Sherlock interrupts flatly. 
“Do…what?” John asks, heart suddenly in his mouth, terror rising thick in his
throat. 
“You don’t have to babysit me,” Sherlock answers, turning his face to the wall
and shutting his eyes, as if he simply doesn’t have the energy to keep them
open. “Soon enough it’s going to start feeling like I’m your father.” 
John can’t breathe. The air goes out of his lungs as if he’s been punched in
the stomach. His whole body is swamped with fear, dense, liquid,
stifling—there’s anger, too, but mostly fear, rising rapidly above his stomach,
his chest, his neck. 
“Don’t pretend you haven’t done this for him,” Sherlock says. He sounds almost
bored. 
“Sherlock, I—” John forces himself to say. “It—no. This isn’t like that.” 
Sherlock merely looks at him, pale face set and eyes distant. His mobile
buzzes. He looks down. 
“It’s Mycroft,” he says tonelessly. “I have to go.” 
He gets to his feet. After a second’s delay, John scrambles up too. 
“I’ll text you,” he says. He wants to grab Sherlock’s elbow, his waist, he
wants to pull him into a kiss so deep they’ll both drown in it, but he can’t.
He can’t move. 
“I’ll text,” he promises instead, the words even lamer upon repetition.
Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn’t believe John and it doesn’t much matter, then
sets off down the corridor, his shoulders hunched and his dark head bowed. 
John wants to cry.
 
 
 
Despite everything, Christmas is almost nice that year. After several long days
of worrying about Sherlock, the holiday dawns clear and cold and bright. John
awakens to the heavenly smell of eggs and bacon and tomatoes and pads
downstairs to find his dad making a colossal fry-up, the kettle whistling on
the stove and silverware set out on the table. Harry makes an unexpectedly
early appearance, blinking in surprise, and they have a remarkably civil
breakfast. They stay in pyjamas all day, his dad sticks to soda, Harry refrains
from her usual snappishness and John manages to put Sherlock in the back of his
mind. Nighttime finds them sitting companionably in the living room, the lights
of the tree twinkling and the television quietly playing some old black-and-
white Christmas film in the background. 
“Your mum loved this movie,” John’s dad says softly from the sofa. His feet
rest comfortably on the coffee table and his eyes are unusually thoughtful.
John can see the fairy lights reflected in them as tiny glowing dots. 
John’s eyes flicker to Harry’s, which are flickering to his. Their dad never
talks about their mum, not even when he’s had too much to drink. John always
pictures her death as a sort of derailing for his dad, a jolt that threw him
off the tracks he was meant to be following. They were from different worlds,
his parents, but as much as that caused friction amongst their extended family
John can’t remember the two of them ever fighting about it. Maybe he was too
little to notice. Or maybe it really didn’t matter. 
“She’d be proud of you both,” his dad says. His eyes are trained on the
television, the grainy snow and the clasped hands of the hero and heroine as
they dance together under the winter sky. “I’mproud of you both.” 
John feels a lump in his throat. He can sense Harry turning away, hiding
whatever emotion has made it past her usual defenses. The lights on the tree
glow softly gold, and the hero and heroine share a Christmas embrace.
 
 
 
The next morning, John sleeps late, and awakens to a text from Sherlock. 
Mycroft called away on urgent business. Out of town for the rest of the
holiday. Fancy a celebratory walk in the snow?  
John’s face splits open in a grin. He hurries to his window—sure enough, a
light snow is falling. Sherlock has initiated contact with him for the first
time in weeks, and it’s snowing. It feels, rather appropriately, like
Christmas. 
Meet you outside the school in half an hour, he texts back, and hurries into
his clothes. He leaves a note for his dad and steps into the chilly winter air.
It’s not quite cold enough for the snow to stick, but it’s lovely anyway, these
unseasonably early flakes. 
Sherlock is leaning against the wall outside Chesterton, smoking a cigarette
and looking more awake to his surroundings that he has in a long time. As John
approaches, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and grinds it elegantly under
his heel, then steps forward, hands in his pockets. 
“Happy Christmas,” John says, still a bit cautious, but unable not to smile. 
“It’s Boxing Day,” Sherlock corrects, raising an eyebrow. 
“Happy Boxing Day, then,” John replies imperturbably. They fall into step,
walking away from the school and towards busier streets, where children shriek
happily at the snow and even adults seem to be in thrall to it, grinning at
strangers in happy communion over the small white flakes. 
“They’re good, your new trainers,” Sherlock says unexpectedly as they pass a
Marks & Spencer, dodging the onslaught of shoppers apparently determined to
stock up in case the snow gets worse. “Your dad obviously paid attention to
your preferences.” 
John blinks. He did in fact get new shoes from his father for Christmas, and he
had indeed been surprised at how well they suited him. Not that he’d told
Sherlock that, though. 
“The jumper, though,” Sherlock continues with a shudder. “Most unfortunate.
Your aunt has dreadful taste.” 
John is startled into a laugh. He’s not wearing his new jumper. He looks at
Sherlock, and yes, God, there it is—a little sparkle of mischief in his
friend’s eyes. 
“How did you know—” He breaks off, grinning. “No. Never mind. Of course you
knew. They’d have burned you at the stake a few hundred years ago, you know
that?” 
He feels almost giddy with relief when Sherlock lifts a sardonic eyebrow as if
to acknowledge his own superior genius. His friend is still too pale, too
closed up—his hand are scrunched protectively in his pockets—but he’s there
again, it’s him, he’s coming back. 
“You are right, though,” John confides. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to
make it mysteriously vanish.” He smiles crookedly at Sherlock. “Seems like
something you’d be good at.” 
“I’m sure that together we can come up with something,” Sherlock says gravely,
and his eyes twinkle, and then his mock seriousness turns genuine. 
“John,” he says hesitantly, stopping under the awning of a sleek furniture
store, “thank you.” 
John bites his lip. Somebody jostles him on their way into the shop, and he
steps closer to Sherlock, half involuntarily. Sherlock’s cheekbones are sharp,
too sharp, and there are shadows under his eyes. 
“For what?” he asks. 
Sherlock swallows. John can see his Adam’s apple bob. “For not leaving me,” he
says softly. 
Tension John didn’t even know he was carrying melts away. His body grows
lighter, his chest clearer. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathes fondly, “you idiot.” 
He cups the back of Sherlock’s head in his palm and kisses him. Right there, in
the middle of the sidewalk, snowflakes swirling around them and all of London
seemingly passing them by and wishing them well. He kisses Sherlock on every
street corner he can as they walk aimlessly around the city, through parks and
past imposing brick houses and giant apartment buildings and department stores
and amongst crowds of people. He’s never felt so free, so brave, but at the
same time kissing Sherlock in public is shockingly natural, shockingly easy—the
sky doesn’t fall in, and nobody calls them nasty names or worse, and anyway
John is so happy that Sherlock’s black mood is relinquishing its grip that he
really can’t be bothered to care what anybody thinks. 
When their lips are finally too chapped with cold and kisses to stay outside
any longer, and Sherlock’s nose is an endearing pink, they start heading back.
It’s midafternoon by now—they ducked inside a shop at lunchtime for a quick
sandwich and coffee—and John figures he should probably put in an appearance at
home. He’s even looking forward to it, after the success of yesterday. Add to
that several hours of kissing Sherlock, and John’s not sure anything can dampen
his good spirits. 
“See you tomorrow?” he asks Sherlock as they part ways. 
Sherlock nods and gives a ghost of a smile. “I’ll text you.” 
John smiles back. “You do that,” he says, and turns for home.
 
 
 
But when he steps inside, something is wrong. 
He can sense it in the way the air feels heavy, thick, tense. There’s no
television on, which is unusual, and as he steps toward the kitchen, wary now,
he can smell, beneath the grease of chips and fried fish, the sour scent of
beer. 
His heart sinks and his hackles rise, his senses sharpening along with his
caution. He can hear movement in the kitchen. He steps inside. 
His father is leaning against the counter, several empty bottles behind him and
another in his hand. John can see more poking out of the trash. His dad’s face
darkens as John walks in, and he takes a long swig of beer before slamming the
bottle on the table. 
“Hi, Dad,” John says as steadily as possible. His heartbeat has picked up
speed, but he knows from experience when his father is this far gone it’s best
to appear as calm as possible. 
His dad says nothing for a long moment, just gives John a long, hard stare, his
lip curled and his eyes narrowed. 
“You might be interested,” he begins, his voice just shy of slurring, “to hear
what just happened to me.” 
John waits silently, not sure where this is going, his body on high alert. 
“I just got off the phone with Reggie Fowler,” his dad says, naming a friend of
his from his old construction job. “Funny thing, Reggie couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Reggie,’ I says, ‘when are you gonna shut up and tell me what’s so funny,
huh?’ And Reggie just keeps laughing. Finally he shuts up enough to say he went
out today, down to the Boots by the Tube stop to pick up batteries for some toy
his kid got for Christmas, some doll that really pisses when you put it on the
crapper, what the hell kind of kid wants something like that—“ His dad sways,
hiccupping, and then plows ahead, voice darkening—“and anyway when he walked
outside he saw something he apparently thought was just about the funniest
thing he’d ever seen.” 
John goes cold. Stomach-turns-to ice, blood-freezes-in-your-veins cold. The
kind of cold that makes you shake until you feel ill. 
He and Sherlock walked past that Boots today. 
“He said he saw you there,” his dad continues, eyes flashing. “He said—when he
could shut up laughing again—he saw you snogging a bloke.” 
John’s ears are roaring. He feels definitely nauseous now. He swallows, and
it’s a struggle. 
“Is it true,” his father breathes, swaying a little as he takes a step forward.
It’s all John can do not to stumble back, but he forces himself to hold his
ground. 
He takes a breath. Then another. He shuts his eyes, then opens them again. 
“Yes,” he says. 
His father looks shocked, then furious, and then suddenly whirls into motion,
swinging his hand across the counter and sweeping the beer bottles onto the
floor. They shatter with an enormous crash that sends John’s fight or flight
instincts into overdrive. He backs against the wall, pressing his shaking palms
against the wood, staring wide-eyed at his father. 
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” his dad bellows. “Is this some kind of sick
joke? Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?” 
John blinks, and even through the fear and the adrenaline and the shame he’s
ashamed of feeling, there’s a spark of anger. “I wasn’t thinking about you,
dad,” he says as evenly as he can. 
“Damn right you weren’t!” his father spits. “Now Reggie’s going to tell
everyone I’ve got a poofter for a son, did you think of that, did you even
think of that, John, did you?” 
John hears, from up above, a telltale creak that means someone is hovering
halfway down the staircase. Harry, he realizes, heart sinking. Oh, God, don’t
let her hear this. 
“Dad, just—keep your voice down, okay, we don’t have to—” 
“I’ll shout all I bloody well want!” his father yells. He is wild-eyed and too
close to John, who can smell the beer on his breath. “And don’t you dare, John,
don’t you daredo it again, do you hear me, you are not ever going to touch that
boy again, whoever he was, or any boy, so help me God, because I will not have
Reggie Fowler laughing at me like that, do you understand, you little fucking
fa—” 
“Shut up,” John hisses, loudly, forcefully, cutting his father off and shocking
them both into momentary silence. John hears the stair creak again and wrenches
courage up from somewhere deep in his gut. 
“Don’t you darecall me that,” he says, locking eyes with his father. “Don’t you
dareuse that word in this house.” 
For a moment John is sure his dad is going to hit him. But then his father’s
lip curls and he backs away. 
“You make me sick,” he spits. “I can’t stand the sight of you.” He grabs his
coat from the back of a chair and slams out the front door. John stands in the
middle of the room, unable to move, until he realizes that he’s shaking
violently. He collapses into a chair, grabbing his swimming head in his hands
and breathing deeply. An unquantifiable amount of time gets lost, then, minutes
slipping away as John tries to stop quivering. His father’s face is imprinted
on the backs of his eyelids and the crash of the beer bottles is still
resounding in his ears. 
Finally, his breathing returns to normal. Still trembling slightly, he fetches
a dustpan and sweeps up the glass, putting it in an empty cereal box so it
doesn’t cut anyone through the bin bag. He washes his hands under scalding
water until they are red and smarting. Then he lets the water run to freezing
cold and splashes his face. 
He goes upstairs. Harry’s door is closed, but he can sense her listening to his
footsteps on the landing. He knocks. 
“What?” 
John opens the door. Her face looks like it’s been scrubbed clean. Her eyes are
pink and puffy. 
“Hey,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. “I—I’m sorry about all
that. We both know dad says stuff he doesn’t mean when he’s drunk, but still,
you shouldn’t have had to hear it—” 
“Shut up, John,” Harry says flatly. Her face has grown wooden, hostile. 
Startled, John stops. “Sorry?” 
“Just…shut up,” Harry says again. John feels wrong-footed and rather wounded,
and it must show on his face, because Harry’s expression turns derisive. 
“What, John, you thought you were going to come in here and commiseratewith me
about how hardit is to be gay? I know it’s fucking hard, John, it’s like this
for me every day.” 
“I never said it wasn’t,” he begins, raising his hands, but Harry cuts him off
again. 
“So you’ve been called a ‘faggot’ now,” she says bitterly. “Great. Welcome to
the club. Enjoy your stay.” 
It’s these last words—said with a particular viciousness—that stop John in his
tracks. 
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” 
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not gay, John. You followed Sarah Sawyer around
like a puppy all last year. Look, when I hide in broom cupboards with my
girlfriend, it’s not for the adrenaline rush, or to feel dangerous, or
whatever. It’s because I don’t have a choice. When you’re done with whatever it
is you think you’re doing with Sherlock Holmes—when you get bored, or tired of
experimenting, or you realize that it’s actually difficult—you can go right
back to the way you were. I don’t get to do that. I’m not saying I want to,
okay, it’s not like heterosexuality is some great big forbidden paradise I’m
just dying to get into, but the point is that I’m not just passing through,
John, this is my life. So don’t come in here acting like we’re the same, like
you understand.” 
She bites off the last word and stands there with her arms crossed, looking
belligerent and defiant and somehow hunted—like John is going to come after
her, like he already has. 
“Well, fuck you, too,” is all John can think to say, and then gets out of that
room before the air gets too close to breathe.
 
 
 
