John

do i make you hard?

John pulled out the soiled bed sheets, and placed the cat on the clean one underneath. He took one disk that he'd never listened to by Sherlock, and then he was out the window and on the porch and running faster than he'd ever run, ever. Harder than he'd ever run in rugby.

He didn't stop until three blocks later, and then, only because he had nowhere to run to. He could've run forever. He should have.

It wasn't Harry. It was me. It wasn't Harry, Jesus fuck, it was me, God, it was me.

He was so close to Sherlock's house - but he couldn't go to his house.

"Hey. Mistake."

John ignored the voice, turning back to look down a road that was completely empty. He could feel himself almost pissing his pants, that's how scared he was. He couldn't even hear anything, not even his brain.

Least of all the voice calling to him. He ducked behind a tree and breathed hard.

"John."

suck me off

John looked up, and then around. He was at Anderson's house... and Sally was there, walking down the driveway, holding a beer. She was speaking, but John couldn't hear.

"Hey," Sally said, looking as disgusted as ever. "You. Your dad's been running around all goddamn night long."

John shivered. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. "What did you tell him?" John said, voice shaking, breaths coming up hard and fast. Sally just smiled and shook her head.

"I asked him if his dick was as big as his ego," Sally said. "I didn't tell him anything."

"Did you tell him about Sherlock?"

Sally's head cocked and her eyes narrowed. "No. Someone's gonna, though."

id take your virgin ass but your not a virgin

A pair of headlights shone from down the block. "Shit," John breathed. "Shit."

He had to hide. He had to... run. He had to do... something. God. He had to get away.

"What's wrong with you, anyways?" Sally asked, stepping closer.

"Shit. Oh, God. Nothing. It doesn't... shit." John backed away as the lights approached.

"Come on," she said. "You need to get out of his way until he cools down." Sally motioned for John to go into the hazy, dark garage, and he almost ran.

"Awh, shit. Is that technicolor... boy?" Anderson was smoking in the back, and John wasn't surprised to see Jim Moriarty with his head in Anderson's lap.

"Yes, darling," Jim drawled. "I think it isssss," and he puffed from a blunt, handing it off to the boy next to him. "Sally," he called, "Sally, Dally, dearest, does Sebastian need to shoot anyone? Because, he's very available, and all. Sort of..." he waved his hands, "pissed. Isn't that right, Sebby?"

The boy to Moriarty's right nodded eagerly and halfway slid out a gun from his waistband. Moriarty stood up from Anderson's lap with a stumbling canter, walking to John with a hysterical giggle: "Daddy wants to see you..."

"Step-dad," Sally said, biting her lip.

"Oh!" Moriarty yelled, dancing. "Step-daddy! My step-dad," he whispered, leaning close to John, "had a thing for knives. And prison. You're in trouble, dearest."

Sally pushed John into the couch, next to Anderson, who shoved a beer in his hands. "I mean," he slurred, "Alcohol is better than a blunt. If ya wanna blunt..."

"No," John said, nervously. "No. I'm fine, thank you."

Moriarty was singing in the background. "I'm a woman's man, no time to talk..." His voice was surprisingly in key, light, and airy.

Anderson tapped John's shoulder. "I... fucking hate step-dads. I could get Sebastian to kill yours for you. He's already killed Sally's."

John looked at Sally. She scoffed as if to dismiss Anderson's comment as a rumor, and began to sing with Jim.

"Well?" Anderson shoved the beer into John's chest. "Drink!"

John took a swig. It burned. He used to get drunk all the time, but this time was different... this time, he didn't want to be intoxicated.

your asking for it fag

"We should play cards," Moriarty slurred. "Concentration, sixty five! Or was it four, Sebby... Ah, ah ah ah, staying alive, staying alive!"

Anderson sucked on a blunt and passed it off to Sally, who took a deep breath of it before throwing it at Jim. He puffed on the dope, singing, still, and he did it with an attitude. "Hated my daddy," he said. "Hated him, hated him, hated him... he always used to yell, and it was so sad, it was, when he died... My sister cried, and my mommy cried, but I didn't. I never cry, Johnny boy, darling. I never do."

"Your dad was a dick," Sebastian added.

"Shut up, Sebastian. No one asked you," Anderson said, and then they all began laughing, hysterically.

