John

"You can't fucking do this!"

"I'm afraid we can."

"You can't fucking-"

"We have to. We're bound by the law."

"No, I'm eighteen! I have rights, I'm a citizen of the bloody UK-"

"You falsified information on the contract that gave you permission to rent this flat. Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you are seventeen years old. You're still under Emma Trout's roof, and you ran away... a week and a half ago?"

"What?" John was disbelieving although he knew what the copper was saying was true.

"You no longer can rent this apartment."

"The hell I don't! I'm suing!"

"For what? You falsified information."

"For obstruction of justice!"

"That's not..."

"To hell with you. To hell with it all."

"John..."

"Don't call me that. You don't understand. We can't go back. We won't."

"You can, and you will."

"Fuck. Fuck you."

"Mr. Watson."

"I'm not fucking leaving! You can't take this away!"

"Mr. Watson... Christ, why are you..."

"Shut up!"

"John, back away. I'm going to call security if you..."

"Fuck you!"

"Mr. Watson, step away."

"You can't just rip everything away!"

"Mr. Watson!"

"You can't make me leave him again! You can't let me drive him home in the morning... and make pretend that it's okay... and then leave him to this unknowable, inexplicable fate that he will never tell me about. You can't make me, and if you do, I swear to God. I swear, I swear I will-"

"JOHN," Sherlock suddenly shouted.

John looked up, cheeks red and tearstained.

"John," he whispered. "It's alright. It's fine."

John shook his head. "No," he kept on whispering. "No."

Sherlock stood, and took the cop's hand. "Good day," he said, and then, nodded at Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting absolutely shellshocked. Then, "Let's go." Sherlock walked out the door, not sure if John was following, not sure if that mattered.

When they'd left the building, John crushed his body to Sherlock's chest. Like he wanted a permanent embossment of Sherlock on him. A tattoo of how Sherlock felt to the touch. He kept on saying that he was sorry, so sorry, it was his fault. It was his fault. Why was it always his fault? What did God do this for? Why? Why?

They got into Pickard's truck and drove until the sun disappeared. The second times were always shorter. Equally as painful. John didn't notice when they were close to Baskerville again, but he stopped before the exit anyway.

"This was a mistake," he kept on yelling.

"It wasn't."

"It was. You know why I did this? For a broken arm."

"I don't know, John."

"This was because you couldn't bear to tell me what was wrong."

"What?"

"What was wrong!"

"What was fucking wrong, John? What was fucking wrong with me?"

John slammed his hand into the dashboard like it could absorb his pain. "I don't know what's fucking wrong with you!" he yelled. "Why do I put up with your bullshit? Because you love me? You've never said it! I mean, what the fuck am I sitting here for?"

"I don't know," Sherlock hissed. "In fact, it's the only thing I don't know. I told you, John! I told you this would happen!" Sherlock was breathing harder than anyone had ever made him breathe. Harder than hours of Siger made him. "And would your bathetic arse listen? Would it? 'You're it,' you said," Sherlock growled. "'You're it for me.' How. How could you fuck up this awfully. All for a boy. Some freak like me. Want to know what my dad does?"

John slammed his head into the steering wheel, setting off a loud, piercing beep.

"Do you know why I use, John? Because I don't recall ever telling you."

John slowly looked up from the wheel, and stared.

"I use because of him," Sherlock spat. "Because of my father. Because I can't function once he's hit me. I can't breathe when he's watching. And now my mum's gone I can't live because now he has no bloody boundaries, and I can't cope with dying like that. I can't cut off my emotions like Mycroft does; I can't pretend I don't feel for him because I do, I have to, or else I don't feel human anymore. Do you understand how it feels to not feel human? Do you know how it feels to wake up knowing your father - that you used to look up to, that you used to love and you swore at some point loved you - is the architect of your dehumanization? And I can't face it. I can't face it. John,  I can't... live with this. My father's the only thing I have left. I can't live."

John's brow was furrowed, and his mouth was open, and his eyes were full of emotion.

"Death sounds so much better than life when you're dying, John. I'm dying. When I get home, I'm going to stick my hand inside those satin sheets and I'm going to shoot up for all I am worth. It's a comforting prospect, to hold your life in your hands." Sherlock leaned close. His voice was cracking; his breaths were hitching, and his eyes were sharper than broken glass. "It's nice to think that you can control whether or not you'll wake up in the morning."

Sherlock blinked, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. He held nothing back when he spoke, and his voice caught on every single syllable. "I... don't want to go... back."

John unbuckled Sherlock's seatbelt and let him crawl into his arms, where he proceeded to fall apart. "I miss my mummy," he cried.

Sherlock

They stayed awake in the car, breathing in the sweat and tears they'd made. John could hardly find it in himself to speak, but when he did, he apologized.

Halfway through the night, he'd pulled Sherlock into the backseat, and Sherlock had rested his head up against John's thighs, curling in on himself. John held his hand, because he knew he liked it. His eyes fluttered.

