John

John kept on being bothered about homecoming, which was in June, from Tom. He kept on asking about Molly, and John wanted to sit him down and say, God, Molly doesn't like you.

John knew who she liked, and it gave him a guilty feeling to know that she'd never have him. Not while John was still breathing.

"Mate, maybe you could help me," Tom said.

"With what?"

"Maybe you could tell her to go to prom with me."

"Didn't you ask her?"

"No."

John rubbed his eyebrows intensely as he spoke. "You should ask her, you tit," he said, "before you ask me."

Tom grumbled. "Who you goin' to prom with?"

"Sherlock. Um. My boyfriend."

Tom's face scrunched. John stood up and walked to a different table.

Sherlock

Sherlock, just that morning, had been invited to a "dance party." He had a feeling it wasn't ballet, and he also had a feeling John would hate it, considering that Top 40 made his ears bleed.

Plus, thinking about going to a party with John was like thinking about taking your helmet off in space.

Sherlock's mum said if they were going to hang out every day after school, they needed to start doing their "studies," as she called them.

Sherlock said he didn't need to. "I pretend every day. In everything. No one has ever caught me."

"God, I wish I was the same. This is ridiculous. I find myself doing my homework at lunch, but I know - I swear, I miss every question and Mr. Lecter is catching on."

"I could help you."

"Gosh, that'd be just rich."

"Or," Sherlock said, "I could not help you, which seems to tickle your fancy as well."

John looked away and smiled. "Arse," he said.

They tried to do homework in the living room, but Mycroft was watching the news: "Those Communists don't know what they're dealing with!" he exclaimed exuberantly.

They took their work to the kitchen instead. Violet said she needed to work in the basement for a little while, and Sherlock nodded quickly. "Have fun," she said.

John pushed at Sherlock's socked feet with his naked ones once they were alone, and suddenly John was pulling off Sherlock's socks under the table. His feet were cool and soft and ridged with delicate bones. John tore a page out of his notebook and crumpled it to throw in his hair.

Now that they were alone, he felt the need to grab Sherlock's attention, despite the fact that they were studying and whatnot.

Sherlock opened John's algebra book and threw the paper ball back.

"John. Homework."

"No," John said quickly as Sherlock tugged at his book.

"We're supposed to be doing homework."

"We aren't."

"And why is that?"

"Me."

"And why is that?"

"We're alone, Sherlock, freedom. Think of the possibilities."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to John's algebra book, where lyrics decorated the covers, little script lines melding into each other like tributaries feeding into a river. In between the lyrics of Joy Division and The Strokes and Muse, Sherlock's name was written in lowercase letters. Like it was part of the songs. Sherlock smiled.

"What?"

"My name is-"

"Sherlock. It's Sherlock, isn't it?"

"Well. William."

"I like Sherlock."

"You don't like William?"

"I like Sherlock so much better."

Sherlock thought of John, sitting in class, his hands poised over his algebra book. Thinking of him. Letting his name fill him until he was pouring it out onto a piece of paper. A place he'd imagined only he would see.

"What are you looking at?" John said, tugging at his book.

"Nothing."

"Yeah?"

And then Sherlock saw something else, written just as small, just as carefully, in tiny letters. Same ink, written with the same hand, right, in lowercase letters - and it said, "do you cum thinking about me?"

"What," John insisted, "are you looking at."

Sherlock felt the blood come, all at once. "You should tell me when they do this," he growled.

"What?"

"When they..." Sherlock looked away, clenching his teeth. "When they write you these disturbing notes."

"What?" John seemed to freeze when Sherlock's finger pointed to it, and immediately John brought his pen down, scrubbing as hard as he could. "I didn't know," he whispered.

"I thought this had ended."

"What made you think that, Sherlock, you said yourself that it wouldn't. It isn't my bloody fault if..." John faltered, and slumped. The pen bled onto a math equation.

Why had he thought that? That was stupid. But he wanted to scribble it away and make it disappear. He wanted John to be happy. Not plagued by all these perverted notes and sexual harassment. What gave them the right to alienate him like they alienated Sherlock? John was beautiful and perfect and oh so broken but oh so amazing and how, just how?

"Maybe we could figure out who did it."

"No!" John yelled, still scribbling. "No. I don't want to know." He went a dark red as he scrubbed at the words. "I don't."

"Why?"

"Because." John looked up and clenched his teeth, breathing hard, "because then I'd know and I'd feel the person watching me. Always. And I wouldn't feel safe."

"You aren't safe-"

"I'm aware!" John roared.

Sherlock kept on going, "It has to be someone who always has access to your books during school. Someone who writes it while you aren't looking. Someone who doesn't like you."

"Gym," John sighed.

"Who doesn't like you there?"

John scoffed loudly. "More like who does like me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean no one, Sherlock," John growled. "No fucking body."

"You need to take this seriously."

"I don't need to take anything seriously, Sherlock. This is the thing," John whispered hoarsely, "that I decidedly do not take seriously. That's exactly what Anderson and Sally and Steven-"

"Steve Harper?"