It’s not snowing anymore. It’s just cold and gray and John doesn’t have his
coat but he doesn’t care, all he can think as he speeds down the sidewalk is
Fuck you, fuck you to his dad and his sister, fuck them for taking his
happiness and shattering it into a million pieces and grinding those pieces
beneath their feet and spitting on them and okay, maybe that’s melodramatic,
but it feels like that, like John’s insides have been wrenched through his
throat and spread out and trampled and shoved back down so that he can’t even
remember what he used to feel like, what he felt like this morning after
kissing Sherlock on every street corner they passed. His dad, okay, his dad is
a drunk and an asshole and John didn’t really expect anything else but what the
hell is Harry’s problem? She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about,
John promises himself, but on the other hand if that’s true then why is he so
upset about it? 
He’s never been to Sherlock’s house before but he knows where it is, of course
he does, and he strides up the front walk, hot and cold and breathless all at
once, and knocks before he can stop himself, before the giant beast he’s sure
has followed him from his house can catch up. 
“John,” Sherlock says, sounding startled, when he opens the door. 
“Is anyone else home?” John asks urgently. 
Sherlock shakes his head, puzzled, and John lunges forward, kissing Sherlock
hard on the mouth and pushing them both backwards into the foyer, barely
managing to shut the front door behind him. He shoves Sherlock against the
wall, hands thrusting upwards under Sherlock’s shirt, meeting the smooth bare
skin of his stomach for the first time. 
“John,” Sherlock gasps. John leaves off kissing Sherlock’s neck for a moment,
though the roaring in his ears doesn’t abate. 
“Okay?” he pants, waiting for the boy’s response. 
After a moment, Sherlock nods jerkily. John dives back down, running his tongue
under Sherlock’s collar, moving his hands upwards over Sherlock’s chest.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes heavily for a moment, then slides his
hands up under John’s jumper, tugging it to John’s armpits. They break off
awkwardly as John shrugs it over his head, hindered more than helped by
Sherlock’s urgent but inexpert hands, and then their mouths meet again, too
hard, teeth clicking together. John can’t stop, though, won’t stop, feels as
though if he stops the house will collapse around him, that all his father’s
and his sister’s words will come booming back into his head and shake the world
apart, so he keeps kissing as if it’s mouth-to-mouth, and when certain things
become very obvious, pressed together as they are, John bites off the terror
and the going-over-the-cliff sensation in his stomach and drops to his knees. 
Sherlock lets out a strangled noise and John says “Okay?” again, looking up at
his friend, and Sherlock says “yes” in a way that sounds more like don’t you
dare stopand so John doesn’t, not when he’s confronted with this last, this
most incontrovertible proof that Sherlock is in fact male, not when he chokes
from his own eagerness, not when Sherlock starts to move and John starts to see
stars and is gasping for air he can’t quite get, not even when it’s ending and
Sherlock tries to make him pull away and he refuses, he won’t, he’ll see this
through and the taste is terrible, worse than he’d imagined, and John nearly
retches but he won’tpull away, he won’t, he won’t— 
“John,” Sherlock gasps. John looks up, his vision swimming, and sits back just
in time for Sherlock to collapse to the floor. The boy is shaking, his legs
trembling as he leans back against the wall, looking strained and stunned and
breathing hard. 
John wipes his mouth and sits back on the floor and feels the world collapsing
in on him. 
“John,” Sherlock says, firmer now, and John twitches, blinks, pushes back the
blackness encroaching on his vision and looks at Sherlock. 
The boy cups John’s face very gently in his slender fingers. John feels his
breathing even out as he looks into Sherlock’s pale eyes. He swallows, the sour
taste in his mouth threatening to send his mind careening away again, and
Sherlock kisses him softly on his forehead. 
John feels himself folding into Sherlock’s arms, letting his limbs be arranged
into a semi-comfortable position half in the other boy’s lap. Sherlock caresses
his shoulders—a curious, calming, hypnotic motion, like being petted—and then
slides his hand slowly downwards, and John realizes with something like shock
that he’s forgotten that there are two parts to this equation. 
He stiffens, but Sherlock makes a soothing noise and buries his nose in John’s
hair. John relaxes and lets go, lets his friend do what he wants. The first
touch is unexpectedly gentle, and Sherlock breathes in as if to smell the nape
of John’s neck as he moves his hand slowly and cautiously, almost curiously,
and John leans into the sensation. 
Time is looping, John supposes, or bending back on itself, or something,
because he’s lost in a haze for what seems like hours, conscious only of
Sherlock, of Sherlock’s entire body, of Sherlock’s knee pressed against his
side and his nose against John’s cheek as much as Sherlock’s hand between his
legs. Sherlock breathes his name and John tips over the edge, suspended in the
circle of his friend’s body for what seems like an age. 
John blinks back to himself, finally. He finds himself nose to nose with
Sherlock, nestled against him like a baby bird, and he blushes faintly.
Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink, too. 
They take separate showers and Sherlock gives him the guest room, but tucked
into Sherlock’s spare pyjamas and between sheets that smell like Holmes, John
feels as safe and warm as he did with Sherlock’s arms around him, with
Sherlock’s voice whispering his name in his ear.
Chapter End Notes
     I hope this is clear in the chapter, but John's approach to
     Sherlock's mental health stuff is not necessarily the best or the
     healthiest in real life--that is, I as author am not making
     recommendations about how to deal with it if you or your friends have
     issues with depression, etc. For that matter, I am also (obviously, I
     hope) not in agreement with Harry's criticism of John's experience of
     his sexuality. Bisexuality, or whatever you want to call it, is not
     the same as choosing between being gay and straight (thank you very
     much).
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning for more underage sex in this chapter--again, it's fully and
     explicitly consensual. References, too, to alcoholism and homophobic
     attitudes.
The smoke alarm wakes John up the next morning. 
He barely has time to register that he’s in Sherlock’s house, in Sherlock’s
pyjamas—and to remember everything that happened yesterday—before he’s on his
feet, running down the stairs towards the harsh beeping noise. He can’t smell
smoke at first, but by the time he slides into the kitchen there’s a definite
burnt scent in the air. 
He takes in the situation at a glance. Sherlock—covered, perplexingly, in
flour—is standing in the middle of the room, looking both outraged and utterly,
helplessly panicked. There’s a thin plume of smoke rising from the toaster, but
no flames, so John grabs a dishrag and starts waving it below the smoke
detector, trying to clear the air. 
“It didn’t toast properly the first time, so I put it in again,” Sherlock says,
sounding aggrieved. He glares at the toaster and then at the smoke detector as
if both appliances have personally offended him. John tries very hard not to
laugh. The beeping stops, and Sherlock lets out a sigh of ill-disguised
relief. 
“Horrible thing,” he says. “It must be defective.” 
John goes over to the toaster and gingerly removes two blackened pieces of
bread. “Or, erm, not.” 
Sherlock huffs, sending a thin layer of flour dancing around his head and
shoulders. John surveys him and then the kitchen, which is a veritable disaster
zone: a soggy tomato splattered across the floor, pots and pans spread willy-
nilly over the granite countertops, the charred toast, and, mysteriously,
several half-cooked, runny eggs on the stove mixed with— 
“Did you put flourin here?” John asks, eyebrows shooting up as he steps over to
inspect the burner. 
Sherlock hesitates. “To stop them from sticking,” he replies petulantly. “You
put flour in the pan to stop them from sticking.” 
John lets out a yelp of laughter and then quickly covers his mouth.
“That’s—sorry. Ha. That’s cakes, Sherlock, baked goods. You use oil or cooking
spray to stop eggs from sticking, not flour.” 
Sherlock looks deeply embarrassed, then scowls even deeper. 
“Have you, erm…” John lifts the pan of eggs and scrapes it into the bin. “Have
you ever made breakfast before?” 
“Mrs. Turner does it,” Sherlock replies defensively. “Or I don’t eat. Normally
I don’t eat.” 
John whacks him lightly on the back of the head. “Not good. Eggs, please?” He
puts a clean frying pan on the stove and locates the nonstick cooking spry.
Sherlock offers him the carton dubiously, and John cracks a couple of eggs. 
“Here,” he says, putting the spatula into Sherlock’s hand. The younger boy
takes it automatically before his eyes widen and he holds it away from him like
it’s just become a venomous snake. 
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks. 
“I’ll teach you,” John replies mildly. The sight of Sherlock, dusted with flour
and holding a spatula at arm’s length, is frankly adorable, an adjective which,
if it ever crossed John’s lips, would signal the end of his life at Sherlock’s
hands. Sherlock approaches the stove warily. 
“Scrambled?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “Okay, easy enough. You want to break
the yolks, go on—yeah, like that. Keep stirring them around so they don’t burn.
Good, yeah, that’s good.” 
Sherlock gives the eggs an authoritative push and sticks his nose loftily into
the air. “Of course it is. I’m a genius.” 
“You prat,” John laughs, sliding around to his other side and putting another
pan on the stove, this one with tomatoes in it. His elbow grazes Sherlock’s
comfortably as he turns on the burner. 
“Hang on, they’re sticking over there,” John instructs, placing his hand over
Sherlock’s on the spatula. “Can’t have that.” 
“I’ve got it under control, John,” Sherlock protests, but he doesn’t extricate
his hand. 
John snorts. “Just like you did when I walked in, hm?” His hair brushes
Sherlock’s cheek and they smile at each other, John’s heart skipping a beat. 
“Coffee or tea?” he asks. 
“Tea,” Sherlock answers. “I can make it.” 
“You do know the teabag goes in after the kettle boils, yeah?” 
“Shut up, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock replies haughtily. 
“I will not, Sherlock Holmes,” he answers back. He plops the tomatoes onto a
plate. “Why didn’t you just wait for me, if you didn’t know how to cook this
stuff?” 
To his surprise, Sherlock blushes. He mumbles something John can’t make out. 
“Sorry, what was that?” 
“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed,” Sherlock confesses to the
countertop. 
John’s breath catches. Absurdly, he feels a lump rising to his throat. 
“It was stupid, I know, sentimental, forget it—” 
John takes Sherlock’s face firmly in his hands and plants a kiss on his still-
moving lips. “It was brilliant,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat,
turning back to the stove. “Anyway, now we can both have breakfast in bed.
Together.” 
“Really?” Sherlock asks uncertainly. 
“Yep. Let me attempt to conquer the evil toaster first and then we’ll take this
all upstairs.” 
It takes a couple trips, but they manage to carry everything to Sherlock’s
bedroom and lay it all out on the quilt. It’s more like a picnic than anything,
as they sit cross-legged atop the coverlet, and John feels a little like he’s
four years old again. The room adds to that sensation: it’s clear that Sherlock
hasn’t redecorated in quite some time, as the walls are pale blue with a border
of pirate ships and treasure chests. 
John can’t believe how lovely this all is. He can’t believe that after the way
things happened the day before, Sherlock wants to feed him eggs and toast and
sit with their knees touching on the bed. 
“Sherlock,” he says hesitantly. “About last night.” 
Sherlock looks suddenly nervous. 
“I—” John searches for words. “Just—thank you.” 
“For what?” Sherlock asks, sounding surprised. 
For letting me into your home when I couldn’t stand mine. For turning what
might have been the most selfish sex ever into something sweet and lovely. For
whispering my name.  
“Did something happen yesterday?” Sherlock enquires warily when John doesn’t
answer. “Before you came over?” 
John nods. He picks at a loose thread in the quilt, takes a deep breath. 
“My dad found out. He, erm, his friend saw us kissing yesterday.” 
Sherlock goes pale. “Oh,” he stutters, “I—oh. I’m—I’m sorry, I—” 
“It’s not your fault—” 
“I’m sorry—” 
“Sherlock,” John says, shaking his head. “Don’t, really. It isn’t your fault
and it…it needed to happen anyway.” 
Sherlock swallows. “How did it go?” 
John laughs. “Bad. Really bad, yeah. And, er—Harry was, she was really nasty
about it, I didn’t—I didn’t expect that.” He rubs his hand over his face. “So
I, well, I was really upset when I came here, and I didn’t…I didn’t mean it all
to quite, erm, go the way it did…” 
Sherlock moves visibly backwards on the bed. “Oh,” he says, suddenly not
meeting John’s eyes. His voice is alien: hollow, blank. “Oh.” 
John frowns. “I—I just mean, I’m sorry it was so…” Needy? Rushed? Desperate? 
“Did I do it badly?” Sherlock asks abruptly. His eyes are fixed on his lap. “I
haven’t—before. Did I…” 
“No!” John cuts in, startled. “No, God, no, Sherlock, you were—lovely.
Really.” 
“I’m sorry I didn’t—erm—do what you did,” Sherlock says, voice lowered. “I
just…” 
“Oh my God,” John says, eyes widening. “No, no, that’s totally fine. And
totally—normal, not to—the first time. Seriously.” Dismayed, he looks at
Sherlock’s drawn face, his worried brow. “Hey. Look at me. Sherlock.” 
Reluctantly, the boy looks up. 
“I only meant—it’s not how I pictured our first time.” John goes a bit pink;
God, talking about sex is always so difficult. “I wanted to, I don’t know.
Take…more time.” 
Sherlock looks only fractionally less distraught. John curses himself for not
managing to get his point across more clearly. Well, I give up on words, he
thinks ruefully, and reaches for Sherlock. 
This kiss is slow and leisurely and tastes faintly of tea. Sherlock’s eyes
flutter closed like a cat’s. John cups the back of his neck, running his thumb
through Sherlock’s silky hair. 
“John, we don’t have to…” 
“But I want to,” John murmurs, sliding his palm across Sherlock’s chest. His
own heart is pounding ridiculously. “If you do. A sort of…second try?” 
Sherlock nods. John kisses him deeper, then breaks off to move the breakfast
things; fumblingly, they put the empty plates on the floor, breathless and
awkward, and then John kisses Sherlock again, lowering them both gently until
they’re lying atop the quilt, Sherlock’s curls splayed out against the blue and
white squares, John’s weight half on his chest, half on the bed. 
His heart is fluttering like it hadn’t the night before, and when he pushes up
Sherlock’s white T-shirt he takes the time to really feel the muscles there,
tight and hard, the thin dark hairs across his chest. Sherlock’s body is so
strange and yet so familiar—so different from Sarah Sawyer’s and so like his
own. Thinner, though, with ribs just a bit too prominent, and paler, white
under John’s darker skin— 
“Up,” Sherlock says, tugging at John’s own shirt. John sits up and pulls it
over his head, and Sherlock scrambles out of his. Swallowing down butterflies,
John swings a leg over Sherlock’s and presses their bodies together. Sherlock
gasps, then nods rapidly in answer to John’s questioning look. John slides his
tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and things get a little faster, then, sharper and
blurrier somehow all at once. 
“Can I—” he asks breathlessly, tugging at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. 
Sherlock nods. It’s impossible, John thinks, to remove one’s trousers
gracefully when one is lying down; he has to roll off Sherlock and it’s all a
bit silly for a moment as both of them struggle with drawstrings and socks, but
then they are both very suddenly not wearing clothes and without the adrenaline
rush of the night before John feels shy. 
He kisses Sherlock again to regain his bearings and yes, it helps, God, it
helps, though he doesn’t feel any less exposed; in fact, the kiss only makes
him feel more naked, bare skin again bare skin—and that’s fear, there, in the
back of his throat, but Sherlock is kissing with his eyes wide open as if to
drink John in and John wants to drownin those eyes. 
“Christ, Sherlock,” he gasps as Sherlock runs a hand all the way down over the
curves of his backside. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle—John can feel Sherlock’s smile
under his own lips. 
“You twat,” he says, swinging his leg back over Sherlock’s. The boy’s eyes
widen and his breath constricts, and John smirks, but then they settle against
each other and suddenly waiting is not an option for either of them anymore. 
Moving quickly results in some minor hitches, and they have to adjust several
times, and it’s certainly, John can’t help but note, not quite so intuitive as
with a girl—but he thinks this with some distant, removed part of his brain
while the rest of him is awash with waves of sensation. He cannot get over how
goodSherlock feels, how shockingly good, for all his sharp angles. Sherlock
doesn’t seem to want to stop kissing him, and John doesn’t object in the least;
they keep their lips on each other’s as they hurtle forward, and it’s like an
anchor, a lifeline in this spinning, swirling vortex. It’s Sherlock beneath
John, his lips, his teeth—John keeps thinking this in little starts, It’s
Sherlock, and somehow every time it’s a surprise, every time it brings him
closer and closer to the end. 
John finishes first and he’s glad because he can give Sherlock the attention he
didn’t the night before, though it doesn’t last much longer and soon they’re
tangled up in each other, sweaty and breathless. 
“Hot,” Sherlock groans, pulling himself away to lie spread-eagled on the quilt.
John looks at him almost surreptitiously, through lowered lashes. He’s flushed,
all the way down his chest, and stunningly, staggeringly beautiful. 
Beautiful: it’s not a word he’d ever thought he’d use to describe another man. 
So there, Harry, he thinks, fingers clenching into fists. So there, Dad.
Sherlock is beautiful and I don’t care what you say. 
He catches Sherlock watching him, gazing at his tensed hands, worry stealing
over his face. John feels a flare of guilt erupt with a hiss in his belly, like
the flame of a Bunsen burner being switched on. He shouldn’t be thinking about
Harry and his Dad right now. He shouldn’t have been thinking about them last
night, either; they shouldn’t have been the reason he rushed over here and…did
what he did… 
“John?” Sherlock enquires, brushing his fingertips cautiously against John’s
cheek. The hesitation in the touch almost breaks John’s heart. He kisses
Sherlock hard on the mouth, startling the breath out of him. 
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and then wishes he didn’t sound so defiant.
Sherlock blushes anyway, faint pink blooms spreading across his pale cheeks. 
“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he sniffs. “I’m not. I’m—skinny and…and pointy,
and I’m very pale. My skin tone is approximate to that of a recent corpse.” 
John lets out a yelp of laughter. “You also have a way with words, Sherlock
Holmes,” he says, some of the tension dissipating from his body as a rush of
fondness for this mad, brilliant, idiotic boy sweeps through him. “Wrong as you
are.” He swings himself out of bed, consciously refraining from covering
himself up with his hands—he feels suddenly very naked. “Erm, do you think I
might wash my clothes? They’re a bit, um…” 
“Ah.” Sherlock sits up. “Yes. Yes, of course, only…” 
He looks embarrassed. John cocks an eyebrow. 
“I don’t know how to use the washing machine.” 
John rolls his eyes. “You’re useless, you know, for someone who’s supposed to
be a genius. We’ll figure it out, Sherlock, it can’t be that hard.” He pulls on
the pyjama bottoms he wore to bed and heads barefoot to the spare room. His
clothes are crumpled on the floor, very much, as he suspected, a mess.
Gingerly, he picks them up, and his mobile falls out of his trouser pocket. 
He switches it on with a feeling of foreboding. He’s got two voicemails and
four texts, all from his father. 
Heart sinking, he stares at the phone. He curses his pulse for speeding up,
then shuts his eyes and presses “listen.” 
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at,” his father’s voice slurs, angry
and far more intoxicated than when John last heard it. “Get the—it’s two a.m.,
for fuckssake—get the fuck home, you hear me, or you’re in more, in even more
trouble than…than you are. Already are. You get here right now, John, or I’ll—”
The message cuts off with a beep. 
John breathes in through his nose, biting his lip, as something chaotic and
nasty starts banging around in his chest. He steels himself and presses play on
the second voicemail. 
“Fine,” his father’s voice says, almost unintelligible now. “Don’t come home.
Don’t want to see you, don’t…ever come home again. Fine.” 
The voicemail ends. John’s teeth are digging into his lip so hard he tastes
blood. Hand shaking, he opens the text messages. The first is from 8:26 this
morning. 
where are you?  
The second, 8:43. 
shit. did I leave you voicemails last night? if I told you not to come home I
didnt mean it. you should know that.  
The third, 9:30. 
get your arse back here right now, John Watson, you are in serious trouble
staying out all night. we have things to discuss. you better be home asap young
man.  
John rubs his forehead. The rumble in his chest seems to have grown claws and
teeth; he feels like he’s in physical pain. 
The last text is from 10:24, fifteen minutes ago. 
Please just let me know you’re alright, John.  
He sighs. For a long moment, he stares at his mobile. Then he punches in a few
words. Deletes them. Tries again. 
I’m fine. Not hurt or anything. Safe.  
He thinks for a moment. 
No thanks to you,he types, then deletes it. 
Do you really want me to come home? 
He deletes that too. Presses send, before he can add anything else. 
When he stands up, Sherlock is hovering in the doorway, looking uncertain. John
attempts to smile, but it feels like a grimace. 
John’s mobile buzzes. 
Where are you? You need to come home right now. 
“You can stay here,” Sherlock says abruptly. “As long as you need to. Or…well,
until Mycroft comes back.” 
John stares at him. 
“In the guest room, I mean,” Sherlock adds in a rush. “If you want. I can—lend
you clothes, they’ll be too big, but we can roll up the sleeves, I mean, you
can, or not, I understand if you want to go elsewhere, home, or to Stamford’s
perhaps, or—” 
“Sherlock.” John puts up a hand. His head is swimming. He imagines what it
would be to disobey his father like that, staying away from home for days on
end without permission—such a colossal act of rebellion, running away from
home, he was always the good kid, this feels like something Harry would do, has
done, in fact, at the age of ten, hiding out at her friend’s house until their
dad, angry and trembling with fear, found her and took her home, and she wept
into his jacket and clung to him like she never wanted to let go—only this is
real, this is adult, this is John severing something that can’t be stitched
back together with tissues and cocoa. This is a choice he can’t take back. 
“Okay,” he says, pulling himself up, as if a straight spine and squared
shoulders can make him the grown-up he isn’t ready to be. “Yes. I have to go
home eventually, but not…not on his terms. When I’m ready.” He nods sharply.
“Yes.” 
For a moment, as he and Sherlock look at each other gravely, soberly, he feels
as though he is in fact mature, adult, that they are like generals in the army,
making a decision with consequences so terrible, so far-reaching, that to utter
the words is to set fate in motion—and then he notices that Sherlock still has
a bit of flour in his hair, and they are kids again, a couple of teenagers
without a clue what they’re doing, and John is lost and far away from home.
 
