John

His mum wasn't going to let him babysit.

"Mum. Let me go."

She scoffed, putting her blonde hair into a bun and proceeding to cover her tender hands with flour. She was making pizza. "I'm doing what's best for you, baby. Rory... he's not..."

"What? You divorced him, Mum, I didn't."

"Do you forget what he'd done?"

John rubbed his brow and leaned into the counter. "You bring that up whenever you need a trump card."

"Because that's the trump card. You can't go," she replied, slathering tomato sauce on the pizza.

"Please."

"I-"

"He's my dad. I haven't seen him in God knows how long, Mum. And... we... we need the money."

"The money." Her tone was skeptical. Prideful. "What did you tell him, John?"

"Nothing, Mum! He just said he'd pay me twenty pounds if I babysat..." John swallowed. His mother hated hearing about Melody; she thought she was inbred hell-spawn. "If I babysat," John simply finished.

"Who?" Her voice was critical, and then she realized, and her voice fell flat. "Melody, isn't it. Does he realize he has two other children to take care of?" She huffed and violently put mozzarella cheese on the pizza. "If he has any extra money laying around he should pay his goddamned child support."

"There's... Mum. It's twenty pounds."

"But it isn't. It's your livelihood, it's your life."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

She stopped, turned to John, and stared at him. "What the hell are you complaining about anyway? He doesn't care about you, John, don't you see?"

John ran a hand through his uncut hair. That was a lie, his dad still loved him. Amy and Melody didn't matter; his new family didn't matter. "And Pickard cares?"

She then began to put sausage on the pizza, and peppers. "He tries," she lied.

John sighed, "Mum, if you think there's no reason to go, think of the money, okay, think. I can probably weasel a bit more out of him, too."

At this, John saw the gears spin in her brain. His mother was a cunning, sharp woman when she wanted to be. "Money?"

"Yeah. Twenty, maybe thirty pounds."

She nodded slowly, and John could've sworn she saw her wink. Like a cat, she grinned, and said, reluctantly, "I'll ask Pickard."

"God!" John yelled. "I mean," he coughed, "God. No, he'll say no."

His mum nodded as if to say, "obviously, that's why I want to ask him."

"You can't tell me I can't see my own dad, Mum. And neither can he."

If his mum asked, Pickard would say no. Just to feel like a man, because he was a rat. He looked like a rat, too, with a long, pointy nose and beady brown eyes, along with the added bonus of thin, curly brown hair that was untrimmed and oily. That was why Pickard was such a fucking arse - because his personality brought out his ugliness and he had to make up for it somehow.

"John..."

"Please, Mummy." Whenever he called her that, she melted. He just had to time it right; he usually didn't and then she became aware of his sweet talking, followed by a chastising but playful slap to the back of the head.

"Fine," she said grudgingly, "but split it with me. We have to do grocery shopping."

"Of course, Mum." John quickly kissed her cheek, and skipped to his room to go tell Harry the news. She wanted this necklace for her birthday in two weeks... he was going to buy it for her. Clara agreed to getting her some lingerie or something... he didn't know what lesbians did in their spare time, so he just stuck to jewelry. And he also wanted to buy her The Christmas Carol, because of her cat, Scrooge.

But the reason he most wanted to babysit was because his dad had a phone.

So did Sherlock.

The next morning, while Sherlock was rubbing John's homemade rope bracelet in between his thumb and forefinger, John asked Sherlock for his number.

Sherlock began laughing.

"What's so funny?" John laughed.

"Because," Sherlock whispered, "It sounds like you're trying to advance upon me."

"I am trying to advance upon you. Give me the damn number." John pouted slightly, and Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he looked on in amusement. "Or not," John murmured, "I mean, you've never offered it up."

"I supposed that you couldn't talk to me after your stepfather... you know." Sherlock stopped holding John's bracelet, and instead folded his hands over his knees, leaning his head on his fists.

"I probably wouldn't be, if I bloody had a phone." John usually tried to maneuver around the topic of his poverty.

"So, then, why do you need my number if you can't call me?"

"Jesus," John said, "neverfuckingmind."

Sherlock scoffed and took a pen out of his backpack, and reached for John's history textbook-

"No," John stuttered, "My mom'll see it."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared at the textbook, and John realized too late what he was looking at. "suck me off," it said in ugly lowercase letters, and John ripped the pen out of Sherlock's hand and scribbled it out as quickly as possible. God, John thought, God, no.

"Anderson?"

"Maybe."

"Why?" Sherlock looked horrified. "Why?"

"I don't know, okay, Sherlock, I don't know." John scribbled it so hard that the ink bled onto his fingers, and the paper turned wet and sticky. "I don't know," John repeated.

"Hey, John-" Sherlock cut himself off.

It was one thing for John to reveal to Sherlock the sad things, the small things, but to remind him that he was that boy... it was bloody horrendous.

Like, he never showered. And he hardly ever washed his hair, he couldn't, and he couldn't afford to call Sherlock and his sister was an alcoholic and it all fucking sucked. He was that boy, the one who seemed a bit too thick and a bit too poor and wore a bit a lot too much plaid... because he stole from Salvation Army drop offs.

He was that. Boy.

He never used to be that boy - he used to have tons of friends and he used to get picked first for sports because he was fantastic at them and he was nice and funny and muscled and blonde and attractive. Not that he thought he was even attractive - he just didn't hate himself. And now it was just too much too handle and honestly he could sympathize with Harry now, too, which is when you know your life is a downhill spiral.