"Yeah, what about Steve?"

"He's my dealer," Sherlock spat out, without thinking.

John blinked.

"Your dealer."

"Yes, my dealer, John, the boy I pay to give me heroin." He wasn't thinking about anything other than how anyone could ever ever do this. Especially Steve, Steve was a wallflower with a stark purpose - to supply Sherlock. Never would he ever write that. He was so stupid, too. Extremely so, but maybe that was why the letters were all lowercase and there was no punctuation and-

"You... do... heroin?" John leaned forward. "What?"

"Yes, well, it helps me think."

"It helps you think?"

And right then, Sherlock realized that he shouldn't have said that.

"Steve isn't like that," Sherlock changed the subject. "He's a wallflower-"

"How long?"

"What?"

"The drugs?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Course it bloody does!"

"No, it doesn't."

"And Steve is your drug dealer and you think he isn't capable of writing that? No wonder he hates me! No wonder you hate you, Sherlock, Jesus, you do drugs? Heroin?"

"I'm not an addict-"

"Like hell you aren't!"

"I swear, John, I don't have a habit, I just take it to calm myself," Sherlock insisted.

"Why," John hissed, "did you not tell me you were struggling. I could've helped you."

"You can't."

"Well, not now!" John yelled, "Sherlock, how dare you throw that all away? I don't want to wake up one morning to find you not on the bus!"

"We all die, John, some just sooner than others, and if you're afraid of me leaving you should learn to not be."

John stared at Sherlock. "A druggie. You are... a... heroin addict."

Sherlock looked up at John.

"You know," Sherlock spat, "I'm wondering why you changed the subject so quickly, figuring you write in all lowercase."

"Oh. Oh, okay. Okay." John turned purple.

"What."

"Fuck you."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Did you write that?"

John blinked, shaking. "I'd never. I'd never, you're sick..."

"You sound like my father."

John stopped. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Did you?"

"No. No. No, I didn't. I don't... no." He began to stack his books. "You don't," he said, "even - believe." He shoved it all in his backpack. "In me. Well, you know, I believed in you. I trusted you to trust me. To tell me that you were an addict. Steve is not your boyfriend."

Sherlock was silent.

"If he was, I wouldn't be surprised."

"You wouldn't." Sherlock's eyes were slits. "I'm a cheating drug addict."

"What do I really know about you, Sherlock? Nothing. I'll answer that for you." John slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Nothing. And if you think you can... degrade me more than I degrade myself, you're more wrong than you can fucking believe."

"John," Sherlock said angrily, "stop."

"No," John said. And then he began to laugh. For a long time. "No," he chuckled, "I'm so fucking tired! Of people telling me to stop! Well, you know, I am stopping. I'm stopping talking. To you."

"John."

John began to walk, but then he turned. "Sherlock," he said, "I don't like you, I..."

Sherlock held his breath.

"I just don't." John walked out of the kitchen as Siger came downstairs, and Sherlock recognized the look his dad gave.

What do you see in him?

Sherlock, for the first time, didn't remember.

That night, Sherlock thought of John writing his name in his book. He'd probably scribbled that out.

Why did he even - why was Sherlock so stupid? He didn't even like Steven! He was boring just like the rest. He wasn't John.

Just because John had gotten angry about the drugs didn't mean anything. Sherlock breathed that boy in like oxygen. He needed him more than he needed the heroin, or the pills, God, he was fucking stupid. So stupid.

Steven was his supply. He needed the supply, so he had money to pay for that supply, and he took it in low quantities, to numb away real life. He'd had headaches and he'd vomited, but did that truly matter? He was developing a knack for taking it, and he forgot about his dad more and more each time he did. That was Steve's purpose; to make Sherlock forget.

John made Sherlock remember.

And sometimes, Steve was his friend, too. He'd smoked a joint with Sherlock the first time, gotten him high the second, and they'd sung Hey Jude. It felt like blasphemy. The drugs felt like drugs; they burned him up and emptied him out and made him sing.

Steve was nothing except a dealer. Wasn't he? Wasn't he?

Steve didn't have anything in common with Sherlock. Nothing. It wasn't even the exciting kind of nothing that kept you up all night and made you see stars. It was the boring kind, like, oh, you like drugs? So do I. Let's do drugs.

He rolled in his bed and pushed his face into his pillow. He'd thought that he was over caring what people thought of him. He'd thought that John's relationship with him proved that.

But he kept on finding new shallows inside him, right at the surface, where John could see. He kept finding new ways to betray him.

Sherlock slid his hand into his mattress.

A/N: I AM SO PISSED AT MYSELF RIGHT NOW OMG but seriously DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS THIS MEANS THAT THEY MIGHT BREAK UP AND THEN IF THEY GET BACK TOGETHER IT WON'T BE THE SAME AND aND THEY WON'T SEE EACH OTHER UNTIL BREAK IS OVER AND I HATE EVERYTHING OMG NO