John asked, later, what Sherlock's errand was, that one fateful day. What he'd been doing before he arrived at John's window in the pouring rain. Sherlock pulled out his license, and handed it over.

"What?" John said, smiling. "This looks nothing like you, I swear."

"It's..." Sherlock shrugged into John's leg. "Abstract."

John didn't want to give it back.

"I don't have any pictures of you," John said.

"We could take some."

"I want to take hundreds."

"Do you have your phone?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh. Yeah."

"Okay. I'm giving you sole permission," Sherlock said, loudly, "to take as many pictures as you deem fit." Sherlock seemed high off exhaustion, and John didn't want to take advantage of that, but it was a full moon and Sherlock's eyes absorbed the light coming in through the windows. It made his skin a light, cold blue.

John took so many pictures that he swore that he broke the flash. That was okay, though... Sherlock looked lovely in the darkness.

John

"We should go somewhere, for our last night alone."

"Alright. Where to?"

"I don't know," John said, sinking down in his seat. "Can we just... go?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "Ready to go on an adventure?"

"Yes." John slid into the driver's seat, pulling Sherlock along with him. "Get down. Your skin glows in the dark."

"Thank you."

"Shut up."

They drove west, into Baskerville and then back out again, all the way into the shops in the city nearby.

"Don't drive over here."

"Why?"

"Take a right."

"Okay..."

John looked down, at Sherlock, who was crouching on the floor, and he laughed.

"You find this amusing?"

"Kind of, yeah," John said. "I'm driving my stepfather's stolen car, and you're sitting on the floor."

"Yes, well..."

"Can you sit up? We've been out a while."

"I'll sit up when we're way out."

Sherlock sat up a minute later, but didn't talk until a lot more than that.

"Where are we going to?"

"I haven't a clue." John really didn't. He knew how to get to school, and how to get to Asda, and that was it. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know," he replied.

Sherlock

Sherlock wanted to go to Inspiration Point. Which, as far as he knew, only existed to grown adults that wanted to fuck in a car. (UMQRA.)

And he didn't want to ask John where the cool kids went to fog up the windows. Because, what would he think of that? And what if he had a legitimate answer?

"Do we have to go somewhere?" he asked.

"We have to go some where," John replied, taking a right hand turn.

"But do we have to do something?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means... can't we just be alone together? Where do people go to be alone together?"

"I dunno. Um. Downtown?" John backed into a parking lot and turned the other way.

"That sounds nice."

John

They did get out of the car. When John got downtown, Sherlock wanted to do something other than sit in the car and make stupid googly eyes at each other, so he dragged John along to his favorite bookstore, and then his favorite Chinese place, and they ordered ribs. John had never been any of these places, even though this was the only place to go.

John took him to a comic bookstore, and then a pizza place, and then an ice cream place.

If he pretended it was a date, it might turn into one.

John held his hand the entire night, like he was his boyfriend. Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that he was.

They walked down all the sidewalks, and then down all the alleys, then across the street, into a park that John had never seen.

Sherlock

They arrived at a small park, and though it was wet and muddy and cold, John just couldn't help but say how nice it was.

"Look, swans," John said, pointing at some birds pooping.

"Those are geese, John."

"Well, they're the best looking goddamned geese I've ever seen."

They watched the geese settle on the edge of the lake while John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock kissed his cheek.

"We should do this more," John whispered.

"What?"

"Going out."

"Okay," he said, resting his head on John's. "Prom, then. I hate social events, but if it makes you happy, then..."

"Prom?" John lifted his head.

"We don't need to..."

"Yeah. Yeah, we should," he said. "But you know my situation... why would we go, anyway?"

Because Sherlock wanted to see John in a tux. And he wanted to teach John how to dance. And he wanted their chests to be inches away, safer for it.

"Because." Sherlock shrugged. "That's what normal people do, right? They have dates?"

"Yeah, I suppose..."

"Will you?"

"What."

"Go to prom? With me?" Sherlock looked at John with indifferent eyes.

"Yeah." John nodded. "Sure."

John

Prom. As if.

The amount of guile it would take to slip prom past his parents was endless. It boggled the mind. Especially if he was going with Sherlock.

Why would he even go? How would he pay for the tuxedo?

He'd have to say he was going with Greg and Myc and Molly and Tom. He could get ready at Sherlock's - or no, not anymore.  They could ready in a fucking abandoned house. Did they even sell prom suits his size? He'd have to shop in the kids' section, he was so short.

And he'd have to rob a bank. Even if a hundred dollars fell from the sky, he'd never spend it on something as temporary as a tux.

He'd spend it on sweaters. Or boots that didn't smell like Pickard.

Prom. As if.

Sherlock

After John agreed to accompany Sherlock to prom, he then also agreed to go to the BAFTA after party, his first cotillion, and to any and all balls that he may happen to recieve invitations.

He laughed so that the geese complained. "Be quiet," John said, "I'm laughing."

