Sherlock

Sherlock felt all around good today. He'd woken at approximately five-thirty, hands shaking with nervous tension. He took a shower, and when his father woke up to see him with a towel around his waist, he said nothing and slipped back to bed, as if a "Good morning" would be too time consuming. Sherlock payed him no mind, and trotted off to his room.

Sherlock felt the notes pounding inside him, filling him to the brim and overflowing out of his mouth. He could tell Siger couldn't hear because there were telltale snores echoing through the empty halls, and Sherlock didn't really care either. He just wanted to jump around stupidly holding an air guitar and sing "HEY, JUDE," with John. John wasn't here, though, so he had to settle with the temperance of just singing and playing an air guitar.

"Naaaaaaah... nah nah nahnahnahnaaaaaah..."

Sherlock dusted off his dresser, and looked inside.

"Nahnahnahnaaaaah..."

He put on slacks and a navy blue jumper he could only describe as the warmest looking thing he'd ever seen.

"Hey, John..."

Then he shook out his curls in an attempt to make them cooperate, despite the fact they always did.

"Naaaaaah, nah nah nahnahnahnah..."

Sherlock slung his backpack over his right shoulder and walked out wearing what could only be referred to as a mistake.

"Nahnah nah naaaaaaaaaaah..."

He waited for the bus. He got on when the yellow thing pulled up. It smelled like exhaust fumes.

"Hey, John," Sherlock hummed as he got onto the bus, his heart coursing with a new feeling, one he wanted to take out of his chest and put into a jar.

He counted the five minutes it'd take until John's small, five roomed tan house pulled up and didn't skip one beat until he felt the uniform shudder as he got on.

"Hey, Sherlock!" was John's upbeat response to Sherlock's appearance when John got on. "You're wearing... a sweater."

Sherlock grinned cheekily. "Your observational skills are growing more observant, I see," Sherlock quipped after John sat down. Sherlock reached into his backpack and pulled out an immaculate iPod. He'd tried extra hard the night before not to get any food on it, no matter how sloppy he was feeling. Granted, all he ate was an apple. That was probably something his mum would refer to as a Problem. But she was just worrying as usual.

John surveyed his iPod once, then took it in his hand and seemed to weigh it. Like Sherlock had maybe given him a fake of his iPod because he liked listening to music that much. He smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt that smile burn into him like a branding iron.

Sherlock noticed that John smelled more like vanilla than usual. Maybe it was the jacket. It had this luster that seemed invincible, almost impenetrable. It was armor that Sherlock wanted to touch to see if it would crack at the taste of his fingers, but John just resigned himself to his iPod, sticking both buds in his ears as a way to ward Sherlock off.

But not really, it seemed, because moments later, Sherlock's self pitied staring-out-the-window time was interrupted by John's rugged voice.

"Did you like it?" he asked with curiosity.

"Did I like what?"

"The music," John confirmed.

"The music?" Sherlock thought for a moment, desperate not to seem too desperate. "I thought it was..."

Glorious. Beautiful. Indescribably magnificent. It set Sherlock on this chasm he could fall into. Teetering between sanity and bliss, it was, and when he fell... he learned that he could fly, like Silver Surfer. Or Superman. And Doctor Manhattan.

"Definitely the best thing I've ever heard. Especially the one that has the one drum pattern - it was, um, it had this beat that was like..."

"Thump thump thump boosh?"

"No, no. It was a thckthckthck tum thckthckthck tum."

"My Chemical Romance?"

"I didn't take the time to memorize the names, although I do suspect that that was the band I'm referring to."

"How does it go?"

"He doesn't look a thing like Jesus..." Sherlock hummed, "But he..."

"Talks like a gentleman..." John murmured, "Yeah, that's When You Were Young."

"I enjoyed that one."

"Keaton Henson?"

"Boring."

"Daughter?"

"Dull."

"Bon Iver?"

Sherlock's nose crinkled as he thought. It didn't make any sense. It sounded pretty, though. "I liked Skinny Love."

"Awh, I hate that one."

"Then why did you buy it?"

"Because it seemed aesthetically pleasing."

Aesthetically. Huh. "Was it so?"

John frowned. "I dunno. I like Franz Ferdinand better."

"He was killed more than seventy years ago."

"Not the Archduke," John shot. "No You Girls? Bloody brilliant. Like the drumbeat is almost the guitar, it melds so well, and then at the end of the chorus it's like dunduddudududunndundundundunpop," John said.

"That was awful," Sherlock said. "Horrendous. The lyrics lowered my IQ, if that's possible."

"It's not."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're an arse."

"I knew that."

"I want to punch you in the face."

"I do as well."

"You... want to punch yourself in the face?" John's facial expression was a mix between distressed and amused, and Sherlock shot back, "No, I want to punch you in the face."

"You're an arse," John repeated.

"I heard you the first time."

"Did you?"

"Yes, obviously."

"Well, that song will always be better than any poetic sobbing bearded man named Bon Iver."

"Who was Emma, anyway?" Sherlock mumbled with a disgruntled sigh.

"The world may never know."

"And..." Sherlock started, "I enjoyed Asleep."

John's lips twisted in a crooked smile, an aesthetically pleasing smile, mouth thin with amusement. "You listened to Asleep?"

"Yes. Last night. Over and over and over. In free period, I'm going to the library to search up how to play it on the piano."

"You play?"

"Yeah. Well, I might add."

"I never asked if you played good."

"Well," Sherlock repeated.

"What?"

"You said 'good,' and... Oh, God. I don't know what goes in that funny little brain of yours. Must be so boring in there, thinking about emotions and grammar and things."

"I play clarinet."

"I know."

John smiled, not even surprised anymore. He was more... incredulous. As if Sherlock was a treasure. And Sherlock thought that was ridiculous; all he was was a boy that played piano and was fairly intelligent. That was normal, right?

"You're extraordinary, Sherlock," John said in wonderment.

"I think so, too," Sherlock lied.

"Not quite as awesome as Superman."

"Superman is a bore."

"You're a bore."

"I would reply, but I'm not a child."

"You just replied!" John yelled, "I'm not letting you die like this. Not enjoying Superman, the foundation of DC comics. Do you like being an uncultured swine?"

"Do you?"

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You're unbearable."

"Not as unbearable as Superman. His Mary-Sue complex is awful. He's been bullied for being remarkable? Next time I'll just display a sign on my chest claiming I have X-ray vision. God knows the idiots on this bus won't doubt me."

"You'll see."

"I'll see what?"

John laughed, loudly, as if he could've cared less, but he seemed to care a lot, which was confusing towards Sherlock. There was no drama, no tightness in that overemphasized, embellished laugh. It was full, and it made the sound of a man who was experienced in the subject. How often did John laugh? How often did his skin fold and how often did his eyes crinkle? How often did he become hoarse with those notes of relaxed beauty, and how often did... how often had Sherlock laughed with him?

"You'll see," was all John said.

John

That morning, in History, John noticed that when Sherlock was thinking, his hands curled into a steeple position about his nose.

Sherlock

That evening, in English, Sherlock noticed that John's hair was a silver blond, like white gold under sunlight.