[!!!WINNER!!! of watsoninthetardis 's one shot competition]

In John's mind, he was always the beautiful boy.

Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes. He flirted with life and the the world spun so gaily around him that it took his breath away.

The beautiful boy had strutted so confidently into John's life that he barely had time to blink. That brisk, frozen-aired morning at university when he had slid onto the coffee shop booth next to John remained a snapshot image in John's mind; so clear a picture that every single minute detail was burned into his memory like a brand. Every sensation and sight remained clear and intact -- the cinnamon-sweet smell of the air filling the shop and warming John's entire body; the sharp, nutty aroma of the coffee and tea and pastries; the pink which tickled the beautiful boy's nose as he walked in from the cold outside. The dark haired man ordered himself a tea and paid for John's own breakfast before he even asked his name.

"Cold day, isn't it?" He tilted his head, lips pursed and alabaster fingers interlocked, as he raised an eyebrow at John.

"I suppose so, yes." John's hands flitted nervously over the table; over his lap; over the chair. He never was good with strangers... but then, this man couldn't possibly be a stranger.

"You're nervous. I intimidate you and you don't know who I am. I apologize," the beautiful boy added quickly, a throaty laugh emitting from down within his soul. John drank in the laugh deeply, savouring its rich flavor and sound:  hazelnuts and chocolate and cinnamon. It warmed him to the core, much more than his tea ever could.

"I... um, yes. How did you know?"

"I always know." The stranger sipped his drink quietly, letting the comment toss and turn before finally spiraling down and settling between them. "I'm looking for a roommate; my old one just graduated."

"How do you know I don't have one?"

"I always know." A pause. "My flat is considerably nicer than your dormitory, I can assure you."

"How do you know my--"

"Simple deductions, really." He neglected to explain himself, and John couldn't help but wonder what it was, but he didn't want to bother the man with asking.

"I'd... I'd love to be your roommate," John replied, his voice faltering. It wasn't like him to meet with strangers so readily; much less room with them, but he felt like he'd known the boy for ages already. "What year are you?"

"Second. Same as you, I presume."

John nodded, and the young man continued to take in his features, his eyes never leaving John's face. John had been stared at before, and this wasn't it-- it felt more like the man was analyzing him, solving him like a puzzle and fitting him together piece by piece until there was nothing left to know.

"Your name?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He said the name so simply, his voice a pure black and white, but the name was a symphony of color to the shorter man. It was yellow and green and fire and sunlight and violin music and mountain air. Sherlock.

"I'm John Watson." Sunflowers. Sunflowers and herbal tea with honey and vanilla. The simple pleasures in life- the ones that no one really takes the time to appreciate, but yet are the ones that are the most loved.

Sherlock smiled, his eyes twinkling brighter than John ever knew was possible. "Pleasure."

***

It was a whirlwind, with Sherlock Holmes.The beautiful boy was a churning river and it was everything John could do to stay afloat- but really, he never knew if he wanted to stay above the water. The quicker Sherlock moved, the faster John wanted to get pulled along-- and my, John loved the sound of the rain.

Her never deciphered what exactly Sherlock was studying. He never brought himself to ask Sherlock and insult his intellect, but no one else could seem to place the man, no matter how much he asked.

"I've never really seen him," they'd say. "Perhaps he's in the chemistry program?"

"I've never heard of him. English, maybe?"

"I don't know. Sorry, John, I've got to run."

He was a mystery, but John didn't mind. Sherlock was an enigma that John didn't know if he wanted to crack-- he preferred the raw excitement to the dull sense of knowing. Figuring out all of the pieces to Sherlock would end something special that he couldn't quite describe. John knew in his head he needed the answer, but his heart wouldn't let him solve the equation.

"Let's go out," Sherlock would say every night, his kaleidoscope eyes darting across the room, pleading John in a way he couldn't resist. "Let's find a case."

