Sherlock

Would he look different?

Now that he knew that he loved him? (Or at least he had, on Friday. Enough to say so aloud.) Would John look different?

Would he look away?

He did look different, actually; more beautiful than ever.

When Sherlock saw him get on, he sat up in his seat, to look at him better. It was the best thing he'd seen all weekend. The redeeming factor. His redemption.

John's smile. His eyes. Alight, in the snow surrounding. His fingers were wrapped around his backpack as he made his way down the aisle, and when he sat down, Sherlock moved towards the outside so John could have the window seat.

Sherlock brought a gift. He could feel it against his leg as he breathed in and out. A tape; he'd recorded so many symphonies and he planned to give them all to John, one by one.

John turned left, his eyes gray in the darkness, and whispered, "Longest weekend of my life."

Sherlock smiled and leaned into him, their thighs overlapping.

"Are you over me yet?" John asked.

"Completely."

"Yeah?" John laughed. "Me, too."

"No. I'm actually even in deeper, if that was possible to begin with."

Sherlock took the tape out of his trench coat and stuck it into John's jacket pocket. John caught his hand as it was coming out, and held it to his chest. "What did you just put inside my jacket?"

"A song."

"By who?"

"Me."

"God, Sherlock." John held Sherlock's hand to his chest. "You spoil me."

John breathed in. Sherlock breathed out.

"I just want to..."

"What?"

"Say that I..."

"Yes?" Sherlock guessed he was about to apologize to him for loving him, or something, but all he did was squeeze Sherlock's hand.

"Thanks." He thumbed the CD. "I'm sure it will sound lovely. I'm sure it'll be lovely. Like you."

"It's... it's fine, John. Really." Sherlock felt the heat travel up into his cheeks, and then he looked away, embarrassed.

John's brow furrowed as he lay his head atop Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock felt John's pulse slow as he fell asleep. He looked exhausted. The sky was still gray with clouds, and the snow was still falling hard, making no discernible noise. He wished that John slept on his shoulder all the time. Maybe he'd fall asleep, too.

Sherlock waited until English to tell him the other thing. "I told my mum you were coming over today." He kept on thrumming his fingers into John's open palm as he spoke.

"You did?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "Come over. Today."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm entirely sure, John. Please."

"Really."

"Yes. A thousand times yes. It's so boring when you aren't speaking to me constantly."

"Will your mother care?"

"No. I asked her, weren't you listening? Honestly, John." Sherlock grinned. "You're awful at this."

"You're worse. Can we close the door?"

Sherlock's brow crinkled. "I mean, I guess. I suppose. She doesn't... yes."

"I used to be able to have girls over, if I kept the door open."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Okay." His nose crinkled once he was sure John wasn't looking. He wasn't sure what that meant for him.

When Mr. Lecter came over to look at what they had been doing, his usual smile dissipated. There was not a word on either of their papers.

"I can tell that I shouldn't pair you two together again," he grumbled, "Get to work."

When Sherlock came onto the bus, he didn't have the anxious feeling he normally did, like he needed to soak up enough John to last him till the next day. He felt new. Like, now, he had to introduce John to his mum. And Sherlock took a moment to look through his mother's eyes... what she would think about John, and he realized that really, in all actuality, his mum would probably hate John.

She'd put up with it, though, for Sherlock's sake. But she would secretly hate. John.

Violet was the type of woman who would never leave the house without taking a shower. She was so nice, so lovely, so beautiful, that even without mascara and eyeshadow, she looked like a super model. She always had time to brush her long auburn hair, and she sometimes, in her spare time, designed dresses for civilized parties where people drank with their stupid little pinkies in the air like a declaration of their economic status.

Sherlock's mother ran the elites.

 And John was so kind, so beautiful, so amazing, so good... but he wasn't pretty. He was a broken down volkswagen in the middle of a sea of unscratched Ferraris. He was the person who helped people. He stopped and let people lean on his already too-burdened shoulders. He let people use him until he broke.