 
 
Sherlock, it turns out, has tricked his housekeeper/cook/sort-of-nanny, Mrs.
Turner, into thinking Mycroft gave her a holiday until his return. John hears
this news with a combination of amusement and disapproval, as he knows
perfectly well that it means Sherlock would hardly have eaten a thing over the
holiday. 
“It’s a good thing I can cook,” he says, surveying the kitchen critically. “And
I must say you’re well-stocked.” 
The cabinets are full of things from Fortnum and Mason, Marks and Spencer, even
Harrods—perhaps Sherlock wasn’t exaggerating his elder brother’s appreciation
of food after all, or perhaps this is simply what a wealthy family’s kitchen
looks like. 
“Your father again,” Sherlock says, looking at him with that focused, distant
sort of gaze that means he’s deducing things everyone else can’t see. “You
learned to cook after your mother died, because your father was often incapable
of fixing anything more involved than a frozen dinner.” 
John blinks. “Er, yes,” he says. “I…that’s true.” 
Sherlock catches something in his tone and bites his lip. “That’s one of those
things I shouldn’t have said, isn’t it?” 
John shrugs a shoulder. “Probably. It’s fine. I—don’t mind, actually.” To his
surprise, he finds that it’s true. He’s been hiding the fact that he’s good in
the kitchen (and around the house, generally; he usually dusts and does his and
Harry’s laundry) for years. Somehow it always felt like if Mike and Bill and
the others found out, it would be real, permanent: John has always considered
his cooking and cleaning a temporary fix, something he can stop doing once his
father gets better. But that’s not going to happen. John knows that now, he
realizes, knows it isn’t all going to magically change one day. And anyway,
it’s Sherlock: it’s okay if he knows that, too. 
“Lunch,” he says, forcing himself to sound cheerful. “What shall we make?” 
“But we just ate breakfast!” Sherlock protests. 
“Three meals a day,” John replies, rooting through the fridge. “Most people
like that, you know.” 
“Most people are boring,” Sherlock grumbles. But he allows John to show him how
to fry up a cheese and tomato sandwich, and even eats some of it, too. John
counts this as a private victory. 
His dad calls for the first time as they’re washing up. John hesitates,
watching the screen of his mobile light up, listening to it ring, not sure if
he wants to answer. It goes to voicemail before he decides, and he turns back
to the sink. 
It rings again when he and Sherlock are sprawled on the couch, watching crap
telly—well, really, John is watching Sherlock watch it; the younger boy’s
derisive disbelief (he seems never to have experienced daytime reruns on BBC)
are far more amusing than anything on the screen. He ignores his mobile again,
willfully this time, feeling both brave and guilty. 
By dinnertime, his dad won’t stop calling. He’s obviously just hanging up and
dialing again immediately every time; John can imagine him doing this, sitting
on the sofa with his mobile, maybe drunk, maybe not. The image makes him
inexplicably sad. 
“Dad,” he says, finally caving in and answering. 
“John!” His father’s voice sags with evident relief. “Jesus Christ, John, where
have you been?” 
John pauses. His eyes flicker to Sherlock’s; the other boy is watching him
anxiously. John reaches out and takes his hand. 
“I’m fine, Dad, I told you.” 
“But where are you? What were you thinking? For all I know you could have been
sleeping on the street, or worse—” 
“I’m not sleeping on the street, Dad,” John says, squeezing his eyes shut, not
continuing his thought: and you wouldn’t have known if I were because you were
passed out drunk. 
“Well, you’re coming home now,” his dad says. There’s a note of ominous
finality in his voice that John has heard directed at Harry many times (not, he
admits, to much effect). 
“No,” he says, swallowing. He grips Sherlock’s hand tighter. “I’m not coming
home. Not yet.” 
Silence resounds from the other end of the line. Sherlock squeezes his hand.
John breathes in but can’t manage to breathe back out. 
“I’m telling you to come home,” his father says, voice growing dangerous. 
“And I’m telling you I’m not ready,” John answers. 
“I’m your father!” John’s dad explodes. John jumps, jerking the phone away from
his ear. “If I say you’re coming home, young man, you’re coming home!” 
John’s stomach roils queasily. This is the point at which Harry would normally
start shouting back, escalating the argument into a screaming match that nobody
wins. To be honest, John feels more like giving up and going home, because his
dad’s in pain, he is, really, and he’s not well, it’s not his faultthat he’s
like this… 
“No,” he says instead: calmly, steadily, slowly. “I’m not.” 
Another long pause stretches out. “What the hell has gotten into you, John?”
his dad asks, and this time he sounds hurt and confused, below all the
blustering anger. “This isn’t like you, any of it. Is this—are you trying to
get my attention here? Is something wrong? Because you and a—a boy, John,
that’s not—like you, and staying out all night—have I done something? Are you
in trouble, somehow, are you…I know I’m not, you know, always there for you,
and if you’re acting out to get my attention, well, maybe that’s not…not your
fault, really. Just—come home and we’ll get you sorted, okay?” 
John feels a wave of nausea roll over him, thick, horrible, overwhelming. He
actually considers running for the toilet. He swallows hard, forcing it down.
“I don’t need sorting, Dad. Bye.” 
He hangs up. 
“John,” Sherlock says tentatively. John looks at him blankly, and then, oh,
Christ, there’s something hot and inexorable welling up in John’s chest and his
eyes are spilling over and great wrenching sobs are coming out of his mouth
from somewhere deep in his gut and he hasn’t cried like this in years. Sherlock
freezes for a moment, looking terrified—John can’t help that, he can’t stop—and
then the younger boy comes over and places a timid hand on John’s shoulder.
John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and buries his face in Sherlock’s
belly, soaking his shirt in seconds, muffling his cries in the fabric.
Sherlock’s hands come up hesitantly and stroke John’s hair, rhythmically,
soothingly, over and over, and John holds him and cries and cries and cries.
 
 
 
Staying with Sherlock in these particular circumstances is a peculiar
experience. It feels half like the two of them are camping out in hostile
territory, on a deadly serious mission in enemy terrain, and half as if they
are only playing at such things. They go out to buy John a toothbrush and some
socks and the shop is like a battlefield, the items spoils of victory; but when
he brushes his teeth that night the toothbrush no longer carries the weight of
John’s decision, his defiance and his determination—it’s only a toothbrush, and
perhaps he is foolish to think that what he is doing is more than a juvenile
act of rebellion. He asks Sherlock to pass him the salt at dinner, or if he’s
got laundry that needs doing, and John thinks this is adulthood, this is what
it means to grow up; and then they are giggling and poking each other under the
blankets as they watch a movie until two a.m. and John is nine again, this is a
sleepover, the rules he’s breaking are no more significant than the time at
which he’s supposed to turn out the lights and go to sleep. 
It’s all very confusing. 
He’s also shocked, frankly, at how well he and Sherlock get on even when
they’re together almost all the time (John’s still sleeping in the guest room,
by mutual agreement). True, there are hours when Sherlock disappears into the
experiments he’s got set up around the house—he keeps mould projects in the
fridge, John discovers to his dismay one morning—but when that happens, John is
content to sit and watch him and read the spy novels to which Mycroft Holmes is
apparently addicted. Really, it would be a surpassingly lovely way to spend a
week or so if John didn’t feel vaguely as though he were under siege. 
Twelve days after John shows up at Sherlock’s door, they finally talk about the
thing they’ve both been avoiding: the end of the holiday. Term begins the day
after next, and John’s going to need his books and papers, and he can’t really
show up at school in old jeans of Sherlock’s rolled up at the cuffs. He’s also
starting to feel more like he’s hiding than fighting, now, that somewhere along
the line defiance turned into avoidance and it might be time to face his dad
again. 
It’s eight p.m., and they’re in Sherlock’s bed. Rather to John’s surprise, they
have only had sex twice more since John started staying with Sherlock. It was a
tentative, nervous sort of dance both times—he thinks that maybe neither of
them is quite sure how to go about initiating things when they’re not under any
pressure. He doesn’t mind taking it slow, actually; it’s all still so new and
strange. But now, with thoughts of school and home hovering over both their
heads, John is keenly aware that this might be the last chance they get in
awhile. 
They kiss for a long time. John gets the sense that Sherlock likes kissing so
much because he’s still surprised anyone would want to do it with him, that
someone is allowing him to put his tongue in their mouth. John likes kissing
because (he doesn’t quite want to admit) it’s the most familiar of all the
things he and Sherlock can do together, the safest, surest ground. 
It turns out, though, that there is one other thing that’s shockingly familiar:
mouths, after all, are basically the same for everyone, hence the sameness of
the kissing, although the stubble does change that a bit in a way that, dear
God, it doesn’t change this, and if John closes his eyes he wouldn’t know the
difference at all, but he doesn’t actually want to miss out on the sight of
Sherlock’s head between his legs, not even a moment of it. He wasn’t prepared
for this to happen, though he thinks in retrospect that possibly Sherlock
was—he did insist on certain configurations that John can now see were
particularly conducive to this end. Christ, he hopes Sherlock isn’t doing this
because he feels like he has to, because John isn’t about to stop him so they
can have a discussion about it first. 
“Sherlock,” he gasps, writhing a bit, because actually it isdifferent, Sarah
used to do this but she didn’t quite get the hang of it, really, and John was
too eager and too embarrassed to really take the time and walk her through it.
Sherlock, for rather obvious reasons, has a much more intuitive grip of what
works and why is he thinking so much, for fuck’s sake, just shut up and enjoy
it— 
Too late, and apparently it doesn’t matter anyway. Sherlock moves away just in
time, John is glad of that even as he loses himself, and when he pulls himself
back together his friend is grinning at him widely, looking cheekily proud. 
“Trust Sherlock Holmes,” John says wearily, running his wrist over his damp
forehead. “Yes, you were brilliant, shut up.” 
“I’m not saying anything,” Sherlock replies innocently, cozying up to John.
“Anyway, you can’t make fun of me today, it’s not allowed.” 
“And why is that?” John asks, sliding his palm down Sherlock’s chest. 
“Because it’s my birthday,” Sherlock says, triumphant. 
John sits straight up. “What?” he demands. “Are you serious?” 
“January 6,” Sherlock says. “I’m sixteen.” 
“You utter prat,” John accuses. “I’d have made you a cake. I’d have bought you
a present. I certainly wouldn’t have let you—do what you just did—well, not
before I did it first, anyway.” 
“I wanted to,” Sherlock says unrepentantly, though he looks secretly pleased.
“And anyway…” he fingers the bedspread, half coyly, half in actual shyness,
“you can give me a present now, if you like.” 
John scowls at him, mostly to hide his smile. “Not what I meant. But as a
matter of fact, I will.” 
He lunges, and Sherlock lets out an undignified shriek. John indulges in a
small amount of tickling—Sherlock, it turns out, is ridiculouslyticklish—before
getting down to business. 
Afterwards, he strokes Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock rests his head on John’s
chest. “I, erm,” he begins. “I have to go home tomorrow, Sherlock.” 
Sherlock sighs, his breath fluttering against John’s bare skin. “I know.” 
“I have to get my stuff for school. And I have to talk to my dad, I think.” 
Sherlock is silent. He runs a finger along John’s arm, down from his shoulder
to his elbow and back up again. 
“Will you sleep here tonight?” he asks softly. 
John looks down at him, startled. Sherlock is studying the blankets, pushing
his finger against the fine hairs on John’s forearm. 
“Yes,” John says. “Yes, I will.” 
Sherlock kisses his belly. It’s not speech, but John knows what he means
anyway.
 
 
 
The following afternoon, John walks home. It’s bitter cold, so Sherlock has
lent him a coat, which he wraps around himself as much for the symbolism and
the smell of it as for the warmth. He willstand his ground, he tells himself,
he will not let his father bully him or shout abuse or…frankly, John has no
idea how his father is going to react to seeing him again. He hasn’t called or
texted once since John told him he wasn’t coming home, a fact which at first
afforded John a great deal of relief and then began to, well, hurt a bit. He
doesn’t know if his dad is giving him space in the hope that he’ll come back on
his own, or if he just doesn’t care. 
He stands outside his front door for a long moment. He is not sure he’s ready
for this. But it’s time, he knows it’s time—putting it off any longer will only
make it harder in the long run. 
He opens the door and steps inside.
His dad is sitting at the kitchen table, slumped over the newspaper, looking
shockingly old. Did he have those gray hairs at Christmas? Then he looks up,
and his face goes blank. He stumbles to his feet. 
“John.” 
John just looks at him, heart in his mouth, waiting. His dad looks back, and
although John has gazed into his dad’s eyes many times and seen a man he didn’t
recognize, this is different. This time, John is the one who has changed. 
Things will never be the same between them, John realizes. 
“You look…all right,” his father says hesitantly. “You’re not hurt?” 
John blinks. He shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 
“That’s not your coat, is it?” 
Despite himself, John blushes faintly. “No.” 
There is a silence. 
“Term starts tomorrow,” his father says carefully. 
“I know,” John answers. He is still waiting warily for the other shoe to drop. 
“You’re going.” It’s almost a question. 
“Oh,” John says, surprised. “Yes. Of course.” 
His dad looks relieved. He clears his throat and fiddles with the newspaper.
“And you’re, erm…staying?” 
How strange to be asked this question by his father. As if he is a guest in his
own house. Did John make it that way, or did his dad? 
“Yes,” he says. 
His father nods. There is a long, awkward pause, and when his dad doesn’t say
anything more, John turns away and goes upstairs. 
The other shoe does drop, later that day, though not in the way John expected.
He’d imagined his dad drunk, angry, mean, but he hadn’t, somehow, pictured him
as he is when John comes down to dinner: sober, serious, the image of the
concerned father. It makes John feel uncomfortably as though he has been away
for much longer than twelve days, or as if he’s returned to an alternate
universe. 
“I have something to talk about,” his dad says as John and Harry begin eating.
“With both of you.” 
John tenses. Harry looks warily at their father; she hasn’t spoken to John
since he came home. 
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” their dad says. He sounds as though he’s
about to make a business proposal. It makes John nervous. “It seems to me that
things have been getting out of hand around here. And I don’t just mean—” he
hesitates “—over the holiday. It’s been a long time since I’ve really been here
for both of you.” 
He’s right, of course, but somehow this only increases John’s sense of
foreboding. 
“I’d like to change that.” His father takes a deep breath. “I’ve joined
Alcoholics Anonymous.” 
John looks at Harry, shocked. She appears as blindsided by this news as he is. 
“That’s…” John swallows. “That’s great, Dad.” 
His father nods. “I’m really trying to make some changes here. But, John,
Harriet, I’m not the only one who needs to. I’m not—blaming you, either of you,
but there’s been a lot of behavior happening in this house that needs to stop.
Staying out till all hours—Harriet, you’ve been in the habit of that since last
summer—staying away from home without permission, without telling me where you
are, refusing to follow the rules I set down for you—” 
“And why should we?” Harry cuts in, eyes hard and blazing. “Where exactly do
you get off telling us what to do?” 
Their father flinches. “Well,” he says evenly, “you may have a point. But I’m
still your father, and like I said, I’m making some changes. And I want you
both to do so, too.” 
Harry starts to retaliate, but John cuts her off. “What changes, Dad?” he asks,
because something about this all feels wrong somehow—not just the sense that
their father has been replaced by an alien clone, but also the words he’s
saying: yes, John has been hoping for this moment for years, wishing his dad
would join AA, but he’s clearly working up to something else and John has a bad
feeling about it. 
“Well,” his father says, “for starters, I want you both home immediately after
school, every day, no exceptions.” 
“What?” Harry explodes. “You have got to be joking.” 
Their father shakes his head, maddeningly calm. “No. I want you here, doing
your homework, where I can see you.” 
John’s head is swimming. That means no more walks with Sherlock, no more
kissing him in practice rooms until the sleek black car arrives, no more
experiments in the bio lab… 
“I do extra credit stuff for Mr. Lestrade on Tuesdays and Thursdays after
school,” John says quickly. “Can I still…” 
His father frowns. “Extra credit? Really? Your grades are excellent, John.” 
“Well, but…” 
“This extra credit work,” his father says, “do you perhaps do it with—with
this—boy?” 
John bites the inside of his cheek and nods. 
“Well, then,” his father replies, crossing his arms, “absolutely not.” 
John’s stomach sinks like a stone. Next to him, Harry goes very still. 
“I don’t want you seeing him, John. No, listen to me. It’s isn’t that he’s—that
he—look, he is clearly a bad influence. You would never have pulled that stunt
before you started—before you knew him. Running away like that. No, you’re
coming home right after school every day until you regain my trust.” 
The utter irony, their father talking about trust—John nearly gets up and walks
out again, but then Harry slams her fist on the table and she is trembling with
fury. 
“So I’m being punished for something John did?” 
“Harriet, you have hardly been a model of good behavior yourself—” 
“I have two more years of school,” she cries. “John is going to uni next fall.
He’s almost out of here anyway. This isn’t fair.” 
John feels a twist of guilt. “Harry—” 
“Shut up,” she says, turning on him. “Both of you, I hate you, I hateyou!” She
stumbles out of her chair and storms out of the kitchen. They can hear her
footsteps pounding up the stairs, and then her bedroom door slamming. 
“John,” his dad says into the silence, “thank you for being so adult about
this. You’ve always been a good kid, I think you’ve just lost the path a bit
these past few months—” 
John stands up. “No,” he says flatly. “I’ve only just found it.” 
He goes up to his bedroom and leaves his father sitting alone at the table,
opening and shutting his mouth like a fish.
 
 
 
Sherlock is sitting at his own kitchen table, head in his hands, staring at the
text from John. Straight home after school, every single day. No more bio lab.
No more lengthy kisses. No sneaking off to all the ingenious locations Sherlock
has been coming up with where they might do rather more than kiss. 
And Sherlock is tired, besides. The last twelve days have been brilliant and
terrifying and exhausting and John switches from one emotion to another so
quickly, it’s impossible to keep up with him. And the sense that John is
suffering, Sherlock hatesthat, doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make it go
away, and he’s very smart so he ought to be able to. But he can’t. 
There’s a noise from outside. Sherlock stiffens. The front door swings open,
but it isn’t John; Sherlock knows these particular footsteps almost as well as
his own. 
Mycroft places his umbrella in the stand by the door, hangs up his coat, pauses
in the foyer to straighten his tie in the large ornate mirror—Sherlock can hear
each of these movements as clearly as if he were seeing them. Dread pools in
his stomach. 
Mycroft appears in the doorway. 
He looks at Sherlock and his eyes widen. He gazes around the room, taking in
all the subtle signs and clues that Sherlock knows will tell him what happened
during his absence, and then his eyes come to rest again on his younger
brother. 
“Sherlock,” he says, tiny creases fanning his forehead. “Are you all right?” 
Sherlock freezes. He had expected Mycroft to be livid with anger. Instead, he
looks simply—worried. 
The younger boy shakes his head mutely. Mycroft sits down in the chair across
from him and surveys him with clearly genuine sympathy. 
“I take it his father found out?” 
Sherlock nods. 
Mycroft lets out a sigh. He rubs his temples, eyes flicking once more around
the kitchen. 
“Your John must be rather extraordinary,” he says, and there is only the
faintest trace of dry amusement in his voice. “Or extraordinarily stubborn. Two
weeks is a long time to stay away from home without permission.” 
“Twelve days,” Sherlock corrects automatically. 
“I was rounding up. By the way, I am very displeased with you about Mrs.
Turner,” Mycroft adds, crossing his arms. 
“John cooked,” Sherlock defends. 
“Yes, I can see that.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “You’ve gained two and a
half pounds since Christmas. Remarkable.” 
Normally Sherlock would retaliate with a comment about Mycroft’s own physique,
but there’s something about the way Mycroft says ‘remarkable’ that seems to
suggest he isn’t referring to Sherlock’s weight gain. 
“The question is,” Mycroft says, his voice darkening, “what am I going to do
about his father?” 
Sherlock looks up sharply. There’s a note in his brother’s voice he hasn’t
heard before, and a look in his eyes—distant and cold and (Sherlock can’t help
but admit) dangerous. 
“Is he violent?” Mycroft asks grimly. 
Sherlock shakes his head, watching his brother with wide, wary eyes. 
“Still, I’m sure there’s something I can rake up,” Mycroft considers, tapping
his long fingernails forbiddingly against the table. “Enough to get John and
his sister removed from his care, at the least.” 
Sherlock inhales sharply. This is what Mycroft is like to the rest of the
world, he realizes with a shock. He’s terrifying. 
Mycroft looks at his brother, and something shakes loose in his face. “Unless,”
he says, hesitating now, “you think it would be best not to.” 
“I—” Sherlock swallows. “I don’t think John would want that.” 
Mycroft nods, though he looks less than pleased. “Is there anything I can do
instead, Sherlock?” 
Sherlock considers. He wonders, really for the first time, what the extent of
his brother’s power is. Possibly it is far, far greater than he’d imagined.
“Could you…get his father a job?” he asks tentatively. 
Mycroft frowns, and then his face softens in understanding. “Yes. Yes, that’s
quite good. Give him responsibility, a purpose, get him out of the
house—preferably in the immediately after-school hours, perhaps?” 
Sherlock is shocked: Mycroft is smirkingat him. 
“I’m sure there’s something janitorial in some government office somewhere,”
Mycroft says dismissively. “I’ll sort it out.” 
“Thank you.” 
Mycroft looks startled to hear those particular words come out of Sherlock’s
mouth. Sherlock can’t really blame him. 
“You’re welcome, brother mine,” Mycroft says softly. Then he stands up and raps
briskly on the table. “As for right now,” he announces, “I know exactly what
you need.” 
Sherlock doubts very much that he does. “What do I need?” 
“Cake,” Mycroft declares. “Copious amounts of cake.” 
Sherlock groans.
***** Chapter 10 *****
John returns to Chesterton the next morning with the feeling of having been
away for years. Everyone else seems so invested in it all—classes, exams,
university entrances—and John was too not all that long ago, and it’s not
exactly that he’s unconcerned about it now, but it feels a bit like background
noise at the moment. He’s looking forward to hearing back from the schools he’s
applied to, but he isn’t on the verge of a panic attack like some of his
classmates. Even if he doesn’t get in, and he should, he will manage. He’ll get
a job and move out of the house and reapply the following year. Because—and
this is at the heart of it all—John isn’t a kid anymore, his life hanging on
someone else’s decision. Not after the last two weeks. 
Which is why, when Sherlock meets him at his locker in the morning, looking
nervous and talking too quickly to hide it, John simply leans over and shuts
him up with a kiss. 
“Oh,” Sherlock stutters. “I—oh.” 
“Okay?” John asks firmly, and it’s not like he isn’t aware that the corridor
just grew rather quieter, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. 
Sherlock nods, blinking as if he’s just accidentally looked straight into the
sun. 
It’s adorable, but also a little bit heartbreaking, so John kisses him again.
 
