John

When John woke up, he felt high as a kite. Like he was on happy drugs. Or like it was his birthday, back when his mum still lived with his dad, and they weren't poor, and Harry bought him action figures. John felt bloody brilliant.

John put on his only dress shirt, which was a size too big, but Harry said he looked dapper and to tell Rory she loved him and all that. Emma actually kissed him at the door and squished his cheeks.

"Have fun," she'd said, and John smiled bigger than he ever had. Ever. "Call a neighbor if you need me to pick you back up."

John nodded slowly, not bothering to remind her that he wanted to run away from home.

He was a little nervous, honestly - he hadn't seen his dad in more than a year. He didn't remember him calling when he was staying at the Dilane's, which was probably for the better. John never told him their number.

And Pickard had a tendency to just hate on Rory. He'd say, "Whata do-no-gooder," and whenever he said that, John took the time to excuse himself and step outside to laugh until he couldn't (John was into the simpler pleasures in life).

When John got onto the bus, the tie John was wearing cracked Sherlock up.

"How much did you pay for that?"

"Sixty goddamned pounds."

Sherlock's smile flattened, and he said, "I wasn't aware that we had to dress up."

"We don't," John said, "I'm just pretending we're going on a date."

"We are," Sherlock clarified, "Practically." John used this opportunity to take Sherlock's tie in his hands and straighten it. Sherlock grimaced. John saw, and raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Someone's looking."

"So?"

"So I don't want you to get bullied because of this."

"I'm already bullied," John scoffed. "And anyway-" John leaned so close he could taste Sherlock on his tongue, "-I want them to know."

"Why?"

Why? "Because. I dunno. I like you." John said the words carefully, as if they were china dolls that would break in his mouth. "And, anyway." John changed the subject. "I've compiled a list of personal questions for you to answer. For the phone."

"Really," Sherlock said.

"Yes," John replied. "It's very long. Very personal."

"I'll try to answer them to the best of my shockingly extensive ability."

"Shut up."

When school was over, John sat on the steps, waiting for a car to come up. John wasn't really sure what to look for; maybe his dad was riding a bloody motorcycle, he didn't know.

He was starting to think he'd never show up, or maybe he did and John didn't see him, or maybe he didn't care. Not like he didn't. Just... he wasn't able to, maybe he had a mental block.

But he did show up, literally five seconds later. Speak of the devil and he will appear, John thought. He was driving a bright red stick (John's dad, not the devil), and his arm was draped out the window, lit cigarette in hand.

"Johnny!" his dad yelled. "You can ride shotgun!" John ran to the car full speed and hopped inside as if his life depended on it, not even bothering to mention that there was no one else in the car to ride shotgun.

When they got home, two hours later, his dad looked at him. Really looked.

"Wow, Johnny." He scratched his blonde scruff. "You've... gotten... taller."

"Yeah," John mused. "I haven't grown at all."

Rory shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "No problem," and made his way to the flat screen. "Wanna watch some BBC? Or whatever you kids watch on weekends?"

"Um, no thanks, I'll watch what you're watching," John said, just to be polite, and John plunked on the couch in front of the TV. God, this was luxury. Rory was the type of man who shopped when he was hungry. He bought beer and crackers and lemonade and cheese dip and nachos to match. Like, he was an art form.

John almost felt bad about stealing food from him - but then he looked at all the food in his kitchen and the guilt dissipated. Chances were Rory wouldn't even notice, there was so much food.

Every once in awhile, Rory would attempt to start up a meager conversation. He'd mentioned something about moving almost eight hours away, or something, and then he'd added, "I mean, you could come, at any time, John, Amy likes you." John shook his head no, or maybe he nodded his head yes; he wasn't paying attention. Soon, Rory realized that there was nothing to talk about, considering that John's life was horrendous and talking about it with his dad felt like torture. Except... John could tell him this one thing.

"I met a boy."

Rory tilted his head. "Hmm?" He almost seemed ready to turn off the TV. His hand hovered over the remote as he looked up, puffing at a cigarette.

"I said that I met a boy."

"You did?"

