Just A Game [Teenlock AU]

Chapter Sixteen: Dirty Little Secret?

A/N: Okay guys. This chapter is still rather vague but I think that it really starts putting the puzzle pieces together for you all. I hope that I've not 'hinted' too much that you've guessed all of it. Not all of 'it' is here, however. Just more obvious clues, shall we say?

*

Before long both John and Sherlock have fallen asleep, Sherlock's arm still around John's waist. They manage to get a decent amount of sleep before the bright light pierces between the gap in Sherlock's curtain and causes John's vision red beneath his eyelids.

He stirs and sits up with a yawn. He glances to the side to see Sherlock's still asleep. He looks peaceful, despite the small frown etched into his features. His curls are flopping over his forehead in a child-like innocence.

John wasn't sure which adjective described him better: Adorable or Gorgeous.

John took a moment to look over Sherlock's face. If you got a close look, as John could now, Sherlock had some freckles splatters over the side of his face, close to his neck. He had thick eyelashes too and if John didn't know better he'd say the teen was wearing mascara. His skin was pale but not unhealthy, it was creamy and had a slight pink undertone that just screamed life and youth. Then there were his lips... Dear God. His lips. They were so full and plump, any woman would be jealous of those cupid bow lips.

"Jim..." Those perfect lips suddenly sigh.

John's brows furrow of their own accord, his heart sinking at the fact it wasn't his name on those lips.

Realisation and logic sink in. This wasn't some cliché story or film where he sleeps with someone and they suddenly adored him and return his feelings. No, this was the real world. The real world which is full of pain, heartbreak and a shed load of unrequited love.

John wasn't anything more than a boy who Sherlock had done the dirty with. He wasn't special. He was just John, that annoying blonde that took a bit longer to bed.

And yet, John found he couldn't be angry or upset with the sleeping boy beside him. If anything, John was the one to blame for ache in his chest.

John hadn't even realised his feelings went quite this deep. Now, he guesses, he understand all those people to stare after the Trio with cartoon eyes despite knowing they'd been used.

In the Trio, there was something that appeal up everyone.

Irene Alder; the dominatrix with witty sarcasm, the look of royalty and power, a sense of danger. Any man or woman would be hooked, if only interested in finding out why she had that aura of danger.

Jim Moriarty; the charming Irishman with a darker side and an unusual sense of madness that very should be off putting- but like wanting to discover more about Irene's danger people wanted to find the root of Jim's slightly demented approach towards things.

Then you had Sherlock Holmes. He had so many layers, John wasn't sure where to start. He was that sexy mysterious one that everyone wanted to know more about. He was that broken boy with an unknown past that everyone waned to fix. He was that genius that every mother wanted her daughter to marry. He was that oddly cold yet approachable boy who's eyes sometimes screamed sadness.

He was that weird kid that was fascinated by science to the point it border on obsessive. He was that slut who wanted to bed everyone he deemed worthy. He was that interesting kid with the weird habit£s that seemed like OCD but where in fact just reflections of his picky personality.

John could go on forever about the layers to Sherlock Holmes. Yet he'd barely scratched the surface in getting to know this complex human being known as Sherlock.

He was almost scared as to what discovering more, becoming more deeply involved, would lead to.

He was already to deep into this, in his opinion.

It was a surprise to Sherlock, but not necessarily an unwelcome one, when he woke up to find himself alone in bed with a note on the bedside table claiming John had gotten a text from his sister.

~

"I have no fucking idea what to do, Harry. I've never.. This is.. It's Sherlock, for Christ's sake!" John spoke rapidly, both voice and hands trembling. He sighs and takes a gulp of coffee, wincing at the burn.

Harry doesn't say anything as she smiles sympathically and linked her arm through her brother's. She pitied her brother, she truly did. She'd been young and ignorant to love when she'd experienced her 'first love' and didn't truly identify it as such until she was in a relationship with Clara.

Her bother, however, had always been one of those people to watch from the sidelines when it came to raw emotion. Years of being comfortable within his own shell, onlooking, had given him a sensible, logical outlook on life. But it had no way prepared him for pain.

They'd had a brilliant childhood. Both of them having never experienced loss, neglect or heartbreak. Their parents hadn't ever argued in front of them nor had they ever seemed distant.

They'd entered the world, innocent and completely bare of the bubble wrap most wrap themselves in as form of protection.

