Sherlock

When John got on the bus, he handed Sherlock five comics, as usual, then sat back in his seat, smelling faintly of sweat and body odor. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and looked away, taking the books.

Clothes are ruffled in the front, and folded in the back, as if he'd been laying on a hard surface all night. I can see a knot in his neck, as if he'd been twisted into an uncomfortable position, and what looks like mascara on his chest. He smells faintly of... of lavender, opposed to his usually vanilla-y scent. Sister wears makeup, and lavender perfume. He's sitting on the floor, curled into her arms. She's crying. Why is she crying?

"Why was your sister crying last night?" Sherlock asked gingerly, finding the words to be slightly harder to say than usual. "And why were you sleeping on the floor?"

John looked over, slowly, and blinked for a few seconds, angry awe painted on his face. "What?" he asked, in shock.

"I said," Sherlock reiterated, "Why were you and your sister crying last night?"

"What - how would you know that?" John said, adjusting his body so that he was facing Sherlock and Sherlock alone. He didn't look too good either, circles prominent under his eyes.

"I don't know," Sherlock scoffed. "I deduce."

"What?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and began.

"Your clothes are ruffled in the front, and flattened in the back, as if you've been laying on a hard surface all night. I can see a knot in your neck, right below your ear. It hurts, doesn't it? It's as if you've been twisted into an uncomfortable position, and there is what looks like a fair amount of mascara on your chest. Your mother doesn't wear makeup, she's too homely. I can tell that she is because you're your mother's boy, indicated by the bracelet around your wrist that smells like..." Sherlock sniffed John. "Like vanilla. Your mother made that, as your sister is into more exotic scents, and plus, why would she make something if she could just purchase it? Selfish, she is, as is every teenager on this god forsaken planet. You smell strongly of... of lavender, opposed to your usually vanilla-y scent, so it's likely your sister had been hugging you all night. Maybe you slept with her on the floor. No, don't look at me like that. Though, I suppose it is possible..."

John blinked, not even attempting to get a word in edgewise.

"Your sister wears makeup, and it's soaked into your sweater, which smells as if you've worn it thrice this week. To recap, you've been sitting on the floor, curled into her arms, as she cries. Now, the question remains, why is she crying?"

John smiled slightly, still shocked, almost absent from himself. "Damn," he said once, ignoring Sherlock's question.

"Don't feel obligated to tell me how fantastic that was."

"Oh, believe me, I won't."

"But tell me."

"What?"

"Why she's crying."

John scratched his head, and then his scruffy chin, which was beginning to grow in a five o'clock shadow. "Um. Because she... she sprained her knee."

"Oh, don't lie to me. We both know that's not quite-"

"Don't ask, Sherlock," John huffed as he reached inside his backpack, ruffling papers and searching intensely. "Oh," he said happily. "Here." He took out a CD titled, "British Pop and Oasis."

Sherlock took it from him, not daring to look up. He didn't want to see the disappointment in his eyes when he had to hand it back. "Thank you..." Sherlock said quietly (that was a first), "but I can't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I can't," Sherlock sighed, "Take it. Please."

"No," John insisted. "I don't want it. I made it for you, because your music taste is bloody terrible, and I want you to go home and I want you to listen to it."

"You don't understand, I can't," Sherlock admitted, cringing, "I have nothing to listen to it with, so just, please take it."

John didn't take it. Instead, he removed his headphones from his backpack, and put on a playlist: "My favs," because, yes, he did in fact spell favorite that way, and messily, not even bothering to not ruin Sherlock's hair, placed headphones over his ears. Sherlock shuddered to life as the music came on...

"Today was gonna be the day I was gonna throw it back to you..."

When they got off the bus, they didn't part, which was strange. It dawned on Sherlock that their lockers were only a classroom apart, only separated by their pride, and Sherlock realized that he wanted someone to walk to class with. And it felt strange that they'd never walked together, as if before today their lockers were parted by mighty perils. But today, they just did, their silence less than confrontational and more than acquainted. Yes, they were friendly.

When they finally had to part ways, John smiled up at him, and Sherlock's heart fluttered as he looked away, standing taller than ever. "Well," John said awkwardly, "Now you've listened to Wonderwall."

And...

Sherlock laughed.

John

Stupid arse, John thought. 

That brilliant idiot.

Sherlock should have just taken the tape, and not have said anything, because now John was going to have to provide a CD player, goddammit, so he could listen to it at home. And headphones. Goddamn, John thought, walking through the crowded halls.

Weird pompous fucking blue eyed arsehole.

He didn't know anyone that had that specific shade of blue in their eyes; didn't recognize the greens and golds speckled inside their irises, as if Sherlock was just utterly spectacular. John had never seen anything quite as intricate as that ever before, never had seen eyes that looked if they were sapphires being lit on fire.

