It'd finally happened. 

The discoloration in the corner of the screen had overtaken the entire picture. Everything on the display was purple. 

After being knocked over a thousand times, the tape player getting jammed, and endless amounts of water damage, the TV was wrecked. 

It's not like they hadn't seen it coming. They'd been slowly saving up for another one since John's dad dumped it into his arms when they'd moved in. 

John was pretty attached to the thing. He'd spent most of his youth playing video games on it, watching reruns of sitcoms and sneaking R rated horror movies into the tape player. He was truly going to miss it.

The boys struggled to lug the heavy black block down the steep metal stairs. It wasn't very big in diameter, approximately the size of a large shoe box, but damn, after all those years, it'd collected enough dust and dirt to become its own little island. 

Sally Donovan was waiting in her sleek maroon Prius, the windows rolled down and the trunk already popped open for them to drop the TV into. 

"Hey, Freak," she said once Sherlock had slid into the front seat, carefully applying a thin coat of lip gloss in her rear view mirror. John was clambering into the back when Sherlock mocked, "Who, me?" 

She laughed, glancing into the mirror at John. "Where to?" 

"Sherlock's got the directions on his phone."

Sherlock was already scrolling through his apps to get to his GPS.

"You guys should invest in a car - not that I don't love carting you kids around."

"Your daddy's rich, have him buy us cars," Sherlock poked, and John laughed from the backseat. "Yeah, two cars each, Sally. I want an Impala and a Mustang. Convertibles." 

"Alright, alright, I get it, my dad's got cash and you're both bitter about it. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." 

"Speaking of beautiful, did you get anywhere with that guy you were talking about?"

Sally was pulling out of the complex, watching the street as she answered, "Josh? Nah, the date flopped, he's pretty boring. You can take a stab at him, Sherlock, I'll text you his number later."

"Perfect. Is it weird that we have the same taste in men?"

"You'll hump anything that moves, so I wouldn't consider that a 'type.' I just happen to snag all the pretty ones at the party." 

John chuckled.

Sherlock squinted at her, making a dumb face. "What are standards, Sally?" 

She rolled her eyes with a sigh, but couldn't help the smile that spread across her plump lips. 

The smooth, robotic voice of the GPS on Sherlock's phone piped up. "Turn right, and continue down Coors Rd for 1.3 miles." 

"Hey John, you should totally write me into your play," Sally joked. "How's that going, by the way?"

"Yeah, John," Sherlock turned around, throwing him a satirical, accusing look. "How is it going?" 

"You know what, it's going fine. I'm really making some progress."

Sherlock turned back to Sally, his eyes rolling. "He hasn't touched it in over a month."

Sally whistled, the pitch getting lower and lower, making a quiet explosion noise with her mouth. "Busted," she teased, the voice telling her to turn left at the light. 

"Stop bullying me," John whined, causing Sherlock and Sally to coo in unison. "I have all the time in the world to write it out."

"Yes, except we're all slowly dying as we speak. How long do you intend to work on it, John?"

"If you start that existential Sylvia Plath crap right now, I won't hesitate to slap you upside the head," Sally warned, putting her blinker on. 

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine, it'll get done. I'll name the character Sally, but she's nothing like you." 

"Nothing like me?"

John hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "She's ambitious, like you, but she's also really naive and optimistic."

"You are pretty pessimistic, Sally."  

"I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic." 

"That's what all pessimists say," John said, grasping the opportunity to join in on the banter. Sherlock snorted, and Sally pretended to glare at him in the rear view mirror. The GPS resounded again, and suddenly Sally's expression turned foggy. 

"I've never been down this road before," she murmured, squinting out the window at the street signs. 

"Come to think of it, neither have I," Sherlock also found himself looking around strangely at the buildings out the window. 

It's not like their surroundings were abnormal. They saw the same types of crusty, rusty buildings that littered the town; windows stacked upon windows, garbage bags on the curb, sloping sidewalks that curled downhill in front of them. 

"Funny how every now and again you'll come across one of these roads you've never been down, even though you've lived in the same town your entire life," John whispered.

The Prius passed a little bookstore, and John saw Sherlock gawk at it, saw his head and body turn to follow it even as they zoomed on by. Recognition flashed across his scrunched up face as he struggled to see the name of the establishment. Or so John thought. Sherlock glanced at him, then quickly turned back around as if nothing had happened.