Harry had quickly formed hers, being a sociable creature since the day she had set foot inside the nursery school she'd attended. John, however, had kept to himself. As that was his nature.

Molly was his only true friend, the only one he'd truly let inside his thin piece of bubble wrap.

He wasn't ready for something as raw an emotion as affection in this sense. He was in no way prepared, despite the mask he kept up. Even with Mary, that mask was up. What they had was lust, not love. John's mask felt betrayed and hurt, not John.

Harry doesn't even think that John himself realised Sherlock had almost fully removed the mask. Or perhaps, after so long John hadn't viewed it as a mask. He'd been pretending so long, he'd started to believe it.

Harry wished she could understand why it was even there. She saw no reason. John just seemed to hide from everything. And she did mean everything. He hid it behind anger.

She pushes away those thoughts and tugs John closer as they stroll around the shopping centre. John didn't need a therapist, he needed his sister. So that was what she'd been. The bubble wrapped sarcastic bitch that he knew and loved.

They stop outside their favourite ice cream shop and peer in to find it filled to the brim.

"That line's going to take at least half an arn" John mutters with a tiny trace of a smile.

"You and that damn show. It finished in 2003, John. Get with the times"

"I'm insulted by that comment. As punishment, you get to go wait in line and buy the ice cream while I sit on that bench and enjoy listening to music as I watch the world go by" John smirks, flashing that innocent younger brother smile.

Harry groans but agrees and shoves him towards the bench with a fond smile. As John sits he catches the concerned look she throws over her shoulder just before entering.

John sighs, ignoring the ache in his chest that had been there since Jim's name slipped past Sherlock's lips. He didn't even understand why it was there and how he missed himself slipping so deeply into the emotions surrounding him.

Ten minutes in observing the world go by him, John spots a familiar head of curls in the crowd. John frowns and pulls out his headphones.

Didn't Sherlock say he was visiting family today?

John's eyes travel down Sherlock, taking in the tight purple shirt he wore. John's lips curl up in a smile as his eyes trail down the boy's abdomen. His gaze would have travelled lower, had Sherlock not moved his hand.

His hand which was currently laced with another hand. John's eyes snap up to find that Sherlock was in fact standing close to another boy that John doesn't recognise. They seem to be waiting for something.

John looks over the boy holding Sherlock's hand carefully. Pale, was the first word that came to mind. Sickly pale, in fact. He had messy hair, very messy black hair. Even from this distance it was clear that the midnight black was not natural. He had a lip piercing, John noted as the boy rolled the black ring into his mouth.

He really didn't seem like the type Sherlock would hang round with.

John sucks in a breath, taking in the boy's black hoodie. It was the hoodie. The hoodie Sherlock wore when he came to John's house at three in the morning. That felt like such a long time ago. Had it really been only two weeks?

John watches as the boy suddenly drops Sherlock's hand. A girl approaches them, carrying one of those reusable bags. She's dressed in bright colours, hair a pale blonde. She was the boy's opposite in many ways.

The boy seems to introduce Sherlock and the girl. She offers a smile and Sherlock says something, eyes narrowed. The girl holds her hands up with a laugh before handing over the bag. Sherlock peers in before nodding.

The girl makes a comment which results in the boy proudly taking Sherlock's hand. The group separate without another word.  The boys going one way, hands joined and the girl disappearing back into the crowd in the other direction.

John sees the boys stop at a corner, staring at each other in their own world. No one is watching them. No one expect John.

The boy's hand disappears into the hand, eyes still on Sherlock's before he raises his hand to Sherlock's mouth. John can't see what's on his finger, not from this distance. But Sherlock is quick to wrap his lips around the finger, sucking off whatever was there.

Sherlock returns the favour of offering whatever was in the bag to the boy who still held his hand before they walk around the corner and out of John's view.

John frowns, unable to come to much conclusion about this whole situation. Sherlock had lied to his best friend and now he was in public feeding some boy something from a mysterious bag.

Just when John thought Sherlock didn't have any more secrets.

This felt different, however. It felt more.. intimate. Like secret lovers.

Did Sherlock have a secret lover? Did said lover know of his ways at college? Was this boy just another point? But if that was the case, why did Sherlock lie?

Whatever it was, John wanted to know about this particular dirty little secret. In fact, he needed to know. Because not knowing anything about this boy was becoming massively frustrating.

~

Jim threw the tennis ball high, catching it a moment later before it plummeted into his face. Now that would be a shame. Jim chuckles, amused by his own jokes.