 
 
Sherlock’s got some sort of makeup exam to take during the lunch
period—something he’d failed to show up for in December, when he was going
through his bad spell—so John sits down in the cafeteria with Mike and Bill and
the others. He hasn’t joined them for lunch in quite awhile, which he thinks at
first is the reason they’re all staring at him bug-eyed as he sets his tray on
their table, but then there’s whispering and elbowing and Bill clears his
throat. 
“So, erm,” he says, eyes wandering to the other boys and then back to John, a
nervous sort of smile flickering on and off his face, “is it true you’re, erm,
shagging Sherlock Holmes?” 
John’s breath does something funny, then, a bit like he’s been knocked sharply
on the back. His friends—are they still his friends?—are staring at him avidly,
waiting for his answer. 
“Sorry,” Bill adds, laughing uncomfortably. “I drew the short straw.”
So they’ve been gossiping about him, then. John feels a knot tighten in his
chest, tight and hard and unyielding and when he opens his mouth he says the
only thing worse than ‘yes.’ 
“Actually, I’m dating him,” he replies, and takes a sip of milk. 
There’s a stunned silence. Then the table erupts into noise. 
“Is it true his brother’s MI6?” Charlie asks eagerly. 
“Do they really have secret government offices under their house?” 
“I heard they’re actually French,” Mike says keenly. “French nobility living in
exile.” 
“What do you think this is, 1793?” Bill demands. 
“I don’t know, it’s just what I heard!” 
John listens with utter bewilderment. He looks from face to face, each of which
is transformed by the news that John is in fact involved with Sherlock, but not
at all in the way John expected. He hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say—not
that anyone is letting him get a word in edgewise anyway. 
“Well, if they’re French, that would explain it,” Charlie reflects. 
“Explain what?” 
Charlie grins. “Why he’s such a prick!” 
The table falls abruptly silent. 
“Careful,” Bill laughs nervously. “John might punch you in the face.” 
Everybody looks at John like he could jump into action, fists flying, at any
moment. 
“Ah, come off it,” John answers, dizzy with relief. “You’re a prick yourself,
Charlie Rodgers.” 
Everyone relaxes. John suppresses a sudden urge to laugh.
“He is part French, actually,” he says, digging into his chips with relish.
“His grandmother lived in Lyon. I think she worked in a shop, though.
Printmaking or something.” 
“And his brother?” Bill asks eagerly. “Ishe MI6?” 
John takes a bite of his sandwich and chews slowly. All eyes are trained on
him. 
“Well,” he says, dabbing at his lips, “that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” 
The others grumble in protest. 
“So,” Mike says hesitantly, “does this mean you’re gay now?” 
John’s good humor fades a bit, but he looks carefully at Mike and there isn’t a
hint of derision on his broad, open face. The others look curious, but neither
scornful nor frightened. 
“I don’t think so,” he confesses, and it feels surprisingly good to talk about
this. “I—still like girls, I mean.” 
“So you’re bisexual,” Mike amends.
John shrugs, considering. “I suppose. Technically. Though I don’t—it’s not
really…” He bites his lip. “He—he’s the first guy I’ve ever…well, you know. I
don’t know. Maybe there could be others. I don’t actually—I don’t think I
actually care what I’m called.” 
Mike nods. “That’s fair.” 
“Really?” John asks, the word slipping out before he can stop himself. 
“Of course,” Mike replies immediately. “Did you think we’d—did you think we
wouldn’t be okay with it?” 
John feels a flush creeping up his face. “I…” 
“Git,” Bill says matter-of-factly. “Now, can we get back to the part where his
brother is a government spy?” 
“Or a Frenchspy,” Mike says, brightening. “Or a double agent—the French think
he’s on their side, but really he’s on ours.” 
“This isn’t 1814,” Bill protests. “We are not at war with the French.” 
John listens to them argue, warmth spreading throughout his chest, reflecting
that he’s never been so happy to have been wrong before.
 
 
 
Now that he and Sherlock aren’t hiding anymore, there’s one more person John
knows he has to talk to, and he leaves lunch early because he thinks he’d
better do it as soon as possible—the longer he waits, the worse it will be. 
Molly is waiting for him outside the bio room, books clasped protectively
against her chest. She looks up as he approaches. Her chin rises a fraction and
she surveys him with eyes half-frightened, half-resolute. 
“Molly,” he says, heart sinking. “We should—talk.” 
She nods. They go into the classroom and shut the door. As they take their
usual seats, John can tell that they are both too conscious of Sherlock’s
absence at the table. 
“Is it true?” she asks in a rush. “Are you and Sherlock—” 
John nods. Molly looks quickly down at her lap, her fingers tightening around
the edges of her textbooks. 
“I’m sorry,” John blurts out. “I know you fancy him, Molly, and I swear I
didn’t mean for this to happen—I mean I didn’t plan it, it just sort of…I
didn’t know I even could—I just—I’m sorry. You’ve fancied him since the
beginning, and I’m sorry.” 
Molly shakes her head, brown ponytail swinging back and forth. “It isn’t that,”
she says, her voice small but clear and only a little strained. “I don’t…mind
that you—that you’re dating him.” The tears shining at the edges of her eyes
belie this statement, but she ignores them even as a couple spill over onto her
cheeks. “I mean, I know what it’s like, he’s…” She swallows. “It’s just, you
didn’t—you didn’t tellme. I mean, it’s been—going on for awhile, hasn’t it?
Since before the holidays?” 
John swallows. “Since the end of October, actually.” 
Molly’s eyes crease shut as a look of pain flits across her face. “Right,” she
says unsteadily. “Well, at least that explains why you didn’t want to hang out
as much.” She gives her lap a crooked smile. “I thought you’d got bored of
me.” 
A thick curl of shame expands in John’s abdomen. “Oh, God, Molly, I’m sorry, I
just—I wasn’t sure whatwas happening, to be honest with you, and I…I didn’t
want to say anything if it, you know, wasn’t anything, or—I just didn’t know
what was going on.” 
“But that’s, er,” Molly begins, then falters. She purses her lips and starts
again. “That’s what friends do, John. They talk about things even when they
haven’t sorted them all out yet. I mean, we are—I thought—we are friends,
aren’t we?” 
“Yes,” John answers, feeling, if possible, even worse. “Yes, of course we
are.” 
“Well,” Molly pursues doggedly, “then…you had this huge thing going on, and
instead of telling me you just sort of, erm—hid. I don’t—I mean, like I said,
I—I know what it’s like. To…feel that way. About him. I could have,
well—wouldn’t it have helped to talk about it?” 
“Oh,” John says, the realization that she is very much correct making him feel
both stupid and an arse. “Yes. God, yes. And you would have—you wouldhave
talked about it with me, wouldn’t you? Even though you—even though it would
have hurt.” 
She nods. “I’m your friend, John. Of course.” 
He lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Molly. I shouldn’t have kept it from you.
And I—I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff recently, I haven’t been, well, I
haven’t been a very good friend to you.” He hesitates. “Could I…could I try and
make it up to you? Somehow?” 
She gives him a watery smile. “Share Sherlock?” 
For a second, he thinks she is serious. Then she starts giggling, and he gives
her a look of outrage. 
“Molly Hooper!” 
“Your face, John,” she laughs, brushing the wetness from her eyes. “Ha.” She
hiccups a little. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s…fine, John. I’ll be
fine.” 
“Of course you will,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but I’m
buying you a hot chocolate after school anyway. And you’re going to tell me all
about what’s been happening in your life for the past three months.” 
She smiles, and John smiles back, but then he remembers. 
“Oh, shit,” he says. “I can’t. Molly, I’m sorry, I—I’m—” He snorts bitterly.
“I’m grounded, I guess is what I am.” 
Molly’s forehead wrinkles in concern. “Because of—because of Sherlock?” 
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” John sighs. “It’s all a bit awful, Molly, I…” The bell
rings. A few seconds later, the door opens and their classmates start streaming
in. John lowers his voice. “My dad’s decided he’s suddenly going to be
responsible, or something, I don’t know, and I can’t tell if he means well or
if he’s just being an arse. Anyway, forget it, we’ll have lunch tomorrow and
you can tell me all about your holidays, okay? We don’t even have to talk about
Sherlock.” 
She pats him on the arm, and somehow the gesture is genuinely comforting. “We
can talk about Sherlock if you like, John, I don’t mind.” 
“What about me?” 
They turn. Sherlock is hovering behind them, looking from one to the other with
a slight frown on his face. 
“Sherlock,” Molly says, turning beet red. “Hi. Er. Do you want to sit next to
John? I mean, you usually do, that’s your chair, ha, I’ll just, erm, move my
things…” 
“Okay,” Sherlock says, sounding puzzled. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder as
he sits and Molly visibly stops herself from flinching. 
John supposes sadly that it’s going to take a little more than lunch and hot
chocolate for everything to truly be okay.
 
 
 
It’s just as infuriating as John expected it to be, having to go straight home
from school. 
He could ignore his father’s instructions, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to
provoke a fight—he’s too tired for that, and besides, if his father was serious
about everything he said during their conversation the night before—if he’s
really going to AA—well, John doesn’t want to chance him changing his mind.
Still, he plans to draw things out as long as possible; it takes time to get
his books together, he reasons, and if he walks very fast but pretends he
walked slowly, he can spend about ten minutes with Sherlock without taking too
much of a risk. 
He meets Sherlock in front of his locker and gives the boy a long kiss,
reveling in the fact that he can. Sherlock pulls back, a bit breathless, a
question in his eyes. 
“Did you tell people I’m your—your boyfriend?” Sherlock asks abruptly. 
John steps back. Oh, shit, he thinks, panic suddenly swelling up inside him.
What on earth had he been thinking? He and Sherlock have never labeled what
they’re doing, never even talked about their feelings for each other, really,
and maybe Sherlock doesn’t want to be in a relationship, maybe John was
presuming things, so pigheadedly determined to stand up to his friends that he
didn’t consider what Sherlock would think… 
“I told them we’re, erm. Dating,” John admits. “So, er…I guess I did. I—should
have talked to you about it first, I’m sorry, if you want me to, er, tell them
that—” 
“Are we?” Sherlock cuts him off. 
“Are we…what?” 
“Dating.” Sherlock swallows. “Am I your boyfriend?” 
John bites his lip, trying hard to read his friend’s mind. The attempt, just
like every other, fails miserably. 
So he takes the plunge. “If you want to be,” he says. 
“Okay.” 
John blinks. “I—really?” 
Sherlock nods quickly. “Yes.” 
“Oh.” John laughs, feeling suddenly giddy. “Okay, then.” 
Sherlock’s smile is tentative, but behind his eyes John can see little flares
of happiness bursting into light. 
“I er. Have to go,” he says, drawing in close for a kiss. 
Sherlock places his lips against John’s, his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Not
for seven and a half more minutes,” he corrects. 
“That’s…true,” John says, breathing deeply. “Sherlock, I…oh.” They kiss for
another long moment. “I can’t kiss you for seven and a half minutes in the
middle of the corridor.” 
“Then let’s go to the broom cupboard.” 
“I’ve sort of had it with broom cupboards, if you want to know the truth.” 
“Then come outside.” 
“It’s freezing.” 
“I’ll keep you warm,” Sherlock promises, and, wonder of wonders, John believes
him.
 
 
 
Harry and John arrive home at the same time, both of them flushed and
breathless with hurry. Harry pointedly doesn’t look at him as she slams open
the front door and stomps up the stairs to her room. John’s dad is sitting at
the kitchen table; he looks wary but there’s a righteous tilt to his chin that
makes John want to start shouting at him, so John passes him by in silence,
too, and heads for the stairs. 
After five minutes in his bedroom he feels like banging his head against the
walls. He texts Sherlock and Molly and tries to do his homework, but after
almost two weeks of the freedom to do whatever he wants, this captivity is both
demeaning and maddeningly dull. The only bright spot of the evening is when his
father announces, very unexpectedly, that he’s been offered a janitorial job at
some government office; John can’t imagine what makes him qualified for such a
thing, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. At the very least,
this will get his dad out of the house every day, an eventuality for which both
John and the still-sulking Harry will be exceedingly grateful. 
He’s never been quite so pleased to go to school as he is the next morning. He
kisses Sherlock like he’s just returned from six months at sea, leaving his
friend—his boyfriend—pleasingly breathless. 
“John,” he says, and then again, “John,” and John grins to think he’s reduced
Sherlock’s vocabulary to this one word so easily, but then he realizes Sherlock
is holding something out to him with a desperate gleam in his eye. 
“What…” 
“Take it away. Please.” Sherlock thrusts a flat cardboard box at him. 
John backs away, eying the box with deep suspicion. “What’s in it?” 
“Please just take it,” Sherlock begs. 
John gingerly lifts the box from Sherlock hands and opens the lid. He’s
expecting—oh, the remains of some experiment gone horribly wrong, maybe, or
destroyed school property, or, hell, even human body parts—but not this.
Definitely not this. 
“It’s…cake,” he says blankly. 
“I know it’s cake.” 
“Why are you giving me cake?” 
Sherlock exhales through his nose. John looks again at the contents of the box:
six slices, each a different variety and utterly decadent, dripping with
chocolate, piled with whipped cream, thick with layers of fruits and nuts. A
couple have bites taken out of them and they all look just a bit the worse for
wear. Still, John’s mouth waters. He looks at Sherlock questioningly. 
“Mycroft is home,” Sherlock replies. 
“Yes, you…said,” John answers, brow wrinkling with confusion. 
“When Mycroft is upset,” Sherlock explains grudgingly, “he eats cake to make
himself feel better. Obsceneamounts of cake.” 
“And he’s upset,” John guesses, heart sinking. “Shit. About—about me staying at
your house?” 
Sherlock hesitates, then shakes his head. “Shockingly, no. He—erm, he…thinks
I’mupset. About—you know. Everything.” 
John blinks. “So he’s giving you cake.” 
Sherlock nods. 
“That’s…” John bites his lip. “That’s actually, erm, really…nice.” 
A vein in Sherlock’s forehead twitches. “But it’s just so much cake,” he bursts
out. “I’ve been taking it to my bedroom and pretending to eat it there—I
scatter crumbs on the plate, rub frosting on my teeth—but I can’t get rid of
it, because Mycroft has inexplicably extended Mrs. Turner’s holiday and he’s
doing all the cleaning himself and he’ll see if I put it in the bin, so—please
just take it, John.” 
John listens with mounting shock. Since when does Sherlock care about offending
Mycroft? He’d have tossed the cake in the trash without a second thought,
before. And since when does Mycroft clean house and try to cheer Sherlock up? 
Sherlock is still looking at him pleadingly. John squares his shoulders. 
“It will be a great burden,” he says solemnly, “but for you, Sherlock Holmes, I
will eat this cake.” 
Sherlock gives him a suspicious look, as if he knows he’s being teased, but he
looks relieved anyway. Despite the fact that it’s much too early in the morning
for cake, John pulls off a bit from a particularly delectable-looking slice—he
did skip breakfast, after all—with definite appreciation. 
“This looks like it’s got about six kinds of chocolate in it,” he says
admiringly, popping it in his mouth. His eyes widen. 
“Holy shit, Sherlock, that is the best cake I have ever tasted. Oh my God, are
you sure you don’t want it?” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “Well, your
loss, then, thank Mycroft for me, will you—or don’t, if this is supposed to be
a secret…” John trails off, a thought occurring to him. “Oh. Actually. Er,
speaking of Mycroft…” 
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. John stashes the cake carefully in his locker, then
turns back to his boyfriend, a sheepish look on his face. 
“So, I’m probably totally starkers, here—Mike and Bill rubbing off on me,
ha—but, erm, is it possible that Mycroft—did he…” 
Sherlock waits. John lets out a sigh. 
“Okay, so, my dad got offered a job yesterday. As a janitor at the offices for
the Department of Transportation. Supposedly his old boss, from his shipping
job, recommended him, but the thing is, Dad’s never done janitorial work, and
he and his boss didn’t get on, actually, and, well, it’s in a government office
so I thought maybe…” He stops. Sherlock is watching him, looking faintly
amused. 
“I’m being totally paranoid, aren’t I?” 
Sherlock’s tone is dry. “I have recently discovered that it is virtually
impossible to be unrealistically paranoid where my brother is concerned.” 
John frowns. “So. Erm. Did—did Mycroft get my dad a job, Sherlock?” 
Sherlock sighs deeply. “I toldhim you would be too intelligent not to figure it
out.” 
John’s eyes widen. “Oh. He—oh. But, Sherlock—why?” 
“He wanted to help.” Sherlock squirms, looking hesitant. “And I—thought—this
might be the best way, but if you don’t think—” 
“Wait,” John interrupts. “It was your idea?” 
Sherlock eyes him warily, then nods. 
John feels a bit gobsmacked. That Mycroft Holmes can snap his fingers and get
his dad a job, and that he’d want to in the first place, and that
Sherlock—well, that Sherlock— 
He grabs hold of his boyfriend and kisses him again, ignoring the lump in his
throat. 
“Thanks,” he says hoarsely. “Just—you’re brilliant, you know that?” 
Sherlock smiles, but it’s not his smug one, his cheeky one, it’s flush with
genuine pleasure and real happiness and it’s so beautiful John has to kiss him
again.
 
