John

His eye went from purple to green to yellow, like a chameleon.

"How long am I grounded?" John asked, sitting patiently. "I need to go to Greg's to study, Ma."

"Greg's," she spat. "Huh. You're grounded until you're sorry about the fight."

"Yeah, well... I am sorry." But John wasn't, really. He felt safer on the bus, more relaxed, and people smiled at him in the hallway now. Mostly because he'd kicked Anderson's ass. No one had ever seen a boy actually tackle someone that hard. No one had ever seen anything as bad as John Watson, and he wore his leather jacket like less of a clothing item and more of a statement. If John came in smoking a cigarette with his hair greased, no one would question it. Suddenly, John wasn't a mistake. Suddenly, he was the boy that would beat you senseless if you touched his boyfriend. Everyone knew it, now. And no one made fun of Sherlock.

They were a team. Not popular, but not bullied. Mind and matter. The trench coat and the leather jacket. Sherlock and John.

"I must admit," Sherlock said one day, "it was pretty fucking brilliant.

"Learned it at rugby." The bruise was dying away. But Sherlock thought it was rather cool, like Scar's scar in The Lion King. It added definition to his face.

"Rugby? You were a jock?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John lied. "I wasn't."

"You just were... on the rugby team? You're awful at lying. You have the most obvious tell."

"What's my tell?"

"I'm not..." Sherlock smirked. "Telling."

"Shut up," John scoffed. "You brilliant, extraordinary bastard."

"Never."

"I knew you'd say something to that effect," John muttered.

"I want to try again."

"You're such an arse."

"Come to my house."

"The biggest arse I know."

"Would you?"

John turned to look at Sherlock. "Wouldn't matter."

"You're grounded..." Sherlock said, realizing.

"Yep."

Sherlock

Everyone knew that Sherlock was the reason that John Watson tackled Phillip Anderson and kneed him in the chin.

In the hallway, Sherlock heard whispers. But they were a new kind of whispers. They were the ones that felt good, the ones that people said because they didn't want you to realize that they actually liked you now. Sherlock could tell the difference between the two. One was darker. One was hidden, and their eyes watched you as you traveled down the halls. But this was a new feeling. A better feeling.

Someone asked Sherlock if it was true that John and Anderson were fighting over him.

"God," Sherlock chuckled, "yes. I'm Mr. Sex." When that got back to Sally, she'd be furious. And the looks Moriarty gave him in gym class were nothing short of delirious.

On the day of the fight, Graham Lestrade and a boy named Tom asked him to share every bloody detail.

"Well," Sherlock began, loving to show off John's brute, unbridled strength, "I gave that idiot a swift uppercut to the jaw, followed by a tremendous tackle from the right from John Watson. Anderson tried and failed to mercilessly beat John in the face, but he proved too uncoordinated, and finally, was kneed directly in the mentum."

"The mentum," Greg asked.

"The chin," Tom clarified with a roll of the eyes. "Greg. You idiot."

Sherlock gave Tom a look, and walked away. Greg parted from Tom to walk with Sherlock, and then grabbed Sherlock's shoulder to drag him to the side of the hall. "Mate, I need to ask you something."

"What?" Sherlock turned and looked at Greg as he put his collar up. Greg's pupils dilated, and Sherlock turned away again. "Mycroft," he grumbled.

"No. I mean. Yeah."

"Boring. Do you want help with 'coming out,' because I've none to offer you."

"But-"

"No," Sherlock said.

"You don't get it," Lestrade said-

"No," Sherlock repeated, "I don't," before walking in the direction opposite.

When Sherlock was twenty feet away, Lestrade suddenly yelled, "You'd do anything for John, yeah?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and tilted his head to show he was listening. "Yes," he replied. "Anything."

"Well, I would do anything for your brother," Lestrade yelled into the empty hall. "Mycroft. And I think..." Lestrade walked forward, slowly, inch by inch, until he was close enough to touch Sherlock, "...that he needs someone who would be his anything."

Sherlock smiled at Gregory once before saying, "The only anything Mycroft has ever needed has been himself."