Last night had gone better than he expect. In terms of his dad, at least. He'd gotten home and his father had come rushing down the stairs, clearly woken by Jim's return. He'd taken his son in his arms for a long while. Then he'd made Jim swear he'd never do this again. They'd sat down, talked for a while and had a cup of tea. After that they'd both gone to bed.

Now, in terms of Sherlock... Jim wasn't sure there.

It had been fine. Sherlock was gaining another point, distracting himself, and then he'd been asking for forgiveness and hugging him and truly meaning it when he'd said he was sorry.

Then Jim had gotten a ridiculous and almost unexplained urge to rip John Watson's head off when Sherlock had said a few suggestive things to him.

He'd gotten jealous, it was obvious. Even to John. But as ever, Sherlock had been oblivious to this fact.

Now, don't get Jim wrong. He was jealous- but not in that sense. He was jealous in the same way a sibling gets jealous of another.

He wanted Sherlock to be completely focused on him once he'd arrived. What happened or was going to happen before he got there was irrelevant. It'd didn't matter that Sherlock was happily going to shag John before he got there.

But it sure as hell mattered that Sherlock planned to shag John after he'd got there.

Actually, Jim decides, it wasn't even that he was going to shag John. It was simply the fact he was going to spend time with John when he could have very easily packed a bag and gone with Jim.

He could have spent the night with Jim, talking things out some more, then gone home for whenever he had to go see his family by.

That was what was supposed to happen. When Sherlock had failed in keeping Jim with him, he was supposed to chase Jim to ensure the fact he was forgiven and they were once again on good terms.

The fact it was John just made it ten times worse, in Jim's eyes. If it was clearly a meaningless shag when maybe Jim wouldn't be as annoyed (jealous).

With John.. He just couldn't help but shake the feeling that it may not be as meaningless to Sherlock. Any idiot could see the blonde was rapidly falling for Sherlock but what did Sherlock look like falling? Was he the same? Did her act different? Did he even notice?

Jim didn't know. Not truly. The last time Sherlock had been in a relationship he'd been high constantly- and Jim did mean constantly- that it was hard to tell which bits where the real Sherlock.

Jim's face scrunches up in distaste as flashes of Sherlock's past pop into his head. Jim turns on the bed, the tennis ball falling to the floor, and presses his face into the pillow as he blocks the images.

He didn't want to think about those times. That Sherlock was a person of the past. But deep down, Jim knew that part of that vulnerable Sherlock was still with them today.

With a sigh, Jim pushes himself off his bed to follow the scent of bacon that his stomach was screaming for.

Later in the day, Irene came round. Jim thought he'd be sick of her by now but he found her presence to be comforting. At the moment, she was the only person in his life that seemed solid (not including his father. But he couldn't exactly approach his father and say 'oh hey, dad, I'm a murderer, you cool with that?', could he?)

They spend the day doing nothing in particular. They watched films with Jim's dad, they ate stupid amounts of snack food and generally just lazed around.

Jim's dad had politely asked how Irene's mother was and how Sherlock was. He'd sensed the unease immediately and backed off, changing the subject to which film they should watch next.

Jim took a moment to consider, during the middle of Bambi, how Irene seemed to be the oddball of their little group in terms of background. She was still wealthy, like many people in this damn town were but her family was.. more broken than others, to put it politely.

Jim only had one parent but his dad loved him dearly and he knew if his mother were alive she'd love him just as much. Sherlock's parents, despite the freedom they gave their son, worried over him constantly and loved him immensely. As they did Mycroft.

Then there was Irene's mother.

She, to put it simply, didn't give a flying fuck about her daughter. Irene didn't know who her dad was and when asked her mother always responded with a comment that basically said she hoped he was dead.

Irene had found her family among Jim and Sherlock and it suited them all well.

It torn Jim apart to know that their little group was slowly falling apart. And all because he couldn't keep a lid on his emotions.

This wasn't fair on Irene, most of all. It wasn't only her friends she was losing, it was her family. Sure, Jim and Sherlock saw each other and Irene as family but this wasn't the only family they had.

For Irene, it was.

Jim sure as hell couldn't wait for tomorrow. He'd slap sense into Sherlock if he had to. Jim and Irene desperately needed their lives back. They needed Sherlock back.

Jim's only fear was that they wouldn't be able to. Even before, it had been Molly to bring him back. Not them.

Tomorrow was going to be a long and tiresome day. He just knew it.