 
 
He’d very much like the kissing to continue, thank you very much, but there are
classes, of course, and as the end of the day draws near so does the indignity
of being grounded at age seventeen. He gripes about it with Molly as they perch
on a table in an empty classroom, sharing Sherlock’s cake, after being let out
of their last class fifteen minutes early due to their year’s first college
admissions-related breakdown. Nobody even cracked a smile when poor Percy
Phelps burst into tears in the middle of working out differential equations;
they were all too conscious of how easily that could have been them.
“Freaking out about uni yet?” John asks Molly, licking strawberry buttercream
off a plastic fork.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I do hope I get into somewhere in London,
though.”
“Me too.” John smiles. “It’d be nice to end up at the same school. And I only
applied to programs in the city, so there’s a decent chance we might.”
“That’d be wonderful.”
John frowns, remembering suddenly why he made that choice. “I did it because of
my dad, you know,” he confesses. Molly’s attention sharpens; he doesn’t talk
much about his father, usually, but somehow he wants to, now; somehow he finds
that he can. “I thought I’d want to be around to look after him. Make sure he
and Harry were getting on okay. Now I just want to get away—but I’m glad all
the same.” He hesitates, not sure whether he ought to continue. “Since, well,
since Sherlock has two more years at Chesterton still.”
Molly nods, betraying no sign that the mention of Sherlock upsets her. “Are you
going to get your own flat?”
“Yes. God, yes, I can hardly wait. I’m planning to work all summer so I can
save up. Anything to get out of the house.”
She gives him a sympathetic pat. They sit in silence for a moment, eating.
“I can’t believe he didn’t want this cake,” Molly says suddenly. “This is
incredible cake.”
“It really is.”
“What kind of person doesn’t like cake?”
John shrugs. “An idiot, I suppose.”
“Or a madman,” Molly giggles.
"Well, that about sums up Sherlock, doesn’t it?”
Molly snorts. Her eyes widen. “Oh, shhh, John, he’s coming.”
They both stick large bites of cake in their mouths and attempt to look
innocent.
“There you are,” Sherlock says briskly, striding into the room. “Come on, John,
off to the bio lab.”
“Sherlock, I can’t, I have to go home, remember?” John asks, perturbed.
“In ten minutes. If we hurry, you can help me with the first test. I need
someone to hold the beaker.”
John rolls his eyes. “I’m flattered, Sherlock, but I really should go.” His
gaze lights on Molly, who is conspicuously not looking at them. An idea strikes
him, and he hops off the table, pulling Sherlock into the corridor. “Why don’t
you ask Molly?”
Sherlock looks startled. “Molly Hooper?”
“Yes, Sherlock, Jesus, the Molly who is sitting right in there, of course Molly
Hooper.”
“Why would I ask Molly Hooper?”
“Well, she’d enjoy it, for starters,” John says, exasperated. “And she’d
probably be better for this experiment than me—I want to be a doctor, you know,
I like my human fingers to be a little more alive. She wants to work in a
morgue.”
Sherlock gives him a shocked look. “Molly wants to work in a morgue?”
Honestly, it’s all John can do sometimes not to shake the boy. “Yes, for God’s
sake, Sherlock, she talks about it all the time.”
“Well, I can’t be expected to listen, can I?” Sherlock asks, looking put out.
“No, of course not, why would I expect that,” John replies. He glances at Molly
again, who is sucking on a clean fork, still looking anywhere but at them. “Ask
her about the corpse she saw last summer at her gran’s in Cornwall. Washed up
on the beach, apparently, not six hours after death.”
Sherlock’s eyes light up. “A corpse, you say?” he muses, eyeing Molly with
deepening interest. “Well, perhaps on a trial basis.” And he hurries towards
her, clutching his notebook.
"Goodbye to you, too,” John mutters good-naturedly. Molly looks overwhelmed by
Sherlock’s offer, and she shoots John a grateful look as he heads down the
corridor. He grins and mouths “good luck”; as he rounds the corner, he hears
Sherlock say, “So what’s this about a corpse on the beach…?”
Well, even if John can’t spend a nice afternoon with his friends, they can
spend one together. And he can’t wait for the stories from both of them in the
morning.
It’s almost enough to cheer him up.
 
 
 
The week drags on. John’s dad starts his new job on Friday and John is looking
forward to the lessened scrutiny—his dad won’t be home till eight every night
and while John doesn’t usually lie about his whereabouts he has no compunction
about saying he went straight home and spending time with Sherlock instead. But
John’s dad springs some news on them the night before: he’s asked old Mrs.
Davies from upstairs to stay with them every day till he gets home.
“That way I’ll know you’re both here the whole time,” he says self-righteously.
Harry throws an incredible temper tantrum, much of which is directed at John,
and John just refuses to speak to either of them for the rest of the evening.
Mrs. Davies is rather a nice old lady, even if she does smell a bit of
mothballs, but John hasn’t felt so condescended to since he was actually unable
to stay at home without a babysitter. She brings them biscuits on Friday, which
John consumes out of politeness and which Harry refuses outright, and talks
wanderingly of her cats (of which there are five) and her grandchildren (of
which there are also five, all living in Wales) until 8 p.m. finally arrives,
at which time she remarks that the time “just flew right by.” 
Their dad stays home with them all weekend, and Monday night is much the same
as Friday, and so are Tuesday and Wednesday. John begins to think he might just
lose his mind, if only because it’s so stuffed full of the Davies family tree
that there’s no room for anything else. Harry is also becoming unbearable; she
stomps around the house, shooting John murderous glances, as if this is all his
fault. He’d be angrier with her if she weren’t so clearly utterly miserable.
Despite everything, he can’t help but worry about her, so on Thursday afternoon
he corners her on the way home. 
“Listen, Harry—” 
“What do you want, John?” she asks, flinging the words at him like weapons. 
He shuts his eyes briefly, summoning patience. “Nothing. For goodness’ sake.
I’ve just had a thought.” 
“Amazing.” 
“Just listen to me for a minute, would you?” he snaps. 
She keeps glaring but shuts up. 
“So. I’ve been thinking about our situation. Mrs. Davies, and all that. And the
thing is, well—Dad doesn’t know you’re gay.” 
She bristles. “And it’s going to stay that way till I’m eighty, thanks very
much.” 
“Yes, fine, but my point is, he doesn’t know Clara is anything but your friend.
I think he even likes her, she helped shovel our walk a few times last winter,
remember?” 
“So what?” 
“Well,” John says, “instead of thinking of ways to sneak out of the house—don’t
look at me like that, I’m not an idiot—why not just think of ways to sneak her
in?” 
Harry looks taken aback. “What do you mean?” 
“Just ask Dad if she can come over. Tell him you’re working on a project
together. You guys can go up to your room—I’ll babysit Mrs. Davies for the
night.” 
She stares at him. “You—you’d do that?” 
John nods. 
“Well…” She swallows convulsively, her eyes flicking away. “I…I’ll think about
it.” 
John supposes that’s about as good as it’s going to get. But the next day,
Harry asks their dad about bringing Clara home and, presumably pleased that
Harry is showing an interest in schoolwork and also not shouting at him, he
happily agrees. That afternoon, John settles in for a long chat about knitting
with Mrs. Davies, the girls safely ensconced in Harry’s room. 
Around five, Clara appears in the sitting room doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,”
she smiles. “Can I borrow you for a minute, John? Harry’s sent me to make tea
but I can’t find the kettle.” 
“Yeah, of course,” John replies immediately, glad of the break. He goes with
Clara into the kitchen. “The kettle is—” 
“Thank you,” Clara interrupts, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
John blinks at her, shocked. 
“Oh. Well, um, sure,” he stammers. 
“We both know Harry would never say it,” Clara says, leaning back against the
counter, “but she’s grateful. So am I. I only wish we could do the same for you
and Sherlock.” 
John’s dad would have a fit if Sherlock got within two miles of their house.
John smiles wryly. “I wish you could, too.” 
“Seriously, if there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Clara presses.
“We’ll be there. That’s a promise.” 
John raises an eyebrow, though he feels warmth spreading through his chest at
her words. “Really?” he says skeptically. “Harry too?” 
“Oh, yes,” Clara vows, “if I have to drag her kicking and screaming.” 
“I don’t think anyone’s managed to make Harry do something she didn’t want to
since primary school.” 
Clara grins wickedly. “Oh, but you haven’t seen me at work.” 
John snorts, startled. “Ha. Well, thanks, Clara. I mean it.” 
“Thank you, John,” she says. “We have to stick together, you know what I
mean?” 
He’s beginning to. He nods. 
“You’re a good big brother.” 
For some reason, he flushes. Maybe because he hasn’t heard that since Harry was
in primary school, either. “Well, er,” he stammers. “I—thanks. Oh! The erm, the
kettle, it’s—” 
“I think I can find the kettle, John,” Clara replies drily. 
“Ah. Yes. I’ll just—back to talking about cats, then,” he says hurriedly, and
makes his exit. 
Mrs. Davies eyes him curiously when he returns. He wonders what exactly is
showing on his face. He attempts to rearrange his features into some semblance
of normality, but this seems to only increase her suspicions. 
“John,” she says, her voice unexpectedly gentle, “why doesn’t your father trust
you and Harry to be home alone?” 
John coughs, uncertain how to respond. “Well, actually, he doesn’t trust us to
come home and stay home,” he clarifies. 
She purses her lips. “I don’t understand. Your sister, maybe—she’s a bit of a
firecracker—but you seem like such a nice, steady boy.” 
John sighs. He thinks about lying, but he doesn’t really have the energy. “I
sort of—ran away from home.” 
Her thin white eyebrows flutter upwards. “Do they still call it that, at your
age?” 
“Well. Ha. I…stayed out, then. For a couple of weeks, over the holiday. I
just…couldn’t be at home anymore.” 
“Because of your father’s drinking?” 
John stiffens automatically—he’s not used to people speaking overtly about his
dad’s problem—but her tone is sympathetic and free of judgment and he’s past
denying it, anyway. 
“Not really,” he admits. “I, erm. I’ve been…” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve
been seeing this boy. And Dad doesn’t approve.” 
He stares at his knees as he says it, but his voice doesn’t waver. After a
moment, he looks up to find Mrs. Davies’ face wide with dismay. 
“I had no idea!” she exclaims. “I would nothave agreed to do this if I’d
known.” John’s heart sinks; her disapproval isn’t unexpected but it still
stings. 
“I’m so sorry, John,” she says, and he looks up in surprise. “I didn’t know. I
thought maybe you and your sister were having trouble in school, and he wanted
to make sure you did your homework. You poor dear.” 
“Oh,” is all he can think to say. 
“I will be having words with your father when he comes home tonight,” she says,
wagging her finger. She looks so tiny, and old, and fierce. “And I won’t be
doing this for him again, mind you.” 
“I…thank you.” John’s voice is wavering and he can’t make it stop. “That’s…I…” 
“Oh, come here,” Mrs. Davies flutters. She pulls John in for a hug. He buries
his face in her shoulder, sinking into the comforting smell of mothballs and
milky tea and the warmth of her frail, strong frame. He doesn’t know how she
can be both at once, but she is, and John realizes that’s how he feels—like a
touch could shatter him, but also as unassailable as a tree bending in a storm.
He’s breakable, and invincible, and the paradox is exhausting. So he lets Mrs.
Davies hug him as long as she wants. 
“I’ll talk to your father on one condition,” she says suddenly, pulling back,
grasping him lightly by the shoulders. 
John feels a flicker of anxiety. “Yes?” 
“That you bring your young man over for tea one day,” she says. Her face is
stern but her eyes are twinkling. “I make a mean pound cake. Teenage boys can’t
resist my pound cake.” 
John actually almost chokes up, he actually almost starts crying, but then the
words sink in—pound cake—and he has to fight a mad impulse to burst out
laughing. 
“He’ll love that,” John promises. “He loves cake, Sherlock. He really does.” 
Sherlock will forgive him, he thinks. It’s worth it to see Mrs. Davies smile
like that.
 
 
 
And suddenly, John has friends. More than friends—allies. He knows that’s a
word people use, an accepted term for what Molly and Mycroft and Clara and Mrs.
Davies and Mrs. Hudson (who beams whenever she sees them together in the
corridors) have become, but now he finally understands why. Because
allegianceis something different from friendship, from tolerance, from
indifference. Because it’s a promise, a pledge. Because sometimes this is a
battle, however much John wishes it weren’t, and he’s got people on his side. 
His dad is almost violently angry after his conversation with Mrs. Davies. He
shouts at John for turning her against him, and at Harry just for being there.
He smashes a plate on the ground, and he kicks the wall, and John seriously
considers walking out again. 
But Harry darts a glance at him, frightened, and he’s not leaving her alone. 
So he takes them both upstairs, and leaves their dad to shout at the air, and
he gives Harry a hug before she can protest. He’s only passing it on, anyway. 
And in the morning, when their dad grimly tells them they’d better be home
straight away after school and stay there, they both lie and say they will, and
John feels a rush of guilt and shame. And it’s horrible, because he shouldn’t
have to lie to his dad, and he shouldn’t feel guilty when he does, not this
time. But it’s also something he can bear. Because he doesn’t have to bear it
alone. 
He goes to school, where his friends are waiting for him.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     Many apologies for the long wait!
For a little while, things are all right. Now that John feels like he’s not
alone, and now that he and Sherlock have more or less clarified what is between
them, the little voices of fear and doubt that used to whisper constantly in
his ear about what the hell do you think you’re doing, John Watsonhave all but
gone. His relationship with his dad is crap, but it’s bearable and soon enough
John will be out of the house. At some point, he knows, Sherlock’s mood will
swing towards black again, but it hasn’t yet and at the moment Sherlock is as
happy as John has ever seen him. John is beginning to think that maybe, just
maybe, they’ll both make it through the school year more or less intact. 
Later, after everything’s gone horribly pear-shaped, John decides that was just
about the stupidest thought he could have had.
It starts when Soo Lin Yao, a classmate of Harry’s, breaks all the beakers in
the bio lab one morning before school—or at least, it certainly looks like
she’s done it, as she’s found kneeling on the floor amidst shards of broken
glass when Lestrade walks in that day. When John and Sherlock show up for class
(fifteen minutes early, as Sherlock has an experiment he wants to check on),
the door is half-open and through it they can see the headmaster, Mr. Yardley,
and Lestrade standing over Soo Lin, who is weeping quietly and mumbling over
and over that she isn’t to blame. 
“Wait in my office, young lady,” John hears the headmaster say sternly as he
and Sherlock peer covertly into the room. “I want a word with Professor
Lestrade.”
Soo Lin Yao hurries past them, almost knocking into John as she runs out of the
room, still crying. The door swings open and Sherlock looks in, not even
bothering to hide his interest. His breath catches. 
“She didn’t do it,” he mutters, and then, before John has a chance to grab him,
he strides into the classroom. 
“This is Jim Moriarty’s doing,” he announces. The headmaster and Lestrade look
up, startled. John is caught in their gaze, too, standing in the open doorway.
“Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, not sounding pleased. John knows he’s had
some difficulties with Sherlock before, when Sherlock was going through his bad
period and skipping class, and his heart sinks. “Why are you here?” 
“We have bio first period,” John explains, stepping into the room. “Sorry,
we’ll just wait outside—” 
“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock insists. “He did this.” 
Lestrade’s face creases with puzzlement. Mr. Yardley’s darkens. John looks at
Sherlock, worried. 
“That’s quite an accusation, Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, “especially
given that Ms. Yao was found with a beaker in her hand in this very room.” 
Sherlock shakes his head. “No, no, she couldn’t have done it. The culprit wore
latex gloves, see? There’s a used pair in that bin, which gets emptied every
night, so they’re fresh from this morning, and you can see the box is on that
table instead of where it should be, in the cupboard.” 
“So?” Mr. Yardely asks impatiently. 
“Soo Lin Yao has a latex allergy.” 
There’s a startled silence. John, personally, has no idea how Sherlock knows
this about Soo Lin Yao, but— 
“He’s right,” Lestrade says, sounding baffled. “She does. She uses the latex-
free gloves in class.” 
Mr. Yardley purses his lips. “That’s as may be, but what’s this about Mr.
Moriarty? What proof do you have that he’s responsible?” 
Sherlock pauses, and John’s chest gets that tingly feeling it does whenever
Sherlock’s about to make a brilliant deduction. He waits for something about
shoelaces or schedules or specks of lint, but then Sherlock looks over at him,
hesitant, and John’s stomach drops. 
“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “But if you let me look
around for fifteen minutes—” 
“Certainly not,” the headmaster replies, affronted. “What on earth would make
you think I would allow that?” 
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “why do you think Jim Moriarty did this?” 
Sherlock hesitates. He looks at John. “Because he—he’s done something like this
before,” Sherlock says carefully. 
“What was it?” Lestrade asks, frowning. 
“I can’t…” Sherlock pulls at his dark curls, looking unhappy. John knows how he
feels: they can’t tell the adults that Moriarty framed Carl Powers for
shoplifting, any more than they could when it happened, because that would get
Powers into even worse trouble, giving what he was actually doing at the time.
But without that information, there’s no chance the headmaster will believe
them. Of course, it’s not as if John really knows Sherlock is right about
Moriarty’s involvement—he could just be paranoid. 
But on the other hand, he could be right. He usually is. 
“I can’t tell you,” Sherlock finishes miserably. 
The headmaster’s lip curls. “Indeed. Then I would be very careful before making
such accusations in the future, Mr. Holmes. Schoolboy grudges are not an excuse
for trying to get your classmates in trouble. Now, Ms. Yao is waiting for me in
my office, so I must go. And as a reminder to watch what you say, you and your
friend Mr. Watson here can clean up this mess.” 
Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and John steps hard on his toe. Lestrade
clears his throat. 
“What about the latex, Richard?” he asks Yardley. “She couldn’t have done it.” 
The headmaster looks stymied. “Well,” he says guardedly, “perhaps.” And he
sweeps out of the room. 
Lestrade leans back against his desk, surveying the broken glass on the floor
and then looking at Sherlock and John with the same intent frown on his face. 
“All right, boys,” he says. “Out with it.” 
Sherlock and John exchange a look. 
“We really can’t,” John answers reluctantly. “I’m sorry.” 
Lestrade lets out a huff of breath. “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons,” he
says. “You really think Jim Moriarty is responsible?” 
Sherlock nods. “I don’t think he broke the equipment himself. But he probably
got someone else to do it.” 
“Why?” 
“My guess is that somebody asked him to. Someone who has a grudge against Soo
Lin.” 
Lestrade shakes his head tiredly. “Oh, Sherlock, you know that sounds mad,
right?” He rubs his face. “Actually, would you two mind cleaning this up? I’m
not punishing you, I just need to do a couple things before class.” 
John gives his professor a closer look, struck suddenly by how tired he
appears. Did he always have such deep bags under his eyes? 
“Of course,” John replies. “I’ll get brooms.” 
Lestrade nods. “Thanks. I…look, I’ll keep an eye out, okay?” He looks at
Sherlock. “I heard what you said, even if the headmaster didn’t.” 
Sherlock’s eyes flicker with surprise. He nods guardedly. 
“Okay.” 
John gets brooms, and they sweep up. He knows Sherlock is itching to examine
the room, but Lestrade is there at his desk and they haven’t time, anyway—he
can hear their classmates congregating outside, ready to come in as soon as the
room is clean. So he and Sherlock hurriedly push broken glass into the dustpan
and John has this funny flicker of foreboding, like maybe this isn’t the only
thing that’s going to get broken in the near future.
 
 
 
Soo Lin Yao is absolved of the blame for the incident, or at least of the
punishment. It seems the latex gloves put too big of a question mark around the
whole thing to set her down as responsible beyond reasonable doubt. There’s a
lot of gossip about what happened, after the headmaster addresses the entire
school very sternly on the subject of damaging school property, but
miraculously, Sherlock and John’s presence on the scene appears to have gone
unnoticed. 
Except by one person. At the end of the day, after Soo Lin Yao has been
definitively pardoned, Sherlock and John are walking hand in hand down the
crowded corridor when a voice sounds softly in their ears, so quiet and
menacing that it sends shivers up John’s spine. 
“You’ve spoiled my fun,” Jim Moriarty complains, and John and Sherlock whirl
around, but he’s already separated from them by a gaggle of chattering second-
years. “You’ll be sorry, Sherlock Holmes,” he calls out in a singsong voice,
and then disappears around the corner. 
John’s hackles rise, but when he looks at Sherlock to share his anger, the boy
has gone even paler than usual.
“Sherlock,” John says, grabbing his boyfriend’s wrist, “it’s fine. He’s just a
stupid little bastard.” 
Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly, “that’s where you’re wrong.”
He gazes in the direction of where Moriarty disappeared, eyebrows drawn in and
eyes distant. “He’s a cleverlittle bastard.”
 