"Yeah," Sally mused, "funny."

***  

They arrived in front of the little store within ten minutes. There was an old guy smoking a cigar outside the auto shoppe next door, and he openly gawked at the trio as Sherlock and John fished the television out of the trunk. 

Sally and John looked like grandparents who'd never aged - John in his jumper and Sally in her long shawl, both seemingly knitted by somebody with shaky hands. Then there was Sherlock, tall and sharp, in a glittery grey tank top and a loose flannel over jacket. Mommy, Daddy, and Baby Queer.

They weren't really paying attention to him, though. After Sally closed the trunk, she fast-walked up to hold the door open for the struggling boys, her cream colored shawl fluttering like a cape behind her.

"Watch your step," she warned when they got closer, making sure they knew about the two little stairs below the door.

Behind the counter sat an acne ridden kid with a dirty magazine in front of his face, his feet propped up on the glass. He startled when Sherlock and John dropped the monstrosity next to his shoes. The kid stood up quickly, dropping the magazine onto the stool beside his chair.

Sherlock stopped for a moment to catch his breath before speaking. "How much do you think we can get for this?"

Despite working at the store, the boy seemed slightly taken aback by the direct nature of the question. "Um," began he, glancing briefly at the metal door behind him. "My manager told me I'm only allowed to sell stuff."

Sherlock stared at him momentarily, waiting.

The boy stared back nervously.

"Well," Sally pressed, glancing down at the kid's nametag, "Eugine, can you get your manager for us?"

With a mere nod, the kid slouched through the metal door at the back of the store. Once the door was closed, John let himself laugh.

"God, I remember being sixteen, but I hope I wasn't as bad as him."

"You probably were," said Sally, who'd wandered to a shelf by the door. Her eyes scanned the miscellaneous accessories: styluses, computer mouses with their decorative mouse pads, USB drives, blank CDs.

John stayed at the counter by Sherlock, eyeing the broken computer towers in the corner. He was enjoying the subtle scent of his friend's new cologne - he'd have to borrow it sometime.

"I bet Sherlock has some nasty cringe stories from when he was a teen," Sally continued with a laugh, "insufferable little know-it-all."

"Takes one to know one, Little Miss Law School."

Sally opened her mouth to make her clever comeback, but the manager came out in the nick of time. John immediately noticed the toothpick between his teeth, and his plain khaki pants.

"Hey there, folks, what can I do you for?"

"Hi, I'm John, we talked on the phone," John offered his hand, and the manager shook it.

"Right, the cough guy," the manager joked.

Sherlock smirked and gave John a sideways glance. The rogue coughing fit John had had on the phone was funny to witness.

"Yeah, the cough guy."

"Hey, no worries -- I was having a pretty shitty day before you called!"

"Yeah, great, um, about the TV," John struggled to steer the conversation back to business.

"Do you wanna buy a new TV? We've got used models, and brand new ones, and we've also got the cables to hook up your laptop to 'em."

"No really, we're fine, I just want some cash for this old thing."

"You sure? I mean, I've got everything, I can cut you a deal."

Sally was begining to show signs of annoyance. She stood and stared at him, one hand on the hanging package she was previously admiring.

"No," John reiterated. "Really."

"Alright then, don't say I didn't try. Everything's so expensive nowadays," he awkwardly yanked up his khaki pants. Sally came back to stand next to Sherlock, leaning with her elbows on the counter. She and sherlock sized up the porno mag that still lay on the metal fold-up chair behind the counter as the two men discussed the average prices of certain television parts.

"All in all, I'll take the whole thing for a hundred-fifty," the manager chewed his toothpick. "I'll take it apart and clean it up and see if any of it's salvageable."

John turned and smiled to his friends, then looked again at the manager.

"That's perfect, thank you."

John was written a check, and it felt somewhat bittersweet to put a price on a piece of his childhood. When they all piled back into the car, John declared that he was going to treat them to dinner. When both Sally and Sherlock suggested pigging out on a ton of cheap Chinese food, John told them that they would go somewhere nice.

Neither of them were opposed to that, and they settled on some new place that Sally had pulled up on her phone. They hit the bank to cash the check, then headed to the slightly nicer part of town to eat.