"Yeah," John said, "his name's Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah." John smiled. "Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Rory tapped his cigarette into a metal ash tray, full to the brim with gray powder. He smoked because he was a nervous wreck, John supposed, but he didn't care. "So? What about him?"

"He's nice. And he likes me."

"He likes you?" Rory's tone was asking for confirmation.

"Yeah."

"How much?"

"Enough," John responded, sidling closer to his dad.

"Enough," John's dad echoed. "Are you saying..."

"Yep," John said, slowly, experimentally. "And I need help."

Rory's eyebrows furrowed for the slightest moment, deep in thought, and then he said, "I can't help you, John, I mean... look at me. Your mother left because I wasn't... enough."

"You know that's not why," John said angrily. "And I'm not asking you to be manly. I'm asking you to be my dad."

"I... I am your dad." Rory looked away.

"What happened when you met Amy?"

"Well. Well, I mean..." his dad smiled slightly, and his dark blue eyes shined. "Amy. She was just... I think she was shopping. At Asda," Rory laughed, "and I saw her, and I just..."

"Yeah?"

"I walked over. And she asked me where the bathroom was."

"The bathroom." John's voice was disbelieving. "She asked you where to use the bathroom."

"Yeah, I actually think she was bleeding - her hand got slashed with a wine glass. Maybe she needed a band-aid, I'm not sure."

"That's how you met Amy."

"Yeah." Rory's smile was wide, and full toothed.

"Really."

"What, are you disappointed?"

"No, no, no, I'm just... surprised. So should I tell him where the bathroom is?"

"I don't know. I told you, John. I really am not familiarized with... men."

"He's not a man, he's Sherlock. He's brilliant. Gorgeous. Rich. And he likes me."

"Then you haven't a problem." Rory puffed on the cigarette one more time, and then snuffed it haphazardly onto the ash tray.

"I don't."

"No, why would you? Did you just listen to yourself?"

"Yeah?"

"He likes you, John. There's nothing more you need to do." Rory stood up.

"I've got to be going. Amy told me to meet up with her at-" Rory looked at his watch, and then, "-Shit! Shit!" Rory literally ran into the kitchen and yanked a coat off the immaculate counter. After finding his keys on top of a black coffee machine, he threw it on. "Um, John, um, you can watch TV, listen to music, Melody is asleep, upstairs, okay, be quiet."

Melody began to cry.

"She'll stop eventually. Don't move, and she won't see you."

John chuckled gently. "I've got it, dad, go."

"Okay. Bye, son. Love you, and please..." He paused for a moment, and whispered, "Never change Melody's diapers."

John waved him off, but he was already calling for a taxi outside.

With that, John looked at the CDs. There were so many; stacks and stacks, and John took one off the shelf, and spun it in his hands.

"Pearl Jam. Green Day... Oasis, thank God..." He remembered playing with these when he was eight, and Harry was out with her friends, because she was popular and pretty and whatever else. And John used to map them out by alphabetical order, and then reverse alphabetical, and then by most recent, then by favorite. His favorite, at the time, was Patrick Watson, but that phase quickly ebbed; his voice was too girly and his instrumentals were weird.

So, right then, John popped the CD into the player, and lay down on the carpet in front of the flatscreen.

He remembered smelling the carpet. Like, he'd sit down after Mum bought Febreze and he'd bury his nose into the the faux fur, and breathe in the Fresh Spring Morning scent she'd bought.

He'd drink orange juice out of little boxes, halfway full with artificial shit, and he'd read aloud to himself Shel Silverstein and e. e. cummings;

"Oh dread, oh dread, it's up to my head, it's up to my head!

"Ma! Dad, the anaconda ate me!"

And Rory and Emma would swoop in and pick him up in their arms and say, "We love you so much, John," and John would smile at them like there was nothing to do but smile, always.

John would spend his days on this carpet. Now... it smelled like Amy. Damn her. She smelled okay, though... like honeysuckle, and to be honest, John always wanted to be with his father instead. He liked Amy. A lot. She had flaming red hair and a rich Scottish accent, but she was kind and nice. And she listened to awesome bands like The Cure. And The Police.