 
 
And the next morning, Sherlock is proved horribly right. 
John can tell something is wrong as soon as he walks onto campus. There are
groups of students standing around outside, as there always are, but the groups
are all wrong: third-years with first-years, sixth-years with fourth-years,
football players with drama geeks and enemies murmuring amongst each other, all
grudges temporarily suspended. And there are too many of them, student upon
student spilling out onto the sidewalks as they whisper and shout and stare
avidly at the school building. 
Chesterton’s doors are wide open, and its windows, as John watches, are being
flung open one by one. He hears the sound of a siren and realizes with a shock
that there’s a fire truck parked out back and another one on its way. 
“Molly!” John hurries to where his friend is standing open-mouthed, staring at
the proceedings. “What’s going on?” 
“Some sort of gas explosion, I think? Or some chemical thing?” she replies,
biting her nail. “I don’t know. They’re airing out the school.” 
“Is anyone inside? Other than the firefighters?” 
She looks at him anxiously. “John, I—have you seen Sherlock?” 
John’s world spins. He stumbles backwards dizzily and Molly shoots out an arm
to grab his wrist. “Hey,” she says, “hey, John, no, I’m sorry, forget I said
anything, I’m sure he’s just late—” 
But at that moment, a figure hurtles through the open doors of the school,
stumbling to a halt outside as all eyes turn to look. A mess of dark hair,
goggles from the chem lab, a paper mask over his mouth, and an empty packet
clutched in his hand—Sherlock. 
The boy looks around at the students and teachers who have all stopped to stare
at him. His bearing is hesitant, confused; he holds up the packet and glances
at it for a long moment, as if reading what it says for the first time. The
part of John that isn’t helplessly frozen—turned to glass or stone or crystal
or shards of ice—notes that it looks like the kind of packet that holds the
solid forms of chemicals they use sometimes in chem class, little rocklike
nuggets that produce smoke or smells or purple flames when heated up or mixed
with something else. Understanding—giant and terrible—begins to overtake him,
and then Sherlock sways, staggers. His knees crumple beneath him and he
collapses on the concrete. 
Uproar ensues. Shrieking and running and shouts of “stay back,” and John’s
world has gone all funny, tilting and shifting like a funhouse mirror as he
runs toward Sherlock, stumbling over backpacks and bumping into elbows. Someone
is calling “Sherlock” over and over again and eventually he realizes it’s him.
But as he finally claws his way to the front of the pack, the paramedics rush
in, blocking the way to Sherlock. 
“John. John. John.” Strong, firm hands are holding him back. John fights,
kicks, and the person lets out a startled gasp of pain but doesn’t let go.
“John. They’re helping him. The best thing you can do is let them help him.” 
The sense of these words slowly seeps into John’s consciousness and he sags,
all the fight draining abruptly away. The hands on his arms tighten, and John
manages to stay on his feet. He looks blearily around to see who it is. 
“Professor Lestrade,” he says. His head is still whirling, confused.
“Sherlock—” 
“It looks like he inhaled some of the fumes,” Lestrade says steadily. “He was
in there awhile. But he had a mask on, John, he’ll be fine. Anyway, the stuff’s
not lethal, apparently, just—not nice.” 
John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His head swims dizzily
and he cranes his neck around the paramedics’ backs to look at Sherlock. The
boy is pale, inert, but obviously breathing. One of the paramedics puts an
oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and Sherlock twitches, inhaling deeply even
as he remains unconscious. 
John keeps one eye on his boyfriend as he turns back to Lestrade. “But—how—what
was he doing in there?” 
Lestrade is silent. This worries John almost as much as Sherlock’s physical
state. He whips his head around to stare at his bio teacher fully, shaking
loose from the man’s firm grasp. 
“What was Sherlock doing inside?” 
Lestrade sighs. “John, I…I don’t know. I hope there’s some explanation. Maybe
he thought he could stop it, I don’t know, but—you know what it looks like,
don’t you?” 
John is shaking his head. “No. No. He is notresponsible for this.” 
“I don’t think he is either. But, John, why was he here early? Why was he
wearing goggles and a mask? Why—” 
“He’s awake!” one of the paramedics calls out. “Stand back, please!” 
Everybody swarms backwards as Sherlock is lifted onto a stretcher, and as the
paramedics carry him towards the waiting ambulance, John catches his eye. He
looks tiny, and terrified. 
“Let me come with him,” John says in a rush. “Please, he can’t go alone, let
me—” 
“Sorry, mate, family only,” one of the paramedics grunts out. 
“But his family isn’t here—” 
A hand on his arm again. Lestrade. 
“John, I think they are.” He points to a sleek black car that’s just pulled up
along the curb, and the man emerging from it. Mycroft Holmes hurries through
the crowds that part for him like waves, somehow sensing that here is a man not
to be toyed with. Mycroft is as pale as his brother and he looks shockingly
undone: tie askew, hair mussed, cuffs unbuttoned. He waves aside the
headmaster, who is approaching the scene with a black look on his face, and the
paramedics flit aside like leaves in the wind to allow Mycroft to climb into
the back of the ambulance. John’s last glimpse of Sherlock is of one pale hand
clutched tightly in his brother’s, and Mycroft bending over too smooth back a
lock of dark hair. 
The ambulance whizzes off, and John stands there, bereft, and then, across the
crowd, he catches sight of Jim Moriarty, looking after Sherlock with a
satisfied smirk on his face. 
John fills with overwhelming rage, a swirling maelstrom of anger so strong his
vision goes briefly white; and then he thinks of how it would sound to the
headmaster if he accused Moriarty of framing Sherlock, after the business with
Soo Lin, and his outrage is suddenly injected with a shot of pure, blinding
fear, and the subtler, more sinister darkness of deep foreboding.
 
 
 
School is cancelled for the day so the building can be aired out. John is
damned if he’s going to sit at home while Sherlock is ill, so he figures out
which hospital his friend was taken to and resolves to beg or bully his way
into his room. Rather to his relief, Molly insists upon accompanying him. 
“Worse comes to worse, I can do a really good impression of a waterworks,” she
says, smiling a bit, though her eyes are in fact a bit damp. “It’s ridiculous,
really, how much easier it is for girls to get what we want when we cry about
it.” 
But even Molly’s tears don’t gain them access to Sherlock’s hospital room. The
staff at the desk are adamant that he is not to be disturbed; John suspects
that their nearly fanatical adherence to hospital procedure has its origins in
Mycroft Holmes. He and Molly stubbornly take up residence in the waiting room;
an occasional tear—probably not feigned—leaks from Molly’s eyes, and the
churning anxiety in his own gut causes him to leap up every few minutes and
pace furiously around the room. He remembers Lestrade’s assurance that the
substance Sherlock inhaled wasn’t lethal, but the boy looked so pale, so ill,
and John can’t stop remembering how Sherlock’s knees gave out so suddenly as he
collapsed on the pavement. 
After a couple hours, a sympathetic nurse takes pity on them. 
“Look,” he says, stopping by their chairs on the way back from filling out some
paperwork. “You’re not going to be able to see your friend, but I promise, he’s
fine. He’s breathing on his own and everything. His brother is insisting we
keep him here for the rest of the day for observation, and that no visitors are
allowed to disturb his rest, but he’ll be released tonight. You two should go
home and get some rest yourselves. You look like you could use it.” 
“You’re sure?” John can’t stop the words from spilling too quickly out of his
mouth. 
“Positive. He’s fine. That stuff he inhaled has a nasty effect at first, but it
wears off quickly. He was never in any serious danger.” 
John sags with relief. And it isa relief, of course, but as soon as he’s
home—Molly in tow, as neither of them really wants to be alone—the worry starts
to creep back in. Jim Moriarty isn’t insane or homicidal, that’s good, but he
is obviously a manipulative little creep. He’s managed, somehow, to set
Sherlock up, to make it look as though he’s responsible for flooding the school
with dangerous chemicals—stopping short of harming anyone, but ensuring that
the consequences, should Sherlock receive the blame, will be dire. 
John and Molly watch bad telly all day and John tries not to think about what’s
going to happen when they go back to school. Molly leaves, and John calls
Sherlock, once every hour, until midnight, but he never answers. John tells
himself it’s because he’s asleep, or because Mycroft has confiscated his
phone. 
What if Mycroft believes Sherlock is to blame? John remembers Sherlock telling
him that Mycroft threatened to send him to boarding school in France if
Chesterton didn’t work out. 
John doesn’t sleep very well that night.
 
 
 
School is back on the next morning, and John gets there early to wait for
Sherlock. He can only hope his boyfriend will show up, as he hasn’t managed to
get in touch with him. He tries not to worry about the lack of contact. He
tries not to be angry about it. He tries to stay calm.
He doesn’t feel calm, though, when the usual black car pulls up to deliver
Sherlock to school. John leaps to his feet, his heart suddenly attempting to
escape his chest, and hurries toward his boyfriend. He half expects Mycroft to
be looming over him like a protective bat, but Sherlock is alone. 
“Oh, god, you’re okay,” John says, relief overwhelming all other considerations
as he hurries toward Sherlock and pulls him into a crushing hug. The boy goes
limp in John’s arms for a moment, burying his face in John’s shoulder and
breathing deeply, and then he stiffens and pulls abruptly away. His sudden
absence feels wrong, like the severing of a limb. 
“Sherlock,” John falters, “what…what happened?” 
Sherlock purses his lips and shakes his head, not looking John in the eye. 
John grabs his elbow. “Hey. Talk to me. How did Moriarty set you up? Did he
lure you in there, somehow? Did he swap out chemicals you were using for an
experiment? Did he—”
Sherlock’s head moves with a sudden painful jerk. He catches John’s gaze and in
his eyes John can see dark clouds brewing, the same distant sort of bleakness
that characterizes Sherlock’s bad periods, only sharper this time, more like a
knife edge than a dull blade. 
“Shit,” John says, his grip on Sherlock’s arm tightening. “Sherlock, it’s going
to be okay.” 
“I have to see the headmaster,” Sherlock says flatly. 
John’s stomach dips woozily. “Now?” 
Sherlock nods. 
John takes a breath. “Where’s Mycroft? Isn’t he coming with you?” 
Sherlock hesitates. His eyes shift away. “He had something urgent to take care
of,” he mumbles. “Some sort of international crisis.” 
“So he left you to deal with this alone?” John demands, swelling with outrage. 
“The government can’t run without Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock replies, staring at
the ground. “It’s fine.” 
“No, it bloody well isn’t,” John asserts angrily. “I’m coming with you, then.” 
Sherlock looks up, alarmed. “You can’t.” 
“Yes I can.” 
“John…” 
“Damn it, Sherlock, I’m not leaving you alone. Not when you’re like this.” 
Sherlock’s face goes tight, and John feels suddenly nervous. 
“Like what?” Sherlock asks coldly. 
“Like…when you’re…you’re not all right, Sherlock,” John fumbles. 
Sherlock turns away, striding towards the school’s entrance. “I don’t need a
babysitter, John.” 
John squeezes his fists, fighting back anger and guilt. “I just want to—to look
out for you.” 
“I don’t need a guard dog, either.” 
“Jesus, Sherlock, would you listen to me—”
He stops short as they reach the headmaster’s office. Mrs. Hudson is at her
desk, and Mr. Yardley is murmuring something to her, his expression very
serious. She appears flustered, her eyes bright. They both look up when
Sherlock and John approach. Everybody stops for a long moment, and nobody
speaks. 
“Mr. Holmes,” the headmaster says, the coldness in his voice sending chills
down John’s spine. “Come in.” 
Sherlock holds back for a moment, and John can feel trepidation radiating off
him in waves. Then Sherlock steps forward. John follows. 
“Mr. Watson,” Mr. Yardley says sharply. “What exactly are you doing here?” 
John swallows. “I, er—” 
“Troublemakers do often come in pairs,” Mr. Yardley reflects, fixing his eyes
beadily on John, who feels suddenly like a bug about to be pinned to the wall.
“And you two seem quite inseparable.” 
John moves instinctively towards Sherlock. A united front, he thinks
belligerently, and then he’s suddenly too close, his hand almost brushing the
other boy’s. 
“Funny how you always seem to turn up whenever Mr. Holmes is in
an—unusualsituation,” Mr. Yardley says. “Why is that, I wonder?” He studies
them, and god, John can’t tell if the headmaster’s eyes really flash with
disgust, if his lips really curl ever so slightly as he notes their nearly-
touching hands, but suddenly John’s heart is hammering and his palms are sweaty
and the thing he should do, that he wants to do—grabbing Sherlock’s hand and
staring up at the headmaster defiantly, standing by his boyfriend—a united
front—turns monstrously, impossibly frightening, and John, much to his horror,
finds himself giving in to his instinct to run, run, runand he steps abruptly
away from Sherlock, panic rising in his throat. 
“I, erm, I, er—” 
“Leave this office, Mr. Watson,” the headmaster says calmly, “or you’ll find
yourself in serious trouble, too.” 
And heaven help him, John Watson bolts.
 
 
 
He doesn’t make it far. There’s an odd little nook outside a nearby practice
room where music students sit and wait for lessons and he sinks down into it,
ignoring the chair in favor of curling his knees to his chest and burying his
head between them. Guilt is churning thickly in his stomach. He’s a failure, an
utter failure as a human being for leaving Sherlock like that. He’d thought he
was over this, over the fear and the shame: he sticks up to his dad, he calls
Sherlock his boyfriend, he kisses him in the middle of the corridors, for
goodness’ sake—and then comes one look of scorn from the headmaster, one look
he might have only even imagined, and the panic flares up hot and bright
again. 
And now Sherlock is in there, alone, and god knows what is going to happen to
him. 
“John?” 
He looks up to find Mrs. Hudson standing above him, an anxious look on her face
and a cup of steaming tea in her hand. 
“I thought maybe you’d like a cuppa, dear.” 
John swallows and lifts himself awkwardly off the floor and into the chair,
accepting the tea. “Er. Thanks.” 
He sips it gingerly as Mrs. Hudson continues to stare at him in obvious worry. 
“He didn’t do it,” John bursts out suddenly. 
“Oh, love, of course he didn’t,” Mrs. Hudson clucks sympathetically. She drags
a chair out of the empty practice room and sits, patting John on the knee. “Of
course he didn’t.” 
John breathes a small sigh of relief. That’s one person who believes him,
anyway. 
“John,” Mrs. Hudson asks hesitantly, “what does that boy Jim Moriarty have to
do with all this?” 
John stiffens. He looks at her, wary. “Why?” 
“Well—oh dear, I shouldn’t be telling you this—he was in Mr. Yardley’s office
this morning. I could hear them through the door—he was crying.” 
John goes cold. 
“He seemed to be saying that…well…” Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands. “That
Sherlock has been bullyinghim. Rather badly.” 
“No,” John says, heart pounding. “No, no, oh god, that isn’t true.” 
“Well, I didn’t think it was! Sherlock isn’t always—oh dear, he isn’t always
very polite, but he’s not malicious, he wouldn’t target anyone like that…” 
“No.” John breathes in deeply. He can imagine the scene: pasty little Moriarty
weeping pathetically, protesting that he doesn’t know why Sherlock has it out
for him, but he always has, first accusing him of framing Soo Lin, and he’s
sure that Sherlock will try and blame him for this, too… 
“Why would the headmaster believe him?” John bursts out. 
Mrs. Hudson’s face crumples. “Oh, John, you know Sherlock, he comes off as so
rude sometimes, and—well—he’s had those bad spells…” 
John’s head shoots up. “Being depressed isn’t the same thing as wanting to fill
the school with dangerous chemicals.” 
“No, no, I know it isn’t…” 
She looks so distraught that John manages to curb his anger a little. It’s not
Mrs. Hudson’s fault, after all. 
“What’s going to happen to him?” he asks wearily, his stomach churning
painfully with anxiety. 
“He’s—oh, I really shouldn’t be telling you this—Mr. Yardley wants him to
confess.” 
“And—and if he does? What then?” 
“He’ll be expelled,” Mrs. Hudson says miserably. 
John’s breath hitches. He tries not to panic. “And—if he doesn’t?” 
“The headmaster will open a police investigation into the incident.” 
John presses his fingers to his forehead. “Okay. Okay. Well, that’s—that’s
okay, isn’t it, they’ll find out Sherlock didn’t do it.” 
“But…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is small. “If they don’t, John, if they think he
did—it’ll go on his permanent record. Damage of school property. Endangerment
of the student body. Oh dear…” 
John shakes his head violently. He stands up. “No. That’s not going to happen.
Sherlock won’t confess, because he didn’t do it. And he won’t get in trouble,
because he didn’t do it. He’ll—he’s brilliant, you know, he’ll find some way to
prove he’s innocent. He will, he will.”
He’s breathing heavily. His fists are clenched tight, fingernails digging into
his palms. Mrs. Hudson looks taken aback, but also mildly reassured. She’s
wrong, though. John doesn’t sound so defiant, so certain, because he really
believes what he’s saying. He always did underestimate Jim Moriarty, in the
past. 
“I have to talk to Sherlock,” he says, and sets off furiously in the direction
of the headmaster’s office. 
There’s got to be something he can do, that they can do. Maybe Professor
Lestrade can help, maybe Mycroft—he’s got power, John knows, maybe he can just
make this all disappear—and if Sherlock is too proud or too despairing to ask
him then John will do it—if they just stick together— 
But when John gets to the headmaster’s office, Sherlock is gone. 
John dashes to the boy’s locker. Nothing. He hurries outside, but no sleek
black car is waiting there. He runs to the back of the gym, but Sherlock isn’t
there either. 
He calls Sherlock’s phone. Nothing. 
John trudges back out to the front of the school and stares at the low wall,
where the two of them once shared a cigarette in the middle of the night.
There’s nobody sitting there now. In fact, there’s no one around at all, save
for the occasional rush of a passing car, there and then gone. 
Fear curdles, thick and dense, in John’s stomach, and he feels suddenly,
swiftly, very much alone.
 