John looked at them. Laughing. And he felt like he needed to laugh, too. So he did. And he drank. The beer tasted like pepper and the color yellow. Despite his inebriation, though, he kept on saying, "I've got to leave," and Moriarty just replied, "Relax, honey."

"He's going to kill me, shit..." John dropped the beer and it spilled everywhere. "Shit," John said.

"Where are you going to go, Braveheart?" Sally's voice was most clear among the insane laughter.

"I don't know. Away. I have to tell Sherlock."

Sherlock

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night.

One, because of his father; his reaction to Sherlock's return was utterly surprising. He said, "I'm sorry," and, "I feel racked with guilt," (Sherlock scoffed at that) and "I love you, Will."

He'd never heard that from his dad. Ever.

Sherlock had a feeling he never would hear it again. So he kept on replaying the moment.

And then... John. That night, before they got into the front seat, John had taken off his shirt, Sherlock's trousers... He'd even pulled his boxers halfway down his hips. And then he'd laid Sherlock back down onto the blue upholstery. He didn't touch.

He only stared, smiling, slightly.

Sherlock felt John see him. And that was the best feeling in the world.

He'd said, "You're extraordinary," but more to himself.

John looked so safe in the darkness. He wanted him to take it further. Wanted him to kiss everywhere. And now it was worse, because he knew there wasn't a next time. There was only a goodbye...

Sherlock closed his eyes exactly when he heard three knocks on his window. There was a thud, and a yowl, so Sherlock got up and opened it.

"Sherlooooooock!" A boy yelled. "Sherlyyyy!"

"Idiots," Sherlock said, sticking his head out. He was going to tell (Jim was at his house in the middle of the night?) Moriarty to go away, but then he saw John...  His lips opened a bit.

There was a beer in his hand...

And he looked... scared?

John

As soon as Sherlock saw him, he jumped out of the fucking window feet first, landing in a crouch and running to John. He felt a sob catch in his throat, and then he was dropping the beer and crushing Sherlock into him.

"What...?" Sherlock looked down at John, who was holding the tears back. "John, what's happening?"

John started to cry. Not like, normal crying either - his unbarred choking gasps, high pitched and endless. They wouldn't stop, they couldn't.

"It wasn't Harry. It was me. It was me."

"Car," someone said, and John pressed his back into a shadow as the headlights passed. "What's happened?" Sherlock asked again.

"Let's go," a boy said - Anderson, and John pulled Sherlock down and into the garage.

Sherlock

Sherlock had never been in a room so hazy. There was a joint just sitting on the floor, and Sherlock kicked it across the room. There was a goddamned Camaro on blocks in the middle of the room, with a leather couch in the corner. Sebastian and Moriarty were smoking blunts together, singing the same verse over and over again.

As soon as Sally sat down, she offered Sherlock a joint. Sherlock stared at her, then at the roll-up in her hand, and backed away with John.

"Are you high?" Sherlock asked, pulling him aside.

"Drunk, a bit," John said, sobbing. "I'm sorry."

"What is happening, John?" Sherlock demanded. John couldn't speak, he was sobbing so hard. "What is going on?" Sherlock looked over at Moriarty. "Tell me!" he yelled viciously.

"Johnny is a freakshow, Daddy wants a blo-ow, Johnny doesn't want to give it, but Daddy made him do it..." Moriarty sang. "Sherlooooooock, Daddy's gonna notice you're gone soooon, and then what are you gonna do, hmm?"

"Shut up, and tell me!" Sherlock screamed, letting go of John and lunging at him. He smelled like expensive alcohol and expensive cologne.

"Woah, there," Moriarty said, widening his eyes and leaning forward. "Daddy won't tell you anything unless you ask nicely."

"Please," Sherlock growled, taking the collar of Jim's suit. "Tell. Me."

Jim shrugged, and then began to laugh. "It's John's father," he said. "He's looking around, playing hide and go seek..."

"Is this true?" Sherlock said, turning to John, who was trying to stop, but couldn't, so he just bit his knuckles and nodded.

"Yeah," John choked. "Yeah. Yep. Pickard... he..."

"Fucking step-dads. Fucking pieces of shit," Anderson suddenly yelled. "Did you hear that? Motherfuckers! All of them."

He began to laugh.

"I've got to get out of here," John said, crying. "Gotta leave."

