John

"Sherlock?" John called, "Is that you?" He was tentative as he stepped forward, asking the empty voice, "Where are you?"

"In a locker. It says 'freak' all over it in permanent sharpie - it's not that hard to spot."

It wasn't. It was emboldened, italicized, disturbing pitch black words, screaming at John. "You aren't a freak," John murmured softly as he approached the locker. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. But he said it all the same, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he needed to defend himself, or depreciate himself, but he said something that wasn't entirely one or the other.

"You didn't say that when we first met," Sherlock commented, as John made his way to the locker. "I suppose I didn't expect you to. They're all idiots. Every last one of them. They smell like stupidity looks."

John laughed quietly, but Sherlock did not join him. Instead, he snapped, "Well, are you going to open it, or not?"

"How?" John questioned, looking through the small slits in the locker.

"With a key," Sherlock scoffed, as if it was entirely obvious (it was, but John liked to imagine it wasn't). "Unless you want to use an ax."

"I'm alright with that," John huffed frustratedly. Twat. "Where's the key?"

"In the toilet. Fetch it."

"What?"

"I said for you to get the damned key so I can get out of here. Honestly, John. Listen."

"No!" John yelled, "It's at the way bottom, next to a piece of shit. No."

"I'll pay you a hundred dollars," Sherlock said, absently picking at his cuticles, "God knows you need it, for your sister's tuition... for your tuition, in fact."

"Are you trying to bribe me?" John's hands itched, almost involuntarily reaching for the key. He did need the money, immensely. Harry had used her savings all on cigarettes and mini skirts, and John needed a hundred dollars, so, so much.

"I'm not trying to bribe you," Sherlock said with a smirk. Awh, fuck it, thought John, and his hand darted inside the toilet and back out before Sherlock could blink. Then he clicked it into the keyhole, and Sherlock fell out, muscles refusing to help him stand. John snorted as he helped Sherlock up, fingers slick with toilet water. Sherlock didn't say anything about it.

"Mm," Sherlock moaned briefly; John had a feeling that was the closest he ever got to admitting he was in pain. He seemed to observe John as he stumbled up. "Mrs. Adler kept you after again?" he asked. "Oh, it's obvious, the red lipstick on the collar of your shirt. Ever notice she wipes her lipstick around with her right hand?"

"No," John said, awed. He turned on a faucet and ran some cold water over his hands.

"And then there's the chalk. You look like a dissatisfied ghost, with only the creases in your face not covered by it, like you'd been frowning the entire time. You must not like her."

"I do," John started.

"No, you don't."

"Alright. I don't. Got me. She wanted me to dust her erasers, and I couldn't get home so I decided to sleep here."

"Did you want to sleep here?" Sherlock's face feigned curiosity as John lied. John said, no, no, he didn't. 

"Well then. I suppose I'll just call my parents and-"

"Why would you bloody call your parents? This is cool. The lights are off... The world is small... It's cold at home..."

"No," Sherlock said, "No, I really must be going-"

"That's what you said about music." John scratched his chin. "Please."

Sherlock heaved a sigh before sitting on John's blanket. "So what nonsensical modern dramatic rock are we listening to today? Not The Beatles, I hope."

"Why not?" John unplugged his headphones and turned it up to full volume. It blasted like it had never been heard before, a melody tearing through the thick air. It was loud, and it was-

"HEY JUDE-"

"Turn it down, you imbecile!"

"-DON'T MAKE IT BAD!"

"John!"

Sherlock soon realized John was singing along, not bothering to care. Sherlock's feet itched, going into time with the music, and Sherlock wanted to stop, needed to, but God, just-

"TAKE A SAD SONG-"

"And make it BETTER!" Sherlock crescendoed into this exciting new feeling called music, and John laughed as if there was nothing in this room but joy.

"REMEMBER, TO LET HIM INTO YOUR HEART," John screamed at the top of his lungs, the music coursing through them, filling them, just fucking yes, and Sherlock yelled twice as loudly, "THEN YOU CAN START-"

They sang in absolute, melodic unison, and as Sherlock screamed the lyrics as loudly as was possible, he felt happy. He felt like he had a friend.

"-TO MAKE IT BETTER."

Sherlock

"Will we ever speak to each other again?" John asked, shoving a chip in his mouth, and crunching. Sherlock was laying next to him on his blanket, and they were having a conversation about the annoying assholes in the locker rooms.