"You think you can take me with your ethereally good looks, but little do you know, I'm not that type of boy," Sherlock yelled, kicking up some dirt with his sneakers.

"Lucky for me," John joked. Sherlock fixed him with a look.

"Is this the part where I tell you you're the most attractive person I've encountered, ever? Because I'm not going to do that."

"No. No," John said. "No, that's... not it." John meant that to be funny. Not so Sherlock would nit-pick about the actual meaning of what he'd said.

"You don't think you're handsome? Because I do."

"It's not that I'm not... Okay. Let's stop, and start talking about, you know, prom..."

"Why is that lucky for you?"

"Because," John answered, like the two syllables hurt.

"Because, why?"

"Hey," John chuckled. "I thought that was my line."

"Because, why?"

"Because of my manly stature, you know, my height." John ran his hand down his leg, over and over again.

"Are you saying you aren't good-looking?" Sherlock squinted his eyes. "Because you are."

"Can we stop?"

"Are you saying this just so I can reassure you of your attractiveness?"

"No..." John said. "No. Because it's obvious."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock said.

"I'm just... really small. And really poor. No girls go for short guys."

Sherlock placed his hand over John's, and made it stop moving.

"Vertically challenged men have a better rate of survival," Sherlock insisted. "You'll live longer."

"So? No one thinks short boys are... hot."

"I think you're..." Sherlock stopped himself before he said something stupid.

"What?"

"I think you're hot." Sherlock paused. "Did that really just come out of my mouth, or was that a hallucination?"

John blinked. Like, really, really hard. "What?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, and closed his eyes. "Danny Devito?"

"What?"

"I'm thinking of short men."

"Jesus, Sherlock."

The goose was still honking, and John halfheartedly threw ice at it. He wouldn't look at Sherlock.

"I don't understand what this has to do with me," Sherlock suddenly said.

"It has everything to do with me. Not that I mind," John said, looking away completely.

Sherlock grabbed John's chin and tilted it up. "I mind, and I think you should think that you're... you know. I'm not saying it again." Then Sherlock kissed him. John loved it when he kissed him first. "You're just... you. And that's the best thing, John."

John loved it when he said his name.

It was getting cold and late, and they cut through the park to get to the car.

The lot was empty when they arrived in the truck. Sherlock was feeling tense, full of a weird, new feeling. Maybe it was something about the car...

The truck didn't look pervy on the outside, but the inside was a different story. The front seat was basically as big as John's bed, and the backseat, well, it was just an erotic fiction waiting to happen.

"It's not as late as I thought," John said, checking the clock on the dashboard. 9:30.

It was just that night. Every time he looked at John, he was looking back, and every time he was leaning in for a kiss, his eyes were already closed.

Read my mind, Sherlock thought.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Off to home we go." John reached up, and put the key almost into the ignition. Sherlock  stopped him from turning the key before he could by roughly tugging on his sleeve.

John dropped the keys, and, all in one motion, scooped Sherlock into his arms. Scooped. Sherlock felt muscle tighten and ripple under his skin. If you saw them doing this, you would've thought Sherlock and John did this all the time. Constantly. Not just the once before.

This was already different. Nothing was lining up, and they were kissing pieces of skin they didn't know were there. They weren't even kissing each other square on the mouth. Sherlock kept on climbing up his shirt, even with an aching arm, and John kept on shoving him into the seat, pulling back to give Sherlock opportunity to pull forward.

They were wedged in between the seat and the steering wheel, and when John pushed a hand into Sherlock's shirt, Sherlock backed into the horn. It let off a loud beep, and John accidentally bit down on Sherlock's tongue.

He didn't care when he tasted blood, was already onto the next thing. "You okay...?" John asked.

"Yeah, uh..."

"Do you think..." John smiled. "Do you think we could go into the back seat?" He was breathing heavy.

I did this to him, Sherlock thought. It made him feel so debauched when he realized that John was this way because of him. Sherlock pushed up and off, into the back. It was huge. It was amazing.

Not half a second later, John was on top of him.

John

Sherlock felt so good underneath. Way better than he'd expected. (And he'd expected heaven, and that scene in Willy Wonka where Charlie begins to fly. Plus nirvana. Praise be to Jesus.)

Plus, the faces Sherlock was making... he looked like a girl in a Prince video. If this felt as good to him and it did to John, they might never ever stop.

John ran his fingers down the inseam of Sherlock's thigh, and then slipped down his trousers... and Sherlock sighed, like it was the most relieving thing he'd ever felt.

"Zac Efron," Sherlock suddenly said. "He's short."

John pulled off his shirt.

"What?"

"Short men."

Sherlock nearly ripped one of John's sleeves, trying to tear it off.

"That's still two inches taller than me."

"Shut up, John."

John closed his eyes and arched his back.

Sherlock'd never get enough of him.

A/N: YAYYA slash nooo  I can't talk omg the parents are watching