Thank God. "We're... going to my house. Yeah," Sherlock said cautiously, backing out of the room.

"Thank you," John said, with an awkward wave goodbye, and Moriarty began to cackle madly. "It's raining, it's pouring, John-ny is ruuunning, it's draining, it's drying, John is waving goodbye-ing..."

The night couldn't be any more strange.

Sherlock led John into his grandparents' backyard, then to the RV, where the screen door was. Sherlock opened it, and motioned. John climbed inside.

He and Mycroft used to play in this thing. It was like a mini house; it had a bed at one end and a kitchen on the other. Sherlock used to hide in the stove when he was little, and once, Mycroft had turned it on...

He said it was a mistake. Liar.

On a wall, there were two seats, facing each other. John sat on the far side, and Sherlock on the near. "What's happened, John?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "I have to leave. I have to leave, right now-"

"Slow down. What. Is happening."

"I don't... I can't..."

"John?" Sherlock's voice shook only a bit. "Is this about tonight, because I..."

"No. No, no, it's not, I... I..." John wheezed, letting out a loud sob. "It's me. Not Harry. Oh, God, it's me."

"Why is your stepfather searching for you?"

"Because," John choked. He gasped in short breaths, speaking deliriously. "Because he knows. And it's him. Doing this to me. Not Harry, Jesus. Jesus, Sherlock..."

"What? Speak something that doesn't include gibberish."

"Oh, God, Sherlock. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't..." John whispered, voice too cracked to crack any more.

Sherlock wanted to shake John. He wasn't making any sense; two hours ago, it was perfect, and now... How did times change so fast? Sherlock had to leave, anyway, his dad would notice, soon. Like Moriarty said, he would notice. Somehow.

"John, I need you to calm down. Then, I need you to say everything to me."

"Okay," John said. "Okay. I can do that. Okay."

John breathed.

"You know those - those notes? On my books. And you thought they were Anderson's, because they were in the locker rooms, and he had access to them, and - and it wasn't, I..."

"John..." Sherlock's eyes widened, fists curling tight enough to cause his palms to bruise.

"Sherlock, he, he," John's shoulders shook, as he tried to keep going, "Pickard, he... he wrote them, your mother said he was a predator and I thought he was after Harry, because he always bought her things and was so nice to her, but the writing was his," he sobbed, "I came home and he ripped my room apart, everything, Harry was on the floor, he was - he was screaming at Mum, and on the cover to my box was his writing and he called me a whore and then I didn't know why it was so familiar, but..."

Sherlock began to shake. Not from anger, but from terror. "That pervert..." Sherlock whispered in a voice so dark and gravelly and dense that it sucked all the light from the streetlamps outside.

"Pickard had access to my books, Sherlock, he said - he asked if he made me" - John gulped - "if he made me hard, it wasn't a dumb prank, it wasn't, and it wasn't Harry, Sherlock, I don't know what to do," John said, hyperventilating through breaths, "I'm scared and I don't know what to do."

"Maybe he's..." Sherlock's eyes were frightened, and he was gripping onto the seat, trying to gain his bearings, "...just trying to scare you, John, maybe there's something... there has to be something."

"No," John said. His voice was deathly quiet, shaking; the wind couldn't even hear it. "No, Sherlock... You don't know, you don't know. You don't see how... the way he looks at me."

John

The way he looks at me.

Like he's biding his time; counting his minutes, waiting.

Not like he's patient. Like he's calculating. Readying. Saving me for when everything is gone, and everyone is barren and empty.

How he waits up for me.

Keeps track of me.

How he's always there, watching me, breathing down my neck. When I'm eating.

When I'm reading. When I'm bathing. Brushing my teeth.

Like I'm his. Like he owns me.

You don't see.

Because I pretend not to.

A/N: Jesus. Uh, yeah, if you don't understand what's happening here, ask me some questions. Where do you guys think he's going to go? What's Sherlock going to do when he's gone? I want to know what you think of the plot twist... and we're almost finished with the book. But not quite. For you Eleanor and Park readers, the ending is different. (For the sake of your sanities, I came up with an alternate (and sadder) ending. (How is that possible? you ask.) (I don't know, I answer.)) God. This book is my baby, and y'all are the godmother/fathers. I love you all. Hope you like/hate/feel emotions towards what's going on - leave me a comment/vote! luv ya.