"Probably not. It's unlikely," Sherlock replied, likewise grabbing a chip from John's overnight bag.

"Why?" he asked, trying to sound casual. 

"Because we're freaks, John. I'm not stupid. I know what people look like when you look way in. You're..." Sherlock's eyes darted to John's. "Naïve."

John sat up, so he was looking at Sherlock from above. "I'm not... naïve, you tit."

"You're quite." Sherlock's gaze shifted away, and his voice didn't waver when he spoke. "Everything I touch crashes and burns. You shouldn't get close. I'm a freak."

"And I'm a mistake," John scoffed. "This is fucking ridiculous. They're fucking ridiculous. I like you. You're going to be my friend."

"Good luck," was all Sherlock said. He refused to let anyone take his walls down. He shut himself in; he always would, and this blue eyed wonder would not ruin his defenses. He would not crack. The sentiment would not show, and the children would laugh at the empty shell of a human being that he was. John Watson would soon be no exception, and he would join into the taunting as well. It was the inevitable conclusion to any story Sherlock told.

Sherlock had a sense of John's eyes furrowing as he lay back down again.

"You really don't like yourself, do you?" John's voice was a breath in the silence, and Sherlock's voice was even softer.

"No."

The silence consumed them; it choked them, almost daring them to break it. John dared. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Ten forty-three."

"You don't have a watch."

"I don't need one."

"Okay," John replied before rolling onto his back and trying to fall asleep. Sherlock counted his breaths, deep and lazy. The rise and fall of his chest had a certain... tone to it. And Sherlock wiggled his fingers, and then his toes, counted sheep, did everything until there was nothing left and he felt his mind on fire. It was only ten fifty-four.

There was nothing left in his empty head but to talk to him.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Are you awake? I apologize if I've woken you..." Sherlock's voice faltered once as bile rose into his throat and he felt a crack in the ice around his heart. He cursed under his breath. Fuck.

"No, it's quite fine," John replied. "What?"

"I... I want to be your friend."

"Okay," John answered.

Sherlock fell asleep immediately afterwards.

John

Two days afterwards, John got on the bus, wearing a leather jacket. It was the first time he'd ever worn something quite so expensive, and he loved the way it felt, like it tugged at his bones, swallowed him in warmth. He found it in a Salvation Army drop off, labeled Calvin Klein. He ripped the label off because it scratched on the back of his neck.

He remembered Harry's reaction to it all: "John! You look fucking handsome. Who's the lucky girl?"

John scoffed. He also remembered the moments before he got on the bus, his entire mind ablaze with one sentence: "What will Sherlock think?"

Sherlock

The day went faster than Sherlock anticipated. In gym class, Sherlock knocked out all the bullies single-handedly, starting off with Moriarty and moving down the ranks. He felt amazing until he looked at his locker; he had forgotten what the word "freak" looked like when the lights were on.

When Sherlock got on the bus, he noticed John's leather jacket. It was brown, and it didn't really smell like him, but that was okay; he looked cool.

When John took out his iPod, Sherlock didn't object or imply he didn't want them. In fact, Sherlock did want them, so it was easy to take the velvety earphones in his hands and fit them over his head. Sherlock listened. He gave them back a stop before John's.

"You can borrow them. I've got a player at home," John said, probably lying.

"I don't want to use up all of the batteries."

"I have a charger, you know."

Sherlock already knew that. He could see the scratch marks near the phone port. But just...

"I don't want to get in trouble with my father." Sherlock's brow crumpled. Why the fuck did he let that slip out of his mouth? Stupid, stupid... but John's response surprised him.

John just smiled sadly as he reached his iPod back to him, fingers outstretched and offering.

"Take it, Sherlock," John whispered kindly, eyes full of an emotion that Sherlock had never seen before.

Sherlock took it, and ran off the bus.

He listened till three in the morning, until the stupid little thing shut off with a loud beep.

He hoped Siger wouldn't wake up.

John

When John got home, he took out his portable CD player and wrote Sherlock's name on it in permanent ink. Then he wrapped earbuds around the thing, gave him ten CD's, and a blank one so he could add his own music. He wrote, "My favs," on one. Just because he could.

He turned on his stereo, and listened to Asleep quietly until Harry came home, stumbling from the alcohol in her system. It was three o'clock when Harry slumped into bed, and John turned off the music.

"Sing me to sleep," John whispered.

"I'm tired and dying," Harriet slurred, and then all was quiet.

A/N: I like John and Harry they're cool