Sherlock left Gregory in the middle of an empty hallway as the bell rang.

John

"How long am I grounded?" John asked Pickard, sitting on the couch adjacent. He'd been really, truly trying to clean himself up. Every day, he'd taken a shower, and for some reason he hadn't gone to the bar all week. Maybe... maybe he was doing a three-sixty. He'd applied for a job with the degree he had in mechanical engineering.

"Until your mother says so," he grumbled, taking a sip of water. Water.

"She says forever."

"Then that's how long it's gonna be, John." He still had this almost cockney drawl that annoyed the fuck out of John, but it wasn't accentuated with drunkenness. It was clear. And in that moment, John realized why Emma might have married him. God. No.

It was almost Christmas break. If John was grounded during Christmas break, he'd have to go three weeks without seeing Sherlock.

"Pickard..."

"God, I'll ask Emma 'bout it. Stop bugging me. Go play with Harry or something."

"Please."

"Okay. I'll make you a deal. If you stop asking me, I'll ask her." Pickard turned on the telly to ITV and looked at it in annoyance.

"Thank you, really, I need to talk to-"

Pickard looked up. "What?"

"I, uh. Need to talk to Greg. We have a really big history project due."

"Really?"

John heard the door open, and Pickard got up to help his mum bring in groceries. He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, but Pickard seemed to peck her cheek. Like, kindly. Like he cared, and he said, "Lemme help you in, Em." He called her Em, like in the beginning, when Pickard looked like the right guy. "Hey, baby," he murmured, "John was talking to me about his probation."

"Oh, that's what this is all about, hmm?" John's mum poked Pickard in his (why did John only notice this now; Pickard wasn't fat) stomach, and gave him a strange tongue kiss that made John shudder. "You're grounded, young man," she said to John, who was getting a beer out of the fridge for his mum. He began to make tea.

"You can't ground me forever, mum."

"Oh, yes, she can," Pickard said, walking out of the corner.

"Why?"

"You're grounded until you stop thinking about that boy."

John's insides froze. He caught Pickard's face move in time with his, and they locked eyes for a moment before turning their attention to his mum.

"Who's 'that boy'?" John said nonchalantly, whilst putting teabags in two cups. One was for Pickard, another for him.

"Yeah," Pickard added, his eyes suddenly dark, "Who's 'that boy'?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Emma said, putting down her purse. "That boy he beat up that Anderson kid for. They become friends, and then it's like this," Emma snaps, "and you're fucking kneeing kids in the face and crying and you got high the other day-"

"It was painkiller, mum-"

"What the hell, John?" Pickard turned to look at John, who was pouring cream into a cup of tea. "You're fucking this kid? God, Emma!"

Okay. Okay. I have to do this. For my sake. For his sake. Breathe, and say it.

"Who? Sherlock Holmes?" John gulped, trying not to sound guilty, "I'd never beat anyone for him. He's not worth my time."

"Sherlock Holmes? Your, um, 'byfrendd'?"

God. Shit. This was a fix. Pickard was staring daggers. "Sherlock Holmes is not my anything," John spat. "I hate him."

"And why, pray tell?" His mum put her hands on her hips, leaning in a door frame.

"Why do I hate him? Because he's a freak. He's a stupid, gay freak."

God. John had never seen Pickard as wide eyed in his life, which was much better than what he usually was - angry.

"John..." Emma said, "I'm sorry. Can I talk to you?" She shot a worried look at Pickard, and pulled John outside. They weren't wearing anything, and it was freezing in the cold winter air.

"Mummy..."

"John. You're... you're like Harry, aren't you?"

John avoided her eyes and bit his lip as her hands touched his shoulders. "You're gay, aren't you," she said. "John. John, baby. Look at me."

John put his hands in the pockets of his brand new Old Navy jeans, and looked at the whiteness of the snow. "No," he said, looking out. "No." What purpose would saying yes serve?

"John, you told me. You said so."

"I was high, Mum."

"And?"