Amy seemed ready to accept John. And Sherlock, and whatever else. She seemed ready to offer him up her soul. Her kindness.

And he thought back to Sherlock, and his song, and he realized that Sherlock had given him his heart and soul and mind...

And John could never tell him how much he wanted to give back, how much he wanted to make him feel safe.

And John was worthless; he had comics and music, and that was it, maybe that was why Sherlock liked him. Maybe it wasn't even him, maybe it was the stuff he brought on the bus. But God, John didn't care. He just needed that smile to be on his face, and maybe the reason Sherlock didn't smile was because if other humans beings saw it they had mini cardiac arrests.

God, John was insignificant.

And he'd never be able to repay Sherlock for being his everything.

Sherlock

Sherlock had gone running. Just to kill time, but there were a thousand thoughts spinning in his head and he couldn't focus on moving his legs. His eye had stopped swelling, although there was a faint outline of red surrounding his cheek, and his lip was still split, so when he bit on it, he had to stop running and clear the gathering tears from his eyes.

When he walked back home, he smelled his mom in the parlor. "Mummy!"

"Sherlock! Come here!" she called.

Sherlock poured himself some orange juice, and made his way to the beauty parlor, where his mom worked. Siger had turned the basement to a hair and nails shop when Sherlock was in kindergarten and Mycroft was in fourth; anyone who could afford to cut their hair went here for Prom or weddings.

Right now, his mum was probably wrapping someone's head in curlers.

The person sitting in the chair today was Sally Donovan, popping bubblegum with her teeth. "Hi," she said sweetly, "Sherlock! I didn't know you were home."

"Well, yes, that's because I was out." Sherlock's voice was thick with hostility.

"Oh, that's lovely," Sally said happily. "Mrs. Holmes, have you met Sherlock's boyfriend yet?"

Sherlock froze. His mum didn't look up. Her eyes were glued to Sally's curls, caught up in a sticky mess of rollers and liquid.

"Sherlock's boyfriend?" she asked, "No, I haven't," as if she just knew. "You have a boyfriend, Sherlock?"

"N-"

"His name is John. You've probably seen him around. Blonde, cute..." she drawled, shooting a pointed look at Sherlock, "Honestly, we can't keep them apart on the bus. They look at comics and things, and they listen to music. It's really adorable."

And Sherlock felt really annoyed at this; why did Sally call John his boyfriend before he got to? And, more importantly, how dare she bring this up to his mother, who was probably going to be extremely understanding, but then she would tell Siger and it'd all spill loose. All of it.

Dying right now would be easier than dealing with Siger's rage.

"Is that right?" His mum's eyes were sparkling, lips drawn into a large, beautiful smile.

"No," Sherlock hissed.

"What?" Sally asked, "You're obvio-"

"I mean he's not my boyfriend. I don't do boyfriends. I don't do relationships."

"Sherlock, it's like so not amu-"

"Okay!" Sherlock's mum said. "Sherlock, Sally, stop talking about... whoever he is. I'm sure they're doing whatever they want to do with themselves."

Sally laughed, "You can be sure of that, Mrs. Holmes."

Sherlock glared at her incredulously.

"Go check on dinner, Sherlock."

"See you tomorrow, Sherlock!" Sally chorused. "Have a nice night!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, his stomach spinning with a wave of weird, detached anger. Like he was angry, but he didn't want to be, and as he stormed out of the salon, he slammed the door and heard a rumbling voice follow immediately.

"Hell, Sherlock! What is wrong with you?" It was Siger, standing in the kitchen, flipping some steak in the pan. "Why'd you come up in here stomping?"

"I... No. Nothing. Sorry, I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? Well, then, go take out the trash."

"Okay, sir," Sherlock said, sheepishly gathering the garbage in two hands and pushing it out the door.

"Violet!"

"Coming!" She bustled through the door wearing an apron, hands slick with hair products.

John didn't call during dinner. That was good.

When dinner was over, Sherlock paced around his enormous house, mainly by the available phones, and at 7:15, they began to ring. He lunged towards one, but apparently, his mum got there first.