 
 
Sherlock leaves the headmaster’s office and makes his way to the roof. 
Jim Moriarty sent him a text the night before, when got home from hospital, to
meet him there after he sees the headmaster. Sherlock knows, with a certainty
that sits like concrete in his gut, that this is very bad news. It’s been
weighing on him all morning, twisting his conversation with John into something
rather more combative than he’d intended—as has the fact that Moriarty’s
message ended with the words, This is our little secret! (: 
Sherlock never knew that smiley faces could be so sinister. 
Jim Moriarty is standing next to a giant heating unit, which whirs and hums
loudly, grating on Sherlock’s ears. It’s bitter cold up here, but that’s
incidental, unimportant, as the weather so often is. Sherlock can feel himself
detaching, growing distant from the world, like he does when his black moods
come upon him. Except he does care, right now; instead of a bleak endless
expanse of meaningless, he sees himself drifting helplessly away from the
things that have somehow begun to matter—John, John, John Watson above all. 
“You’ve been naughty, Sherlock Holmes,” Jim Moriarty says, not turning to face
him. “Bullying a poor helpless boy like that. It’s no wonder the headmaster
doesn’t trust you.” 
Sherlock says nothing. The headmaster’s accusations that he’s been
systematically targeting Jim Moriarty out of pure spite went down like a bitter
drink, no less horrible for the fact that he’s the one who opened his mouth to
swallow in the first place. Because he did set himself up for this: he blamed
Moriarty for the broken beakers in the bio lab, even though he had no concrete
proof yet—and of course it seemed like a baseless accusation, a malicious stab
at an innocent classmate. That’ll teach him to theorize in advance of the
facts. Now if he accuses Moriarty of framing him for the debacle with the
chemicals—which of course he did, luring Sherlock to the lab early that morning
with an email sent from Professor Gregson’s email account (hacked, obviously)
requesting his help with an experiment—it’ll seem even less believable, even
more spiteful. 
“I take it the headmaster gave you his ultimatum,” Moriarty continues casually.
“Confess and be expelled, or let him open a police investigation. That was me,
you know. The headmaster was all for calling in the police regardless, but I
said I didn’t want him to, I didn’t want to punishyou—I just want you to own up
to what you’ve done.” He turns, finally, to face Sherlock. His eyes are dark,
burning. “And I want you gone.” 
Sherlock swallows. “The police will find out it wasn’t me,” he states with more
conviction than he feels. “They’ll figure out the truth.” 
“Will they?” A little smile haunts Moriarty’s face. “Such faith in the
establishment, Sherlock, I’m surprised. Not that it matters. They might find
out what really happened, they might not, but they’ll never get a chance to
look. Because you’re going to confess.” 
Sherlock’s lip curls. “And why would I do that?” 
“Hmmm, why wouldSherlock Holmes do something he doesn’t want to do?” Moriarty
shrugs. “Why does anyone? Because of what will happen if they don’t.” 
“There’s nothing you can threaten me with,” Sherlock spits. “Tell all my
secrets, I don’t care.” 
“Oh, but,” Moriarty says, that same burning anger still simmering below his
casual smile, “it’s not your secrets I’m talking about.” 
Sherlock stares at him, suddenly cold. 
“You have friends, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty says softly. “Always a mistake.” 
“I don’t—” he starts helplessly, but it’s no good. 
“Professor Lestrade,” Moriarty says. “He said he’d keep an eye on me, didn’t
he? He lets you use his lab. He likesyou.” 
Sherlock swallows. It’s true that his customary indifference and careless
contempt towards his teachers has been somewhat supplanted by a grudging
gratitude, maybe even fondness, for the biology teacher. He’s not used to
professors being nice to him. After all, he’s not very nice to them. 
“He’ll be very sad to learn his wife’s been sleeping with the gym teacher,”
Moriarty says, crossing his arms smugly. 
Sherlock frowns. This is a true fact, he’s known for months, but the thought of
Lestrade finding out is unexpectedly unpleasant. When did he start caring about
things like that? 
“He already suspects,” Sherlock says hesitantly. “He’s been distracted
recently, tired. And it’s the truth. He—he should know.” 
Moriarty smiles, unsurprised. “Cold, Sherlock. Lestrade’s happiness not
important enough to you? All right. What about Mrs. Hudson? Always there with a
cup of tea, a kind word…” 
Sherlock’s eyes widen. “There’s nothing—”
“Oh, Sherlock, of course there is. I don’t suppose the headmaster will take
kindly to learning she has two convictions for possession of marijuana. Or
about her prior…job history.” 
Sherlock is well aware that Mrs. Hudson used to work in a very dodgy sort of
club—her ankles and her posture show as much—but hearing Moriarty allude to it
chills his blood. “It was a long time ago, all of it,” he protests, an edge of
desperation sneaking into his voice. “It doesn’t matter now.” 
“Doesn’t it?” Moriarty asks, smile widening. “I think you’ll find it does.”
Sherlock says nothing, torn. He won’tconfess to something he didn’t do, he
won’t let Moriarty get away with this—he’ll find some evidence, some proof that
he’s behind it— 
“John Watson,” Moriarty says, the name vicious and bitter in his mouth, and
Sherlock suddenly can’t breathe. 
“There’s nothing,” he forces himself to say. “John hasn’t done anything.” 
His voice is wild and desperate because he knows it’s true, because John is
clean and innocent and good, and there is so much hatred in Moriarty’s eyes,
hatred and jealousy, and Sherlock will not let him drag John down with him. 
“John cheated on his exams,” Moriarty says steadily. “He’ll be rejected from
every university he applied to when they find out. There go his plans to be a
doctor—poof.” He closes his spider-like hand on nothing, on empty air. 
“You are lying,” Sherlock spits. 
“Of course.” Moriarty shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t prove it, though.” 
Sherlock’s head spins. “No,” he says, “no, no, no.” 
“Then confess.” 
Sherlock feels the inevitability of it swell up inside him, a black wave
looming over him, forcing him under. He has no choice. 
He turns to go. 
“On the other hand,” Moriarty says, his voice sly and canny, “is he really
worth it?” 
Sherlock turns, very slowly, back around. 
“What did you say?” he asks quietly, feeling suddenly, unprecedentedly
dangerous. 
Moriarty holds up his hands, protesting his innocence. “Just making an
observation, that’s all. I just—oh, Sherlock, I just wonder—how serious is he
about you, really?” 
Sherlock’s heart stops. 
“I mean, you know,” Moriarty says, inspecting his fingernails, “it just, gosh,
it took a long time for him to admit what you two were doing. I mean, all those
broom cupboards weren’t your idea, were they? He could barely make himself
stand next to you in public—” 
“It’s different now,” Sherlock snaps, his heart jerking into gear again,
beating double time. 
“Is it?” 
Moriarty’s expression is open, innocent, vaguely surprised. Underneath,
Sherlock knows, he is as deadly and deliberate as a snake about to bite. 
“Yes,” Sherlock protests quickly, too quickly. The memory of John stepping
rapidly away from him in the headmaster’s office springs into his mind. The
panic in John’s face when he thought the headmaster was realizing the true
nature of their relationship. 
He can see the flash of victory in Moriarty’s eyes. 
“One has to wonder what he sees in you,” the pasty boy continues, the
viciousness stronger, more obvious, in his lilting voice. “I mean, he isn’t
gay. What exactly is he doing with you, I wonder?” 
Sherlock shakes his head, curls flying. “Shut up.” 
“No, no, I just—I’m just observing, Sherlock, just—I mean, he is the son of an
alcoholic. He’s a caretaker, it’s what he does. And you, well, you need taking
care of, don’t you?” Moriarty shrugs. “What is it, then, habit? He wants to be
a doctor, wants to fix broken people—is John Watson trying to fix you,
Sherlock?” 
Sherlock snarls and surges forward, pressing Moriarty up against the heating
unit. He can’t tell if the deafening whirring noise is in his head or not.
“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. 
“Sherlock, Sherlock,” Moriarty says, licking his lips, looking like a cornered
animal, wiry and tight and trapped—and all the more dangerous for it. “I’m just
looking out for you. I wantyou to confess, don’t I? By all means, believe in
John Watson. Protect John Watson. All the better for me.” 
And the things is, Sherlock knows. He knows Moriarty is being manipulative and
malicious and twisting his head around. He knows he’s playing into Moriarty’s
hands. But his words are snaking into Sherlock’s brain, burrowing deeper and
deeper, and—what if Moriarty is right? 
“You won’t hurt John Watson,” Sherlock vows, even as he wonders, suddenly, if
John would do the same for him. If he really knows John at all. “I won’t let
you.” 
“Then go back to the headmaster, and tell him you did it,” Moriarty says
calmly, his face still inches from Sherlock’s, his shoulders still tight in
Sherlock’s bruising grasp. 
Sherlock feels the blackness creep up inside him, feels it pull him down, feels
it drowning him. Everything grows distant, and still, and sharp as cut glass.
Moriarty starts grinning, victorious, and Sherlock doesn’t care. 
So he releases the boy’s shoulders, and turns around in silence, and goes and
does what Moriarty wants.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     Endless thanks to everyone who has read and left kudos and comments
     on this fic. This is the end! I've enjoyed it and I hope you have
     too.
Two months pass. Two months, and not a sign of Sherlock. 
John texts him every single morning, though after the first week with no
response he assumes Mycroft has confiscated Sherlock’s phone. He keeps texting
anyway. 
He assumes Mycroft is to blame for all of this, in fact—everything that isn’t
Jim Moriarty’s fault. Yes, Sherlock confessed, but of course that was a lie.
John doesn’t know what Moriarty threatened him with to make him do it, but he
doesn’t for one moment believe Sherlock was actually responsible, unlike,
apparently, his elder brother. Because why else would Mycroft fail to pull
strings and keep Sherlock in school, or at least in London? Why else would he
ship him off to some undisclosed location—probably the French boarding school
he’d once declared would be Sherlock’s next stop if he got kicked out of
Chesterton—and forbid him all communication with his friends back home? 
Mycroft has got a hell of a lot to answer to. 
So John texts Sherlock every morning, and every afternoon, after school, he
walks to the Holmes’ house and knocks on the door. No one ever answers. 
At first John thinks Mycroft is avoiding him. But after a couple days he
notices the telltale signs of an empty house: curtains that never change
position, the same single light turning on at precisely the same time each day,
the slow buildup of dead leaves and dirt on the front walk as winter melts into
spring. Wherever Mycroft is, it isn’t here. 
John doesn’t stop knocking. 
He goes online and looks at the websites of fancy French boarding schools. For
once, he is thankful that he continued with his language studies. He calls them
all, asking if they have a student there named Sherlock Holmes, but none of
them say yes. John wonders if Mycroft told them not to. The thought makes him
burningly furious.
School is miserable, of course. There’s a gnawing emptiness inside his stomach
all the time, now, and only Molly’s quiet, steady presence stops him going mad.
And only the pressure of her hand on his arm, time and again, stops him
punching Jim Moriarty right in the face. He wants to barge into the
headmaster’s office and shout about how unfair it is, about how Moriarty is to
blame, the evil git, but something Molly says stops him. 
“Something happened to make Sherlock confess, even though he didn’t do it,” she
says. “I’d bet anything he was protecting someone, John, and I’d bet anything
it was you. Don’t undo what he did. Don’t play into Moriarty’s hands. Trust
Sherlock.” 
So he does. 
And time marches inexorably forward, and John feels that he is standing still,
trapped in that moment when he went back to the headmaster’s office and
Sherlock was already gone. Or else in the moment not long before that, when
John’s courage failed him and he left Sherlock alone with the headmaster. That
was the last time he saw his boyfriend, and the memory fills him with undiluted
shame. 
He gets into university in London, and he doesn’t even care. Sherlock’s not in
London anymore, so what does it matter? 
John texts Sherlock, and knocks on Mycroft’s door, and nobody ever answers. And
still John doesn’t stop.
 
 
 
And then, one dismal, wet afternoon, the lights are on in the Holmes house.
John strides up the walk, his heart suddenly racing. He pounds on the door with
unnecessary force, expecting to be ignored, but it’s opened immediately.
Mycroft’s eyes widen with surprise. 
“John,” he says, in a not altogether friendly tone. 
He looks paler and thinner than before, his usually impeccable suit rumpled,
his tie absent and his shirt open at the collar. John, viciously, is glad he
looks a mess. 
“I want to know where Sherlock is,” John states belligerently. 
Mycroft blinks. His expression grows hostile. “If Sherlock has seen fit to
withhold that information from you, Mr. Watson, then I am going to respect his
wishes.” 
“If—” John opens and shuts his mouth, his brain failing to make sense of
Mycroft’s words. “How the hell was he supposed to tell me when you’ve taken
away his phone?” 
Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up. “Taken his phone? I can assure you, I have done no
such thing. If Sherlock has not responded to your calls, Mr. Watson, it is
simply because he is ignoring them.” 
John feels as though he’s been hit by a bus. “But,” he manages after a moment,
“but—why?” 
“Well,” Mycroft says superciliously, “sometimes when people break things off,
they don’t wish to speak to each other again.” 
“Break things off?” John’s mind is a whir of panic and confusion. “What are you
talking about?” 
“I am talking about when you broke things off with my brother, Mr. Watson.” 
Mycroft’s tone is cool and steady and certain. John is so taken aback that he
forgets, for a moment, to be angry. 
“I didn’t break things off with Sherlock,” he says, frowning. “Why would you
think that?” 
Mycroft’s haughty mask begins to slip, ever so slightly. “Because Sherlock told
me you did,” he replies slowly. “Before all the business with the toxic gas.
And before the incident of the broken beakers. Before—everything. You broke up
with him.” 
John shakes his head, feeling as though he’s underwater, light spiraling
dizzily around him as he tries to ascertain which way is up. “I didn’t,” he
says. “I didn’t. He just disappeared. I don’t know where he is, and I haven’t
heard from him in two months.” 
Mycroft stares at John for a very long moment, and when he finally speaks, his
voice is heavy with defeat. “I think you’d better come inside.” 
So after two months of waiting, John steps through the door.
 
 
 
He follows Mycroft into the sitting room, past a heap of suitcases and piles of
unopened junk mail. The house has a neglected air, dust on the shelves and open
takeaway cartons on the otherwise barren countertops. 
“Please excuse the mess,” Mycroft says. “I just returned from abroad on some
rather urgent business. I haven’t been home since the incident with Sherlock.” 
“The same urgent business that stopped you going with him to see the
headmaster?” John can’t help but retort. 
Mycroft rubs his temples as he sinks into an armchair. “Is that what Sherlock
told you?” John nods. “I didn’t go with him because he asked me not to. A
mistake, I am beginning to see.” 
John realizes with a sinking feeling that perhaps he has been angry with the
wrong person. 
“How did you know I was returning to London today?” Mycroft asks curiously. 
“I didn’t,” John replies. He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve been stopping
by every day after school. Waiting till you came home, so I could ask you about
Sherlock.” 
Mycroft sighs deeply. “I think I have made a rather colossal miscalculation,”
he muses. “Not a common occurrence, I assure you, but if it were to happen it
is no surprise that my brother is the cause.” He turns to John. “I think you’d
better tell me what happened. From your perspective.” 
So John does. He starts with Carl Powers, and then Soo Lin, and finally the day
it all fell apart—seeing Sherlock run out of the building clutching the packet
of chemicals, talking to him the next morning, pursuing him to the headmaster’s
office and then leaving him alone. Hearing about Sherlock’s confession from
Mrs. Hudson, running through the halls to try and find him, realizing that
Sherlock’s locker had been cleaned out. And then the silence. 
Mycroft says nothing at first. Then he leans forward, a dangerous glint in his
eye. “So you are telling me that Jim Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock into saying
he was guilty.” 
John nods. “I don’t know for sure, but he’d done it before to Powers and Soo
Lin, and I can’t think why else Sherlock would admit to something he didn’t
do.” His anger returns suddenly, rushing through him in force. “How could you
believe it?” he demands. “How could you think he’d do that?” 
Mycroft looks almost offended. “I didn’t believe it, John, don’t be absurd.” 
“But then why didn’t you stop it?” John bursts out. “Why didn’t you
dosomething?” 
“Because Sherlock asked me not to,” Mycroft says, shutting his eyes. He rubs
his fingers against his forehead. “Sherlock said—he told me that he didn’t want
to stay at Chesterton anymore anyway, now that you had—well, since you had
broken things off, according to him. He looked so miserable, so—defeated. I
didn’t want to press the matter. I’d never thought Chesterton an appropriate
place for him anyway, so…I let it all unfold. In the future, when Sherlock is
applying to university, I can, er, gloss over the details of the expulsion, so
it won’t affect his prospects…” Mycroft trails off, looking embarrassed. 
“So you let him get blamed for something he didn’t do,” John summarizes, his
voice shaking with anger, “and you shipped him off to some French boarding
school—" 
“A French boarding school?” Mycroft looks at him with unfeigned astonishment.
“What on earth makes you think that?” 
John freezes. “Sherlock said you’d threatened to send him to one if he got
expelled from Chesterton.” 
Mycroft’s cheeks go very faintly pink. “Ah, well,” he mutters, “we all say
things, sometimes…” 
“Then where is he?” John bursts out. 
“At a school called Pembroke, thirty minutes outside London.” 
Thirty minutes outside London. All this time, for all these horrible, endless
weeks, Sherlock has been less than an hour away. 
John gets abruptly to his feet. 
“What are you doing?” Mycroft asks, startled. 
“Going to find Sherlock, of course.” 
“I…” Mycroft licks his lips. “I’m afraid the school requires special permission
for non-family members to visit. Certain regulations…” 
He stops. He looks for a long moment at John’s face. Then he shakes his head. 
“I will call them and let them know you’re coming.” 
“Thank you,” John answers, already on his way out. 
“John,” Mycroft calls sharply. 
John stops and turns around. 
“James Moriarty will not go unpunished, I promise you that,” Mycroft says, his
voice low and fierce, and his rumpled shirt and hollowed eyes don’t matter a
bit, because he’s suddenly the most dangerous man John has ever met.
 