"John." Sherlock woke him from his self pity.

"What," he said to the window.

"How are you going to call me if you don't have my number?" Sherlock quipped.

"Who said," John growled, "that I was going to call you?"

"Oh," Sherlock scoffed, "your passive aggressiveness is so not amusing. And honestly," he added, "I hate it when you're mad at me."

"Why?"

"Drives me right crazy."

"Drives you crazy," John mumbled. "I'm never mad at you."

"Really."

"Yeah, Sherlock. Never."

"You're just mad... near me."

"That sounds about right."

"I want to punch you in the face."

John smiled, and elbowed him. "Yeah. Yeah, so do I."

"Let me write down my number."

"I'll memorize it," John sung.

"Eight six seven," Sherlock sang back, "fiiive three oh nine," which made John laugh until he just couldn't anymore.

Sherlock

Sherlock tried to remember the first time he saw him.

He remembered thinking about his trousers. Jeans. And the flannel he wore; blue and orange and green. He remembered thinking, So ugly.

And being embarrassed for the boy; why did he try to be different so much? And why would he enter this school - full of elitists and geniuses, and be so... normal? It didn't make any sense. How dare he? Sherlock remembered thinking. And he remembered almost feeling bad. As if he couldn't bring himself to sympathize with the friendless boy, which was strange.

And what was even stranger... Sherlock remembered being happy he wouldn't be the freak anymore. Which, ultimately, was proven wrong.

And he'd thought it was bad enough to have chubby cheeks and bright blonde hair.

God, his cheeks were adorable; soft and warm looking. Sometimes, Sherlock thought about pressing his cheeks against John's and feeling the smile press up against his face.

But that's not what he originally thought.

He originally wanted to stab both cheeks with a pin and watch them deflate like a balloon.

Now... he felt a tidal wave of anger wash over him whenever he heard someone whispering in someone else's ear about John. Whenever he saw John sad.

There was a boy named Horace; he was an orphan whose parents had recently died in a car crash. He'd called John a "stupid peasant," and Sherlock had spun around and said, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh wait - you don't," and the boy had to be sent home because he was crying so hard. Sherlock got a ticket the next day, for mentally abusing another student, but he didn't mind.

And really. Sherlock tried to ignore the writing on John's textbook. But why would Anderson write that? Why would anyone ever write that? Especially to John. John was art. He was beautiful, and interesting, and kind, and the very fact someone would stoop to such a level was despicable; it was disgusting. Sherlock was disgusted.

When he saw it he'd balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets so John wouldn't see how angry he was. He tried not to make it worse for John, and he tried not to embarrass him too badly by beating anyone to death - but by God, he could if he wanted.

The thought never even crossed his mind that they were probably making fun of him too... because he honestly didn't care. He never did. He just cared about John; what if the children on the bus began to harrass him because he liked Freak? Sherlock reassured himself; he would never let that happen. Ever.

He'd run so fast in gym he began to retch, and the teacher had begrudgingly given him a pass to the nurse.

"Holmes, this isn't Chariots of Fuckin' Fire," he'd said.

Afterwards, when he saw John in the hall, all he wanted to do was feel the shivers that ran through him when he ran his finger down the inseam of his forearm. Sherlock was positive that John's skin was the only depressant he needed, to stop himself from murdering some teenagers.

All Sherlock wanted to do was make John feel as full as John made him feel. Always.

John

John'd been so nervous during lunch that he'd just laughed at Greg and Mike's jokes and eaten nothing. Mycroft was quietly observing Gregory - like he was a goldfish. Weird.

All the way home, Sherlock had repeated his number.

"Eight. Got it?"

"Yeah. Trust me. I've got it."

"Recite it to me."

"Eight," John sang, it a deep, throaty voice. "Um, six. Seven. Five, three, oh nine."

"Good. Say it backwards."

"Why."

"I don't know. I like the way you say it."

"Jesus."

"And here come the religious exclamations," Sherlock sighed, "be original with your swearing."

"Sorry," John laughed. "Nine. Oh, threeee, five. Seven six eight."

"Good," Sherlock laughed. "Do you have it?"

"Yeah, Sherlock. Goddamn."

 "I feel as if..." Sherlock shook his head. "Never mind. I'm being such an Anderson."

"No, tell me. I love it when you sound stupid."

"Really?"

"You act stupid all the time; it's a rarity that you sound stupid."

"How comforting."

"Tell me!"

"It just just sounds like we're having a date," Sherlock clarified. "Which is obviously stupid."

"No," John protested. "It isn't."

"We can never just talk. It's as if we've got a thousand eyes, watching us-"

"They're intimidated."

"Hm," Sherlock hm'd, and then he closed his eyes and focused on John's pulse, trapped underneath two of his finger tips. Then he took John's hand and held it to his chest, eyes still closed, body still motionless; "Hey," he said, quietly.

John intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's as he lay his hand upon his abdomen.

"A date," John said, gasping. This boy.

"Practically."

A/N: urgh i can'tT WAIT TO sHOW YOU  THE DATe UGHghghghghgh

btw ily and thanks FOR ALL THE COMMENTS UM? THERE'S A LOT YEAH AND IT MAKES ME ECSTATIC so there please as always leave me dem comments