"A case?" John would ask, never sure what exactly Sherlock meant. They never found a case, but John never refused. He knew that Sherlock would find what he was looking for, one day, but he never knew what exactly it was-- except it had to be good. Whenever John would ask, Sherlock would give him that sparkling white smile and raise his eyebrows. We'll find it, he seemed to say. Just you wait.

So they'd go, forgetting all troubles and work and studies to go find the Great Case that Sherlock pursued without end, looking for something that spoke to him in the way that Sherlock spoke to John. Something fascinating, and something truly remarkable.

Something mysterious.

***

The case finally came, six months into their time together, when Sherlock stumbled in drunk one night as John studied for trigonometry exams. He wasn't majoring in mathematics, but he loved the subject. The concept of one single solution to an infinitely complicated problem intoxicated him, and he was a bit of an addict for that delicious feeling that rushed through him as he boxed in the final answer which caused the entire equation to make sense. John had nearly chosen mathematics over becoming a doctor-- but, in retrospect, he knew being a doctor had always been his only choice, really. He was built to be a doctor, and he'd know it since he was young.

They'd had an argument before the beautiful boy left-- something petty, about Sherlock leaving the flat in chaos and keeping his dead animals in the refrigerator-- so Sherlock had left to drown his frustration in countless glasses of liquor at the pub downtown. It happened frequently: he would disappear nearly out of thin air, and come back two hours later, a stumbling, drunk mess. John could swear he never saw him leave or arrive, but it always happened, and Sherlock always had a horrible headache the next morning.

"I've been mugged, John, you hear?" Sherlock slurred, collapsing onto their couch and pressing fists to his red-rimmed eyes. "Theytookit."

"Took what?" John remained seated, still too bothered with Sherlock to care about his antics.

"My money wallet thing," Sherlock moaned, clutching his hip. "They took it, and they took her."

"Who?" John finally snapped his attention toward Sherlock and sat up, studying the beautiful boy carefully. Red.  "My god, you're bleeding; let me look at you."

"No no no no no," Sherlock wailed softly as John hurried over to him. He curled his legs into his body like a wounded animal and pushed his damp curls out of his face. "I'm f-fine, John, go away." He covered the spot limply with his thin hands and cowered away as John pulled them off of the spot.

"Were you stabbed, Sherlock?" John hurried to the kitchen and fetched a damp cloth, which he held to Sherlock's wound as the bleeding slowly subsided. "Thank God this isn't serious, it just looked like the blade just grazed your side. You're lucky. Half an inch and you could have died slowly and painfully." He forced painkillers into Sherlock's mouth and secured gauze to the wound.

Sherlock's head laid limply on the back of the seat, his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead as he trembled. John covered the man with a blanket, reflecting how odd it was the see the ever-amazing Sherlock Holmes reduced to such a human state. Sherlock's facade was nearly perfect, barely showing the hint of a flaw-except for now. When he sat like this, breath labored with pain and in a drunken stupor, John could nearly see the ordinary man that was locked inside the cage of confidence and genius.

Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes. The man who flirted with death and came out alive.

"Who was the girl?" John pressed as Sherlock's eyelids drooped.

"I... dunno.... they took her... and my money... I liked my wallet..." Sherlock dropped into a alcohol induced slumber, and John fell asleep while waiting eagerly for him to wake back up.

***

"Has anyone gone missing?" John asked, fresh-faced and clean-shaven the next morning, as the police officer he had managed to corner blinked sleepily back at him.

"Who're you looking for, kid?" The officer took a long sip of lukewarm coffee and studied John. "You missing someone?"

"I didn't see them, but my friend--" John turned around to pull the (hungover) beautiful boy over, so that he could tell the officer what he had told John last night. John furrowed his brow when he was nowhere to be seen.

"...I'm sorry, kid. We haven't gotten any reports of missing people other than this, and if you can't be any more specific, then I can't help you." The officer leaned back in his chair and began reading a file. "If you have any evidence, come back here and file a report."

"But... no, let me find my friend..." He tried to form an effective sentence, explaining the situation, but the words wouldn't meet his tongue. Strange. He left, defeated, and frustrated because where the bloody hell had Sherlock run off to.

Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes. The boy that flirted with friendship but was somehow never around when John really needed him.

John pushed through the crowds, searching for that inky hair and the pearly skin. He muttered something along the lines of "have you seen an extraordinarily irritating dark haired boy with a blue scarf bursting through here?" to a few people, who all just stared and shook their heads. He sighed and blundered on.

After ten minutes, he finally found him, sitting in front of a coffee shop-- the coffee shop, the one where they'd met. "Where did you run off to?! I needed you!"

Sherlock shrugged, sipping a tea. "Police don't know anything, John. They can't help."

"They seem to know more than you do. Why are you here, anyway?"

"I was hungry. Sit."

John sat, the frustration bubbling in his stomach cooling to a simmer. "I could have used you for details."

"I am aware. But we can solve this on our own John. It's our big case." Sherlock's encouraged him. His eyes twinkled and John couldn't possibly refused.

"Of course." Of course I'm not angry, Sherlock. Of course it's our big case, Sherlock. Of course we can do it on our own. Sherlock. Of course.

A waitress came over to them, smiling pleasantly and carrying a menu, before she froze, her cherry-painted lips curved into a frown. "You again... You've neglected to pay the last two times you've been here."

John shook his head, confused. "There must be some mistake...my friend paid the last few times were in here. I watched him..." John started, before looking around with the sinking realization that Sherlock had-- somehow --disappeared again. "I'm sorry ma'am, there must be some--"

"I'm sorry. You can talk to my manager on a different day, but right now I need to ask you to leave." The girl flicked a blonde ponytail over her shoulder as she strutted off, her walk nearly as confident as Sherlock's. John watched her go, staring after her in confusion.

When he found the beautiful boy again, at the doorway, Sherlock just smiled and shrugged in a way as to say, "I'm sorry."

John forgave him. He'd never liked Speedy's much, anyway.

***

The first attack came three weeks later.

John sat in the living room, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to form a coherent sentence. Panic wracked his body as he splayed on the floor, wide eyed, his words a mess of language that he couldn't control.

Sherlock brought him water, and sat with him calmly as he caught his breath and cried and word-vomited as he tried to regain his power of speech. "It's normal," Sherlock assured him gently. "You don't have to be scared."

But I'm so scared, Sherlock.

***

Christmas came as Christmas does-- all too slowly, and then like an avalanche. John visited his family, as Christmas was the one time of the year where everyone managed to get along. Harry wasn't an alcoholic during Christmas, his mother didn't have a smoking habit during Christmas, and John wasn't a starving university student during Christmas. All was well.

John had asked Sherlock if he wanted to tag along, but the young man politely declined. He had to go to dinner at his family's house, the beautiful boy had replied, with obvious distaste.

John explained this as he sat on the leather sofa next to his older sister, sipping eggnog and rum and listening to Christmas music in the background. "I've never met his parents," he intoned, "but I don't quite think they get along."

"You mentioned he had a brother, right? What is he like?"

"His name is... Michael? No, Mike... Mycroft, that's it. He's more... strict, than Sherlock is. Less open. He always... he always looks exactly the same. Same clothing, same hair cut. I've never really thought about it before. Maybe he's a bit OCD."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, that'd make sense. They seem like an odd family."

John studied his sister. He'd been angry with her for years, for becoming an alcoholic and leaving him alone, but he'd forgiven her. He was her brother, and he'd learned in his short time without her that he really did need her. A smile played across his lips, before he wetted his mouth and replied with a quiet, "They are."

They were silent, but it was a good silent, as they stared into the fireplace and sipped their drinks-- John's laced with alcohol and Harry's made of soy milk and alcohol free.

Eventually, Harry spoke up again. "Mum's told me that you've been on about some case. She said you won't stop talking about it whenever she telephones you. What exactly is it?"

John leaned in closely. "I've got to speak quietly. You never know when they're listening."

Harry appeared alarmed. "Who?"