"And you have to convince Pickard I'm not," because, deep down, John wanted his acceptance, and he'd seen a glimpse of what that felt like this entire week. "I'm not gay. And Pickard can't hate me, okay, I have a history project. With Greg, Mum, please, unground me. I..."

His mum cocked her head as John held in his stupid, fucking tears. He felt hot, everywhere. Like a firecracker about to explode into a million pieces, like a bomb about to light up the night sky; he was ticking.

Three, two, one. "Sherlock Holmes is a sick freak."

His mother hugged him, hard, and John swore he felt wetness on his shoulder.

Sherlock

Sherlock had been hit again.

He didn't think about it. Wasn't important.

He just left the house.

He was thinking about sitting in the snow until he died.

But then he saw his grandparents' house. And it looked more inviting than Hell.

Sherlock trudged over to the house, and knocked once before entering. They always kept the door open. They were on the couch, watching telly (Sherlock hadn't the faintest what show; it was assumed to be shit), and they turned to see him.

"Sherlock, darling, are you alright?" His grandmother was just as posh as his mum.

"Yes. Just tired." Sherlock smiled emotionlessly, and fell into a chair. He tried to remember what Siger had hit. Bent him over the knee. He said, "You spoiled little ungrateful brat." That's what he said.

Sherlock felt quite dead.

"We made too much meatloaf anyway," his grandfather said. "You're looking very pale."

"Pale," his grandma tsked, "mm, yes, dear. Are you ill?"

"No," Sherlock said. "When is dinner?"

"I... no. I don't know. Now, Lily?"

"Yes, now, get over here!" his grandmother answered.

They ate lots and lots of chips. Afterwards, they watched a reality TV show - The Graham Norton Show - (what kind of self-righteous bastard names his show after himself? Sherlock thought) and he watched, but he didn't process.

Behind the telly there was a wall of pictures. They were small. Pictures of Mum, and Dad. Happy. Kissing. In love.

They'd been married almost twenty years. Twenty years of love. Twenty years of kissing and hugging. Twenty years of feeling real.

Sherlock had seven years of beatings. Seven years of his mum not knowing. Seven years of parents fucking each other while one actually probably got off on watching his son cry under him. Seven years of depression. Seven years. Seven fucking stupid stupid stupid stupid years.

"I have to go," Sherlock said suddenly.

"What? So soon?" His grandparents turned. "But we're just about to see the segment where-"

"I do not care about an idiotic Irish drunkard revealing so-called 'funny' home videos. I do not give a damn-"

"Sherlock!" his grandma gasped.

"-about green eggs and ham, Sam I Am," his grandfather joked. The room went dead silent.

"That isn't funny," Sherlock's grandma said.

Sherlock nodded quickly and left.

He had decided that Hell was more inviting.

 John

"You're not grounded anymore."

Pickard broke the news to John while he was eating a turkey sandwich. He hadn't had a turkey sandwich in God knows how long, and he was enjoying it thoroughly.

"Why not?" John mumbled. It sort of hurt his face.

"Doesn't matter. Your mum is sorry. 'Bout what she said. 'Bout you being gay, and all."

"You're kidding."

"Maybe I am. But she's sorry."

John put down the sandwich.

"Are you?" he asked.

Pickard sat back in his chair. "Yeah," he said. "I suppose I am. Em just wants what's best for you, y'know?"

"I guess."

"You can go to Greg's."

"Thanks."

Pickard stood up with a huff and a stagger. "I'm gonna go to bed. When you're done, wash the dish. Me and your mum have enough to do, kiddo." Pickard went into the "master" bedroom, and flopped on the bed. There was a hot mess of murmurs from inside, and then it was like the beginning of a porno was being filmed in there.

John threw out his sandwich and ran into his room before anything he heard became too explicit.

John couldn't wait till morning. He couldn't wait to tell Sherlock. He couldn't wait to be alone with him.

A/N: Pickard seems to be on the amend. But Sherlock... Sherlock looks like he's getting worse. And John is just like spinning in rainbows. woo. Plz leave a comment or a vote. :D ly.