 
 
John catches a bus out to Pembroke. The school is big and made of brick and
concrete, situated awkwardly in the middle of a particularly ugly patch of
suburban sprawl. Its big football field isn’t the only thing that’s fenced in,
and John gets the sense that this is a rather stricter establishment than
Chesterton. 
His hands are clammy and his heart has given up any attempt at regular pumping
as he walks through the front gate. VISITORS MUST REPORT DIRECTLY TO THE FRONT
DESK, a sign insists in five-inch-high letters, and John doesn’t protest. The
front door is open, despite the lateness of the hour, and a woman narrows her
eyes suspiciously at him as he approaches her desk. 
“Can I help you?” 
“I’m here to visit a student,” John says, trying to sound more confident than
he feels. Considering how he feels, that shouldn’t be too difficult. “One of
the boarders.” 
“They’re all boarders here,” she responds. She frowns disapprovingly. “You have
to get special permission, you know, and you really aren’t supposed to come
without scheduling an appointment—” 
“I have permission,” John says quickly. “From Mycroft Holmes. That’s—I want to
see Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft is his elder brother.” 
The woman raises an eyebrow skeptically, but she types quickly into her
computer. She scans the screen, and her eyes widen. 
“Oh. I’m so sorry, Mr. Watson. I didn’t realize he’d rung. Please, wait just
one moment.” She picks up her phone. “Hi, Lakshmi, it’s Carol. Can you find
Sherlock Holmes and send him to me? He’s got a visitor.” She turns to John.
“He’ll be here soon. You’re welcome to take a seat.” 
So John perches awkwardly in one of the stiff chairs along the wall and
experiences the most excruciating ten-minute wait of his life. 
And then—a head of ill-cut black hair, a rumpled school uniform minus the
jacket, two dull gray eyes that come alive with shock as they focus on John,
and Sherlock Holmes freezes in his tracks. 
John finds he can’t say a word. His heart is back to regular beating, but at
three times the usual speed. He stares at his friend, overwhelmed by relief and
fear and anger. 
“How did you get here?” Sherlock manages. 
John knows he isn’t looking for a description of John’s bus ride. “I talked to
your brother.” 
Sherlock swallows hard. “You saw Mycroft.” 
John nods. 
“And he told you where I was.” 
“And called the school so they would let me see you.” 
Sherlock runs a hand violently through his shaggy hair. 
“Yes,” John replies, his voice weirdly calm. “You have a lot of explaining to
do, Sherlock.” 
Sherlock’s eyes dart to the door. John shakes his head. 
“I’m not leaving till we’ve talked.” He glances at the receptionist, who turns
away hastily as he meets her curious gaze. “Is there somewhere we can go?” 
Sherlock hesitates, then gives a short nod and wordlessly exits the building.
John follows, hurrying to keep up, as Sherlock leads them down a narrow strip
of grass between a couple of Soviet-style buildings. The evening is cool, and
the dead-end corner where they end up, a locked supply cupboard door the only
break in the bunker-like walls, is bleak and chilly between slabs of concrete. 
Sherlock fumbles in his pocket and takes out an undoubtedly contraband
cigarette. He lights it and leans against the wall without once looking at
John. 
John has the sudden impulse to take the cigarette and trample it beneath his
feet, followed by the urge to kiss Sherlock senseless, licking the bitter smoke
from his mouth. He takes a deep breath and does neither, folding his arms and
looking steadily at Sherlock instead. 
“So,” he says. “Why did you do it, then?” 
Itmeaning everything, and John thinks distantly that it will be interesting to
see which itSherlock takes him to mean. 
“Moriarty threatened you,” Sherlock says immediately. He’s still not looking at
John. “He said he would frame you for cheating on your exams if I didn’t
confess. You couldn’t have gone to uni after that. You couldn’t have become a
doctor.” 
John isn’t entirely surprised by this information, but the possibility that it
might have actually happened hits him harder than he’d expected. He can almost
feel his future crumbling around him, almost understand why Sherlock would have
obeyed Moriarty without question. Almost.
“Okay,” he says. “I can—yeah, okay, I can see why you would have thought you
didn’t have a choice but to do what he said. I mean, I’m a little insulted
and—and a lot angry, Sherlock, that you didn’t consult meon the matter,
considering it’s my future we’re talking about—” 
“You’d never have let me do it,” Sherlock cuts in immediately. “You’d have said
we could find another way, and Moriarty would have ruined you.” 
John inhales deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Okay. Okay.
Well, you’re not wrong that I wouldn’t have let you. I mean—but we could have
faced him together—” 
“I couldn’t risk it,” Sherlock says, stillnot meeting John’s eyes. “I
wouldn’t.” 
John rubs his temples. This is all a lot more complicated than he’d decided it
was on the bus to Pembroke. He’d been furious, then, about Sherlock making
decisions without him, about leaving him hanging for months. But he can see now
that Sherlock really did mean to protect him. And it is true that the moment
he’d heard about what Moriarty had done—that Sherlock had chosen to suffer on
John’s behalf—he’d have marched straight to the headmaster’s office and told
him the truth. No doubt, John admits to himself grudgingly, with disastrous
results. 
“But,” he says, because there is still a but, a big one. “But, Sherlock—okay, I
get it, I get how in your mind there was no other option. Okay. But, look,
Sherlock—no, look at me.” 
Reluctantly, Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s. 
“Why did you tell Mycroft I broke up with you?” John asks, swallowing down the
butterflies in his stomach (butterflies with, apparently, razor-sharp wings).
“Don’t tell me you needed him to believe you really wanted to leave Chesterton.
Mycroft never wanted you there in the first place, he’d have let you go without
that excuse.” He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. “Why did
you make it my fault?” 
Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter rapidly, as if John is the sun and too bright to
look at. Sherlock holds out for a moment longer and then turns away, and losing
his gaze is like losing a limb. 
Suddenly John is struck with the very real possibility that this might not work
out. He and Sherlock might stand here, exchanging explanations that don’t tell
the whole story until their words peter out into silence, and Sherlock will
finish his cigarette, and John still won’t understand, and he will go back to
London and they will be like two planes passing each other in the night sky,
Point A to Point B and Point B to Point A and the space between them will only
grow. 
Sherlock still isn’t talking and John tries with sudden desperation to think of
why this might actually be his fault. 
“Is this about what happened in the headmaster’s office?” he asks in a rush.
The moment he stepped away from Sherlock under the suspicious glare of the
headmaster has been haunting him, after all. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn’t
have left you alone with him.” 
Sherlock is silent. He pulls on his cigarette and then exhales, a thin stream
of darkness curling from his lips. 
“Why were you with me?” he asks finally. 
“Because I didn’t want you to have to face him alone,” John responds, frowning.
“And because Mycroft—well, because you saidMycroft was busy with some crisis
and couldn’t be there—” 
“No,” Sherlock says shortly. “Why were you with me at all?” 
After a confused moment, John understands. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he exhales,
because the past tense is like a punch in the gut and because how is he
supposed to explain why he wants Sherlock with a burning urgency that won’t
abate, not even after two months and not a word exchanged between them? 
“You have never been attracted to men before,” Sherlock states. “Why am I the
exception?” 
John rubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But—” 
“Because, you see,” Sherlock says, his tone growing brittle and unsettlingly
clinical, “there are certain learned patterns of behavior often observed in the
children of alcoholics—” 
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John repeats. 
“—and I know I am not exactly normal,” Sherlock continues, riding over him, his
voice becoming even more cold and distant, “I know I have periods of
depression, which clearly bring out the caretaker impulse in you, and…” He
stumbles over his words for the first time, pulling viciously at his cigarette
in compensation, “I know I am broken, John, there’s no point pretending
otherwise, I don’t work right, and you want to be a doctor, and possibly you
wish to fix me.” 
John opens his mouth to protest when suddenly he is overwhelmed by the fear the
Sherlock is right. 
He doeswant to help Sherlock. He does want to take care of him when he isn’t
doing well. He’s not an idiot, he’s noticed the parallels with how he behaves
towards his dad, and what if that’s what this is? 
It’s not like the possibility has never occurred to him before. 
“You’re not broken, Sherlock,” John protests, but it’s a weak answer. 
Sherlock shoves his cigarette against the wall in a sudden convulsive gesture,
snuffing it out. There’s a long pause, and then he’s rooting through his
pockets again, finding another cigarette and lighting it with hands that, John
notices now, are almost imperceptibly trembling. 
“Or perhaps dating me was an act of defiance,” Sherlock says, and he’s not
quite managing to keep his voice cold and steady anymore. “Perhaps I excite you
because your father doesn’t approve. Maybe you are finally rebelling, as you
have so long wished to do, and the attraction you feel towards me is really
just the lure of novelty and of danger.” 
John swallows back a rush of panic thick and hot as bile. He has worried about
that, too. Right from the start, really. That’s why he liked Sherlock in the
first place: because he was different, because he was a distraction. 
And he remembers all too well the heady mix of anger and defiance that sent him
over to Sherlock’s house the first time, the day after Christmas. 
“Sherlock—” 
“Or maybe your sister was right, maybe I amjust an experiment—” 
“Sherlock—” 
“Or just a phase—” 
“I, I don’t—just—” 
“And I just want to know,” Sherlock says rapidly, “is it true? Is that—am I—am
I a project, to you? Or a distraction, or a rebellion, or a bit of danger—” 
“I don’t know!” John bursts out. 
Silence falls. John’s blood is pounding in his ears, rushing like a waterfall,
and Sherlock looks as if he’s been struck, and the world spins dizzily around
them, threatening to tip them over the edge. 
“Look, I…” John takes a shuddery breath. “I don’t know.It’s not like I haven’t
worried about that, Sherlock, not like it’s never occurred to me—and I keep
thinking it’s fine, that I’m past all that, but then I get scared again and
have these, these horrible doubts—” 
“Then what’s the point?” Sherlock asks in an anguished near-whisper. He turns
his head away and speaks rapidly to the ground. “If that’s all I am to you, or
might be—why even try, John, why even bother anymore, if it might all be
true—” 
“Because I don’t want it to be true,” John confesses as his whole body
crumples, just gives up, collapsing onto the sparse grass, the hard dirt below.
He buries his face in his hands. “Because all I want, Sherlock, all I want, is
for this—for you and me—for it to be real. Just—I want it so badly, sometimes I
can’t breathe.” 
Sherlock hits the ground opposite him, back against the concrete wall, looking
as if he’s been struck by lightning. 
“You—you want this?” 
John looks at him, willing desperately for him to see how much John means it.
“With all my heart, Sherlock. Every fucking minute of every fucking day.” 
Sherlock blinks slowly, as if stunned. “You mean to say—if you were given a
choice—if you had the chance to let this all just be—a, a phase, or a mistake,
or some temporary aberration—you wouldn’t take it?” 
John stares at him. 
“You wouldn’t just walk away?” Sherlock asks, barely audible. 
“Oh my god,” John breathes, realizing that Sherlock is entirely serious. “No.
No, god no, Sherlock, I—I know I mess up, I get scared, I think everything’s
fine and then it just hits me again, all bullshit, but—but I don’t want the
bullshit to win. I wantyou. I mean I—I wantto wantyou.” 
“Oh,” Sherlock says dumbly. 
“And I don’t know if that’s enough,” John admits, worry eating at his stomach.
“I mean, for you. I mean, if I want it enough—maybe—maybe it willbe real. Maybe
that’s more important than anything else, my wanting it…”
He trails off. Sherlock is looking away again. John doesn’t know if he’s losing
him—if it really isn’t enough, if Sherlock needs him to be ready and brave and
certain all the time—or if Sherlock just can’t believe that John would really
want to be with him. That he isn’t waiting and hoping for the moment when he
can just walk away.
So John clenches his fist and screws up his courage and says, “Fuck it,
Sherlock, fuck all the rest. All I want…” he takes a deep breath, “is to be
with you because I love you.” 
Sherlock freezes. He stares at John, immobile. 
“You don’t have to say anything,” John says quickly. “You don’t have to say it
back, or feel the same way—” 
“Of course I love you,” Sherlock interrupts, as if John is the biggest idiot in
the world. “I’ve loved you since—” He hesitates, the ghost of a rueful smile
flitting across his face. “Since you punched a boy in the face for me.” 
It’s John’s turn to feel staggered. And then, through all the terror and
anxiety and guilt comes a rush of pure joy, like a train barreling towards him,
bright and fast and unstoppable. 
“Do you want to know something?” John asks, fighting to keep the perhaps
inappropriate grin off his face. 
Sherlock nods, looking apprehensive. 
“All those doubts, and fears, and everything—do you know when they’re weakest,
when they’re the least threatening?” John inches his foot ever so slightly
towards Sherlock’s. “When I’m with you. The closer I am to you, the more
convinced I am that this is real.” 
Sherlock’s eyes widen. 
“Will you come back to Chesterton?” John asks softly. 
After a moment of tense anticipation, Sherlock nods. 
Now John does start to smile. “And once all this business with Moriarty is
sorted out—or anytime, really—if you’re thinking about these kinds of things,
will you tellme, instead of running away?” 
“As long as you tell me, too, if you are,” Sherlock says, his voice a little
hoarse. 
“Fair enough,” John concedes. “And will you—” He hesitates, suddenly nervous.
“Will you—” 
Sherlock’s face creases in worry. 
“Will you kiss me?” 
A split second, and then Sherlock is leaning forward, closing the space between
them, his body a shock of warmth and that familiar smell, cigarette ash and
iodine and shampoo and Sherlock, fills John’s nostrils again after so long, and
Sherlock kisses him with simultaneous urgency and sweetness and it is the
single best thing John has ever felt. And everything else, for that prolonged,
perfect moment, disappears. 
“When you’re kissing me,” John breathes, his mouth still mere centimeters from
Sherlock’s, “I knowthis is real.” 
A smile breaks across Sherlock’s face, and really, there’s nothing for it,
after that, than to keep on kissing.
 
 
 
Sherlock comes back to school. 
It’s not that simple, of course. Mycroft has to pull a lot of strings first. So
many strings, in fact, that John is both ashamed for ever doubting his devotion
to Sherlock, and increasingly terrified of getting on Mycroft’s bad side. He’s
got connections, it becomes apparent, within not only the police and government
but with rather more shady characters as well—or at least, John surmises that
he does, because Sherlock tells him that Mycroft is tracing the chemicals
Moriarty used to release noxious fumes in Chesterton through some very
insalubrious channels. Jim Moriarty, it turns out, is into things much worse
than a bit of teenage bullying. 
He’s slippery, though, and Mycroft gets stuck for a few days, trying to find
out precisely when and where Moriarty actually received the chemicals; John
gathers that the elder Holmes has no doubt that his sources are accurate, but
that he wants concrete proof so he can make a case against Moriarty in an
entirely legal, above-ground way. (John doesn’t like to think too much about
the implications of this—namely, that Mycroft could dispose of Moriarty in ways
notentirely legal.) 
The final link, to everyone’s surprise, is provided by Molly.
She stops by the Holmes house one Saturday to say hi to Sherlock, and finds the
two brothers and John attempting, for the thousandth time, to map out
Moriarty’s movements over the week before the chemicals were released. 
“I saw him in a parked car three blocks from school the afternoon before,” she
offers, and they all turn to stare at her, eyes wide. 
That’s the information Mycroft needs, apparently, because on Monday he walks
into the headmaster’s office, looking grim and determined. John, who is perhaps
not quite as focused on his classes as he might be, calculates that the elder
Holmes brother remains there for nearly two hours. When he emerges—John just
happens to have volunteered to make copies for his professor at that moment—he
looks very grave; John’s stomach flips, but then Mycroft notices him, catches
his eye, and winks. 
John feels like dancing. 
The headmaster comes out a moment later, looking shaken and rather as if he has
aged several years in the past two hours. He says something quietly to Mrs.
Hudson—John catches Moriarty’s name—and the woman nods. When the headmaster
goes, her eyes fill up with happy tears, and she beams at Mycroft before
reaching for her phone. 
“You’d better go, now, John,” Mycroft murmurs. “Don’t you have class, anyway?” 
John grins. “Must have forgotten. Look, Mycroft—” He takes a breath. “Thanks.” 
Mycroft surveys him for a moment, then shakes his head. “Thank you, John.” 
He strides quickly out of the building, and after a stunned moment, John
returns to class. 
And the next day, Jim Moriarty is gone. And Sherlock is back.
 
 
 
The sun is bright and far too hot on graduation day. John is sweating
underneath his long black robe, but he feels as exhilarated as Molly looks.
He’s madeit. Against all odds, it seems, he’s made it through. 
When he gets his diploma, he looks out at the audience, eyes hovering between
his dad and sister and Sherlock, who’s slouching in the back row, pretending to
be bored. All at once, all three of them give him a smile. 
Afterwards, he chats with Molly and Mike and Bill while Sherlock flits around,
apparently conducting some sort of informal survey on the kind of shoes
everyone is wearing, heaven knows why. His dad’s talking to Mike’s father, and
Harry has disappeared somewhere. 
“I’m going to miss school,” Molly says wistfully. 
Mike laughs. “Not me.” 
“Anyway, it’s off to uni soon enough,” Bill sighs. “You’re staying in London,
aren’t you, Hooper?” 
Molly looks pleasantly surprised that Bill knows this. “Yes, John and I are
going to the same school.” 
“I’m staying in London, too,” Bill says casually. “Working for my uncle—gap
year. We could, you know, hang out sometime.” 
Molly flushes scarlet and nods shyly. John bits his lip, holding back a grin. 
“I dunno if I’d miss Chesterton, exactly,” he says, “but I’m coming back next
week anyway. Lestrade’s offered me a job—apparently the bio lab needs cleaning
and organizing.” 
“Do you know the kind of stuff that’s in the back cupboards?” Mike laughs.
“Specimens in jars from, like, the sixties. And bones, from who knows what.” 
John shrugs. “I’m saving up. Hoping to get a flat as soon as I can.” 
“Better you than me, mate,” Bill grins. “Just wear gloves, yeah?” 
John smiles, then excuses himself rapidly to chase after Sherlock, who is now
crouching on the ground, inspecting the heel of a very baffled mother. But
before he can make it there, he spots somebody else, watching him from an empty
corner. He changes direction. 
“Hey,” Harry says as he approaches. 
“Hey.” 
She’s got a cup of punch in her hand and John wonders, suddenly, if it’s the
kind for the kids or the adults. 
“Congratulations,” she says, staring at her knees. 
“Thanks.” 
There’s a long silence. 
“So,” she says, “when are you moving out?” 
“Not yet,” John replies quickly. “But…well, soon.” 
“As soon as possible.” 
“Yes.” He hesitates, looking at his sister. She’s got shadows under her eyes.
“Unless—unless you think—unless you want me to—” 
“No,” she says immediately. “No. You should move out, John, it’s—that’s not
your job.” 
He bites his lip. It’s been a long time since he knew what to say to his
sister. 
“Well, once I do have my own place—if you ever need somewhere to stay—” 
“I’m not telling Dad,” Harry says sharply. 
About Clara, John knows she means. Or about herself, really. He remembers how
terrible it was to hide, but then again it was terrible when his dad found out,
and Harry has two more years in that house and John can’t know what’s best for
her. 
“For any reason,” he says firmly. “If you need somewhere to stay for any
reason, you’ll have it.” 
Harry swallows. She looks away. “Thanks,” she says quietly. 
John nods. There’s a long, awkward silence, and eventually John moves to go. 
“Are you—” Harry stops. “Are you glad he’s back?” 
She looks across the room at Sherlock, who is, thankfully, standing on two feet
again. 
“Yes,” John answers. Even now he can’t stop a smile from rising to his face.
“God, yes.” 
“Then I’m glad, too.” 
John turns to her, surprised, but she merely downs her punch and hurries away. 
“Thereyou are.” Sherlock’s voice is impatient. “I’m collecting data on heel
heights, I could use your help.” 
John snorts. “This is my graduation, Sherlock, I’m not conducting experiments
now.” 
Sherlock looks put out, but for once he doesn’t argue. 
“I suppose we’ll have plenty of time for experiments this summer, as you’ll
have unlimited access to the bio lab,” he muses. 
“I’m supposed be cleaningit, Sherlock, not making more of a mess.” 
Sherlock waves his hand. “Semantics.” 
John laughs and steps very close to his boyfriend. “Do you even know what
semantics are?” he murmurs. “Because you’re using the word wrong.” 
“I am not,” Sherlock retorts, offended. 
“The difference between cleaning and making a mess is not semantics, Sherlock,
they mean the opposite things.” 
“I—” Sherlock falls silent, and John follows his eyes to where they’ve just
landed. 
From across the punch table, his dad is watching them, forehead creased and
eyebrows drawn in. He’d given John a crushing hug, earlier, his eyes wet with
tears John knew he’d never admit to, and told him he was proud. Now his face is
stormy with disapproval. 
John’s eyes flick to Sherlock’s. The boy looks uncertain, anxious. John feels
his stomach turn over. His dad is still glaring.
Sherlock steps back, retreating to a less intimate distance. John’s instinct is
to let him, to wipe the anger from his dad’s face, to dissolve the tension. He
sets his instinct calmly aside, and takes Sherlock by the hand. 
His dad turns away abruptly. John feels a twinge of regret, but then he turns
away, too, so only Sherlock is in his line of vision. Sherlock and, scattered
throughout the room, all his friends. 
“I might be able to convince Lestrade to let us conduct a couple experiments,”
John concedes. 
Sherlock’s face lights up, slowly, like a string of fairy lights blinking on
one at a time. When he kisses John, he’s positively radiant. 
“Just a couple?” 
“Well, from time to time, then.”
"Once a week." 
“Don’t push your luck.” 
“I always push my luck,” Sherlock says, grinning like the mad genius he is.
“How lucky would we have to be to sneak away for a bit right now, do you
think?” 
“Hm. Pretty lucky, I’d say.” 
“Good think I’m verylucky,” Sherlock breathes, and John laughs and laughs. 
“You arrogant little git,” he says fondly. 
“Mmmm,” Sherlock replies, and John allows himself to be led away from the
crowd—thinking, all the while, that heis the one who’s lucky.
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