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock was mugged, stabbed, and a girl was abducted. We tried to contact the police, but they had no idea who the girl was."

"Couldn't Sherlock identify her or something?" Harry pushed a curly blonde strand out of her face, her forehead crinkling like paper in her concern.

John shook his head, the panic bubbling in his stomach again that he tried to suppress, but could never manage to do. He tried to speak, but again found that somehow, he couldn't.

Tilting...
Tilting...
Tilting...
Falling.

Harry placed a weathered hand on his shoulder, her stubby fingernails caressing his shaking figure as he struggled to catch his breath. This was happening too often, now.

John had to find the mugger. He had to. Otherwise, they were all in danger and there was nothing he could do to save himself or Sherlock or Harry or even bloody Mrs. Hudson, the landlady for Sherlock's flat. He had to figure it out, he couldn't allow anyone to be in danger, he--

"John. John. Calm down, drink some eggnog." Harry placed the mug into his hands, and wrapped an arm around him. For once, he didn't push her off.

They were silent again, as John focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. Pull yourself together, John. In, out.

"I want to meet him, John. Your boyfriend, I mean," Harry teased slowly, finally managing to draw John out of his panic.

John shook his head, his cheeks rising in heat slightly at the thought. "No, Sherlock is just my flatmate."

Harry smiled, and mussed John's hair like she had always done when they were younger. "I'm a lesbian, John. Flatmates, girlfriends... there are never really differences, are there?"

John laughed for what felt like the first time in ages.

***

"You're the Baker Street Mugging boy, aren't you?" A young, stocky man leaned against the wall that John pressed his back against, surveying the area and jumping at every noise. He was going to find the mugger today. He had to. When he wasn't looking he almost felt like he was going through a withdrawal, so he never went long, and Sherlock always encouraged him to look. When John asked why Sherlock never looked, the beautiful boy looked offended.

"What do you mean, I never look?" His features turned sharply, dancing the fine line between confusion and chaos, fire and ice, leaving and staying.

"I just... I thought you'd care more, Sherlock." Trembling, unstable. Fragile.

"I do care, more than you could ever know, I care. I look for him constantly, John. I'm almost disappointed that you don't look more than you do... but then I remember that I couldn't ever be disappointed in you." Overpowering, strong. Steadfast.

"I'll look harder, I really will, Sherlock." Timid.

"I know, John." Solid. "I know."

"Is that what they call me?" John mused, his hands nervously checking every coat pocket, every zipper, every button. He had less control over them, these days.

"Yeah. They say you're always on about some Sherlock kid that no one has ever heard of. I wanted to come see for myself." He peered at John, intrigued, and John looked away. They were always like this, acting as though John was a display, prodding and poking and staring until he was no longer himself, only an empty shell of who he was before. Why they were interested, John didn't know.

The man leaned in, speaking quieter. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I know you care a lot about this." He put his hand out in a small offering of friendship. "I'm Greg Lestrade. What's your name?"

John looked left, and looked right. No one else was around. No one else would hear him. He wasn't in danger. He grasped the hand. "John Watson," he spoke in a faltering voice. "My name is John Watson."

***

Words....

Slipping, slipping, slipping....

And then...

Gone.

***

He always looked, even when he felt like an earthquake, even when it was so dangerous that every motion he made was to conceal himself and run away. It was important to Sherlock, so it was important to him.

Sometimes, Sherlock would accompany him. After their brief spat, he had decided to make it up to John by coming with him to look, which was a kind gesture, but a tense one. John and Sherlock were entwined with one piece of taut string that frayed and tore so often that John was afraid that one day it would snap, and he'd tumble away headfirst and never be able to get back up again.

He didn't know whether Sherlock coming along made the ordeal better or worse-- whenever Sherlock came, John noticed, people seemed to stare.

As though they were on display.

***

John went to lunch with Greg weekly, now.