And John couldn't help but notice his skin - it was like glass, milky, swirling glass, even toned, pulsing with red hot blood. It was a miracle that he even existed, his composure held high and his skin... just magnificent. Like he was made out of porcelain.

His hair fell down in a floppy mess, and John just yearned to pull at a hair and watch it bounce back. Maybe he was irish; John could see speckles of golden on his arms, but they were almost completely invisible. Or maybe he was swedish, without the blonde. German, probably. Maybe. Possibly. No. No, he was too... Sherlock.

No one looked quite like him. No one. There was a kid that had his skin - but no, it was rosier - and maybe a kid who had his lips. Nope. Maybe his nose, or his stupid eyelashes, John thought, and then realized that people didn't have essentially different eyelashes. But he did; his eyelashes were full and dark, as if he was trying to be inadvertently bold.

So this was the boy who he was going to accidentally spill his troubles to; confess he didn't own a toothbrush, or a washing machine, or a fucking blanket - well. Overstatement. He didn't have his own bed, more like.

But Sherlock knew what he smelled like when he got up in the morning. Sherlock knew all. He was a magical detective genie, or maybe he was a stalker. He was brilliant, either way.

And John really needed a toothbrush.

Maybe he'd ask Mr. Barrymore for one. He was the school "counselor," but John considered him to be more of an army general than an understanding, nice, calm man. He talked fast, and he got shit done.

It was likely that Mr. Barrymore - or as the students called him, Major Barrymore - would tell him to get a job, but then John would have to tell him that he didn't have a car, and then John would have to explain his dad had the only car and he couldn't use it. Then the "Major" would explain that if he didn't have a car, then he definitely wasn't worthy of a job, more so not deserving of a toothbrush - so that wouldn't work.

But then, maybe Sherlock would get John one.

Hell. Just two more periods until English. Maybe Sherlock would talk to him now. About Romeo and Juliet, or something. About The Smiths. Maybe they'd talk about nothing. Maybe they wouldn't talk.

Sherlock

Sherlock didn't really notice how not fucked he felt in gym. Like he would've felt horrible, but he didn't. Like he was still on that bus, with that idiotic blonde kid. He could still hear his voice - not John's, the singer's - singing...

"Because maybe...

You could've been the one that saved me..."

The only thing that Sally felt the need to spit at him was a loud and annoyed, "Freak, why'd you hit the ball into the outfield?" Which, that was amazing; people usually found more creative ways to make Sherlock feel like nothing.

Now, despite it all, Sherlock felt profoundly good. Nothing could ruin his day.

When Sherlock got to the locker rooms, though, he realized soon enough why everyone hadn't been throwing dodge balls at his face and picking him last for baseball.

Everyone was waiting for him, the poor kids in rip-off Armani Platinum suits, the rich kids. Everyone. They all wanted to see his face.

His entire locker was covered in the words, "FREAK."

FREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAK. Everywhere.

And he heard the chanting rise up, softer at first... "Freak, freak, freak, freak, freak, freak, freak, freak, freak! Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak!"

It rose to levels higher than the emotional instability he was feeling.

"Freak! Freak! Freak!" And suddenly, everyone was screaming it. "FREAK! FREAK! FREAK! FREAK!"

Sherlock went by his locker to find his clothes, clenching his fists as the children screamed. He took the key and clicked it in as the children yelled, "Freak!" and removed the only clothes he had. He felt someone push on his back and shove him inside, and Sherlock was going to step back out, but someone slammed the locker door shut, making him drop his key. Then a boy picked it up, smiling slightly, and dropped it into the toilet. That was enough for Sherlock.

"Unlock it, idiots!"

"FREAKFREAKFREAK-"

"Unlock it! I'm going to miss English!"

"FREAKFREAKFREAKFREAK-"

"Shut up!"

"FREEEEEEAAK!"

"Open it!"

"Beg for me, Sherlock," a boy whispered.

He came out of the darkness, like a cat, his grin quiet and crazed. The children surrounding tilted their heads towards, like they knew of his stance on the social ladder. He was Moriarty. The most popular, an enthusiast of public beatings, etc, etc... Sherlock could guess what Moriarty was about to make him do.

"Please," Sherlock snarled, turning to the boy. "Please open it."

"Call me Jimmy," he growled. "Beg for it. Maybe."

"Please, Moriarty! Jim. Please."

Jim laughed slightly, evilly, turning to the boy behind him. "Oh, Sebby. Get out the camcorder."

"What?" Sherlock yelled, frantic. He had to get out, he had to-

"Okay, Sherly," Jim said stickily. "Sebastian? Is it on?"