It was obviously his grandma.

"Jared Leto? No, really? The Prime Minister doesn't have a daughter... and no, I am not buying that dress. No. No, Mum. God, Mum. No. No. No... That's delightful, and no."

Sherlock prayed to God she'd hang up soon; she was taking forever. Her voice was growing agitated with every passing moment. Sherlock had a feeling she would soon force her mum on her way.

"I don't think I've ever bought acne cream... Not for either of the boys... Yeah, they have great skin. Got it from Siger, I swear... No. No, mum... No... No... Oh, God, no, please never bring that up again... No, I'm not giving you an attitude, mum, I just don't think that's necessary! God. No... No... Nooooo."

She said no for a lot of that conversation.

Sherlock banged his fist into a wall.

"HELL, SHERLOCK," his dad yelled.

"Sorry. Sorry, sorry." Siger wasn't drunk today; that was good, just in case he picked up the phone before Sherlock could. That way Sherlock could just imply that John was a friend. For some reason unknown to him, John still didn't call after his mother hung up, and he felt as if he'd fucked up something, everything. Somehow.

Now, Siger and Mycroft were sitting on the couch, eating. Mycroft was in his own reserved space, biting down on a chip. "Sherlock," he murmured.

"Yes, brother?"

"Are you not expecting a call?"

"I am."

"May I speak with you? Privately?"

Sherlock felt his father's head tilt.

"Yes."

Mycroft stood, and pressed a firm hand to the small of Sherlock's back, pushing him into the other room. They stared at each other for half a tense minute before Mycroft yanked Sherlock's sleeve and whisper-yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What?" Sherlock shook his arm out of Mycroft's grip. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're... you're growing sentimental, Sherlock," Mycroft said urgently, "And you know what will happen if Father finds out."

"Finds out that I have a friend? I think he'll be proud of me. For once in his life." Sherlock's face contorted as Mycroft spoke to him.

"He won't be proud, Sherlock, you stupid boy," Mycroft spat. "He'll hate you for being a freak, don't you understand?"

"I do!" Sherlock yelled.

"Then why are you ignoring all of the previous evidence to prove my claim; you must not continue this relationship with John Watson?"

"He likes me, Myc." Sherlock never called his brother Myc. "Haven't you ever liked someone?"

"No. You're... you're so foolish. You think you can be spared by it all. You think you're a superhero, when, you are, in fact, a sixteen year old boy. Stop this useless crusade. It will bring you no good." Mycroft's voice had softened by the end, his tone gradually falling to more civilized levels. "Listen to me."

"I can't."

"Why must you be so difficult, Sherlock? I won't be able to help," Mycroft whispered.

"I don't bloody care. I don't. John is funny. And he makes me feel full, right inside my chest, right in my heart. I feel something inside me when I'm near him. I feel something. I feel."

It was silent afterwards, as Mycroft briskly walked away. Sherlock went into the kitchen, and sat by his mother, steaming. He'd never stop talking to John Watson. He didn't care if John died, or moved, or stopped liking him (one of the three was inevitable). But for Mycroft to want Sherlock to stop liking John... How did one simply stop liking John?

His mum looked at him, and smiled, touching his pale hand with a gentle air.

And then the phone rang.

Sherlock jumped from the chair, rushing to pick it up. His mum got there first.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Sherlock slumped. Violet smiled, and said, "Oh, okay, alright! Sherlock was telling me about you today! Here, have the phone."

"Can I..." Sherlock pointed upstairs, to his room.

She nodded eagerly at Sherlock, and he took the phone off the receiver. He ran to his room with it in hand, and when he got there, he held his breath...

"Hey," John whispered.

"Hey, John."

A/N: SO CLOSE SOSOSOOSOSOSOS CLOSEEEEE!!!!!!!!11!!!! ily all i'm sorry i wanted to put it into one chapter but it would be at least ten pages i'm sorry don't hate me okay I LOVE YOU GUYSSS BAI (and I've noticed the formatting is weird, I'll fix that when I get my phone back) please leave a vote or a comment! Thank you GOD I CANNOT WAIT LITERALLY I CAN'T