The two would sit and eat grilled cheese and soup, as John would pour out and Greg would just listen. It was a beautiful feeling, and Greg's quiet attention fed John's soul in the same way that the lunch filled his stomach. They'd talk and talk, sometimes about nothing, and sometimes about everything- once, John broke down and nearly told him about the fear surrounding the entire case, but he caught himself. Greg watched him, concern steadily growing on his face as John worked himself into such a frenzy that he couldn't talk yet again.

"It's okay, John. You can speak when you're ready."

But I can't, Greg.

John stood and ran from the restaurant all the way back to his flat, where Sherlock greeted him with a cup of tea. John drank it as though his life depended on it as he told the beautiful boy about what had happened, his words a rambling train-wreck of syllables that collided to form some sort of meaning.

Sherlock didn't like that John went to lunch with Greg. "He could be on the other side," Sherlock would always say, and the molten iron hand of panic would grip John's lungs again and squeeze and squeeze until he couldn't breathe.

John stopped going to lunch with Greg after that.

***

One by one, the others slowly dropped away. John didn't know why they left; Sherlock really was nice. They'd just never met him.

Time went, as time does.

It just became Sherlock and John.

***

"Let's go look again, John. I'll come with you." Sherlock paced around the flat, knocking over furniture and setting things on fire in his boredom.

John was cross with him. No, not just Sherlock-- he was cross with the whole thing. Sherlock, the flat, the mugging... the whole fact that Sherlock had ever approached him in a coffee shop a year earlier. No, he wouldn't go with Sherlock. He was manipulative and horrible and John hated him, he hated him he hated him he --

"I BLOODY HATE YOU!" John screamed, his fists curled into balls and his eyes brimming with tears. "I BLOODY HATE YOU AND I WON'T GO LOOKING FOR YOUR STUPID BLOODY CASE WITH YOU, OKAY? I HATE YOU! NO ONE WILL TALK TO ME AND I DON'T KNOW WHY AND I JUST-" John collapsed, sobs wracking his body as Sherlock slowly, slowly placed a hand on his shoulder and looked into the smaller man's eyes. John didn't look away.

"I'm sorry, John, I'll try to be better. But just this once?"

Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes. He asked John for anything and John could never say no.

John rubbed the tears out of his eyes, and clumsily stood. "Get your coat. Let's go."

***

It had to be him.

Sherlock tensed, and shouted at John to run, but it was too late. The man plunged something-- a shot, a drug, a poison, something, into John's neck, and the world became fuzzy.

When he looked around for Sherlock, the beautiful boy was gone.

***

John awoke in a bed, his arms and legs strapped in so he couldn't move. He thrashed, trying to break free, but nothing worked.

Breathe.

Sherlock, sat in the corner, his head down. John tried to say something, but the words couldn't escape his lips. Had they captured Sherlock, too? Why wasn't he restrained like John was?

A man walked in wearing a white lab coat, a kind smile on his face as he looked at John. "You're up. Quicker than we expected." He pushed past Sherlock, either ignoring him or failing to notice him, and placed a cold compress over John's forehead. John struggled against him, his breath hyperventilating, and his heart racing like a freight train.

"You took the girl," he hissed under his breath, seething with rage. "You took her, and you stabbed my friend."

The man shook his head, appearing as calm as ever. "I'm sorry, John, but I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do!" John insisted, his breath coming quicker now, the heat in his voice rising as his anger was slowly brought to a boil. "You're just trying to brainwash me, and I won't let you, I won't let you, I won't..."

The man gently placed a needle into John's arm, and pumped another drug into John's bloodstream, as John's vision became murky yet again. Sherlock remained seated, saying nothing.

"I won't..." John trailed off, before sleep hit him like a truck and his vision became dark.

***

"Schizophrenia," the man said to John when he awoke again. "Do you know what that is?"

John nodded, not understanding. "Of course, I've been training to be a doctor, I--"

"Just checking." The man sat in a chair, and John looked around. Sherlock's sitting figure had been replaced by Greg and Harry, watching him with concern. "This is a mental corrective facility," the man intoned, boring into John with his razor sharp eyes. "I'm Doctor Maines. Your sister and your friend called me after they discussed that they were both concerned about you, John," he started gently. "You have a condition called schizophrenia which causes you to have vivid hallucinations."