"Yeah, Jim."

"Okay. Now. Sherlock. Sweet, sweet Sherlock."

Sherlock froze as Moriarty leaned closer, breath hot on Sherlock's skin.

"You've got to agree to do something for us, yeah?"

The crowd cheered as Sherlock spat on his face. Moriarty smiled a bit before taking his arm and wiping off the saliva. "I've changed my mind," James said quietly, dangerously, "Plan B, Sebby."

"Yeah. Got it."

Moriarty turned to Sherlock again, maliciousness in his eyes. "So, Sherlock. You're sitting with Mistake, right?"

"Mistake?"

"Oh, don't be regular. I mean John, the boy who dresses as if he's a unicorn, yes, Mistake."

"What's it to you?" Sherlock spat defiantly. The room was silent with tension; no one, no one... fucked with James Moriarty.

"Well. I could say that you were a little in love, wouldn't you say? It's rather cute... the comics. And The Smiths. I think you're little gay for him. Right, boys?"

The crowd cheered, drowning out Sherlock's "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not. We all know, Sherlock. We all know you're a gay, pill-popping freak. It's cute. So me and Sebby... we thought we would play a little game."

"What?" Sherlock braced himself for the coming threat.

"We won't let you out unless you say that you want to fuck John Watson."

Sherlock's features contorted. What? He couldn't say that. He'd never say that, ever! Why would he ever, ever say that? No! No!

"I know what I can tell you," Sherlock said snarkily, "Sebastian isn't really rich, you just pay off his debts. Anderson is secretly a closeted homosexual, and you... Moriarty, you're a sadistic, insane boy driven mad by the prospects of greed and wealth. That's what I can tell you."

Moriarty shrugged, giving Sherlock a subtle nod in acknowledgment. "Mm. You're good. But not good enough. Goodbye, Sherlock."

The boys began to walk away, and Sherlock couldn't help but beg. "Please!"

Moriarty's head cocked. "Did you hear that, boys?" There was a murmuring of agreement as Moriarty spun on his heel.

"What's in it for me?"

"Well..." Moriarty blew a bubble with gum Sherlock didn't notice he had. "You die later, rather than sooner. Just say the words, honey."

Sherlock seemed to contemplate for about five seconds. Then he dismissed them with a low growl, "Get out of my sight."

"Sooner, it is, then. Have fun in there."

"I will."

Sherlock didn't.

John

He wasn't in English. Or history. Or any of the periods after that. In fact, he disappeared from the face of the earth, as if he'd been plucked from it by an East Wind.

John was almost waiting for him to object when Mr. Lecter proclaimed that love was the root of all things, which was true, really, (Except for nouns, of course, love can't be the root of a tree or a house.) like a love of money was the root of greed and the love of murder was the root of a psychopath. What would the love of a person be the root of? Marriage? Homicide (definitely homicide, come to think of it)?

But Sherlock wasn't here, so that was rather irrelevant. Through John's horrible day, he realized that the only thing he enjoyed was the bus, even if they never talked.

When he got to the last period of the day, Mrs. Adler kept him rather late. Well. Rather was a relative term. She kept John so late he had to wait until the buses left, and he realized that he couldn't go home - again, it was too far away (almost thirty minutes by bus). He called Pickard, but he wouldn't answer, as usual. The only prospect John had was sleeping at school, again.

That, of course, was always a joyful experience. Thank god there was a blanket he brought just for that fucked up occasion. And he couldn't sleep on the steps, because it was bloody freezing, so he had to resort to other means of shelter. The school.

John needed somewhere warm, somewhere without windows, somewhere enclosed... the boys' locker rooms.

Hopefully, the janitors didn't clean inside the locker rooms every day. God knows what the boys kept in there.

John walked through the halls with a folded up quilt on his shoulder, thinking about Harry, and then, thinking about Sherlock, and then, thinking about them both. John wondered what Harry would say about this.

"John! Why're you sleepin' at school? That's awful, John. Fucking awful."

And Sherlock:

"Why did Mrs. Adler keep you after?" Because that's probably the only thing he wouldn't know.

He stepped inside the locker rooms, and he heard a faint rustling, like a mouse. So he just put down his blanket, and sat on it, then took out Where The Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein (Sherlock's dismissive nature towards that book roused curiosity) and put his headphones in his ears. They never got to finish Asleep, by The Smiths, because some arse pushed Sherlock and made his headphones fall.

The voice was captivating. He made you want to sing along. And slowly, John joined...

"Sing me to sleep...

Sing me to sleep..."

And then he heard a whisper... the faintest whisper, coming from a locker, hoarse with strained screaming. Deep, baritone, beautiful but broken.

"John?"

A/N: I WONDER WHAT HAPPENNS???!