John shook his head slowly. "I... I don't..."

"We checked the school records," Harry began, softly. "There is no Sherlock Holmes enrolled in this university. He doesn't exist, John. I'm so sorry."

That white-hot panic gripped John again, and he tried to speak, but words came out as that incomprehensible garbage that he never could control.

"Word salad," Doctor Maines quietly directed to Harry and Greg, "is what we call one of the rarer symptoms of schizophrenia. The patient cannot form a coherent sentence." He returned his attention back to John, who had stopped speaking and was now watching him wide-eyed in panic. "You're safe now, John. There is no threat. And with time, you'll understand."

John wasn't sure if he wanted to understand.

***

"I know you're not real," John said to the beautiful boy, some weeks later. "I know you're not real, but I don't want you to go."

Sherlock smiled at him with the same confident smile he'd had on the day he'd waltzed into John's life. "I'm always here John. I won't leave you. You don't have to listen to them. I'm real, and I'm here for you."

John choked back a sob, as he collapsed into Sherlock like a ragdoll. The beautiful boy hugged him tightly, the warmth radiating through him into John's aching body.

"I know," John sobbed, his voice a broken whisper. "I'm sorry."

***

John put his pills into a drawer, and locked it. He didn't want to take them. He wanted Sherlock.

***

John took his pills.

***

"I can't talk to you anymore," John spoke with feigned confidence as he strolled next to Sherlock in the park. He'd finally been deemed stable enough to be sent home, with a counselor coming every damn day to check in on him. He'd moved back into the flat he'd been paying rent for all by himself, despite his insistence that he had a flatmate. No "Sherlock Holmes" was on the rental contract- only John's own name, signed with a flourish in black ink.

"No, John, please don't," Sherlock breathed, grabbing the shorter man's hand desperately. "Don't leave me, please don't leave me."

Killing John would have been less painful.

John forced his hand out of Sherlock's, staring at it as he spoke. "I have to, Sherlock. I wanted to say goodbye, but after this, I won't... I won't ever talk to you again," he faltered, tracing his fingers in that blue scarf the beautiful boy always wore. It always smelled like hazelnuts and chocolate and cinnamon, and John had come to notice over time (and over therapy) that the scarf always looked exactly the same.

Sherlock nodded, and his brother Mycroft stood from a bench that John hadn't seen earlier. He looked John gently in the eyes, and leaned against the black umbrella he always carried.

"Thank you, John. Thank you for taking care of my brother." They shook hands, and John tried his best not to cry.

He hugged Sherlock tightly, and let go, the tide of their relationship finally stripping itself away from the shore and tumbling back out to sea. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at him with despairing eyes, his voice echoing hollowly in a reply. "Goodbye, John."

John turned his head, and when he looked back, the two Holmes brothers had disappeared.

Sherlock Holmes, that Sherlock Holmes. He floated into John's life so easily, but tore John's heart away as he floated out.

***

"Do you still see him?"

"Yes. He's tried to talk to me, but I've gotten used to it over the years. He doesn't look a day over the age he was the day I met him. It used to hurt, but it doesn't really, anymore."

"Do you miss him?"

The silence which followed while the older man thought was the loudest sound he'd ever heard. "He was my... my best friend." Another pause, just as deafeningly quiet as the first. "I miss him like the way you miss a memory-- intensely at first, but it fades over time."

Sherlock watched silently, his charcoal hair the opposite of John's silvery strands, and his face young and fresh and unwrinkled. He sat across the hall, lips turned upwards and smoking a cigarette, as he always did, forever trying to get John's attention.

As often as he saw him, John never met his eyes.

***

Tilting...

Tilting...

Balanced.

Breathe.

***

In John's mind, he was always the beautiful boy.

And really, John was the only one who ever knew.

That was okay.

[In memory of and loosely based off the life of John Nash]