Violet did all those things. But she did them perfectly. She knew how to balance everything, and yet still have time to paint her nails and feed her depressed child. (Sherlock finally took the time to think it over. He read up on some books in the library, and he diagnosed himself. No wonder the painkillers didn't work.)

And Violet had plenty of time to take him to a therapist. If John were his caretaker, he wouldn't be able to, and Sherlock would have to learn to cope.

When Mycroft was four, Sherlock was born. Apparently, it only took five minutes for her to push him out.

And Sherlock had been complacent until the age of three, when he began to learn. Then, she tutored him, because, oh, did he mention, she was a genius, and then at the age of seven she just happened to sense Sherlock was different and paid attention to him, unlike the rest of the family.

She fed him. And cut his hair. And when Siger began hitting Sherlock she never saw, she couldn't see, because she loved so much. Too much.

Still, she never turned a blind eye. She tended to Sherlock's wounds, always asked, even if it was awkward, and she tried her best. Her best always seemed to be fucking perfect.

And that absolutely killed Sherlock. How would she cope with John's imperfections? She'd probably fix them all, on accident, and then John would stop being John. And if she wasn't able to, she wouldn't speak to him, out of fear of seeing that she'd finally failed. She'd realize that Sherlock had finally figured out that he didn't like the normal ones.

Sherlock's palms were sweating by the time John started to hold them, so he let go and put his hand on John's thigh instead. And that felt so new - so beautiful, he kept his hand there until John stood up to leave.

"I'll meet you there," John said, "Yeah, and please - have food. I'm starving, and Mum probably made grilled cheese for the seventieth fucking time."

"Okay," Sherlock said. He felt relieved. Then guilty. From the bus stop, he ran to his house full on, and rushed into the beauty salon. His mum was arranging hair products, and Sherlock tentatively kissed her cheek.

"He's coming over, Mum!"

"Who? John?" she smiled.

"Yes. Be... be accepting, alright? He's a little... mm... rough around the edges. But great. He'll warm up."

"Right now?" his mum said, shaking some hair product. Click. Click, click.

"Yes, in approximately twenty minutes."

"Oh, dear! I've got to make some food, then, what does he like?"

"I..." Sherlock didn't know. "Don't worry. I'll make it."

"Okay. I'll be downstairs, lovely, call if you need anything." She gave Sherlock a smile, and turned back into her hair things, whistling.

Sherlock jumped up the stairs, two at a time, and into the giant kitchen, adjacent to the dining hall - and he heated up some water.

"Soup. How... do you make... soup."

Oregano. Then, chicken, and broth... God, why does it look green? Salt. Too little salt. Too much fucking salt! Add Rosemary. And thyme. Thyme? Why thyme? And damn, that smells. No, add carrots, not beets, and for God's sake, don't stir it that slowly. Now the pasta. Boiling, boiling. Bored, bored, bored. I like John. I hope he likes soup, because that's what he's getting. And why in the hell'd I add celery? Celery isn't even part of the recipe. For a genius, you're a fucking idiot. That was a funny joke, Sherlock, you are never an idiot. Except when you talk about yourself in third person. I wonder if John thinks about himself in third person...? Is the soup ready? Am I ready? To see him? Not to be soup, God. I'm ready. I'm not. Will he wonder why I don't eat this when I don't eat this? God. I hate everyone. And I hate eating. Stir, stir, stir. He should have been here thirty seconds ago. Now the carrots'll be too soft. And the broth will be too salty. Fuck. Add water. Add lots of water. No, now add more salt. Fuck. Fuck, I just ruined perfectly good soup. Your grandma would be proud, you idiotic little imbecile-

The doorbell rang. "I hate everything," Sherlock whispered. He made his way over, and opened the door...

"John, there's really disgusting soup I was making for us - oh, hello. Mycroft."

"Brother, is Mistake coming-"

"Sh. Go. I'm making soup, and I haven't time to listen to your useless blabbering on about my romantic life. Go."

"Romantic life, hmm?" His smirk was more than coy. It was evil.

"Go."

Mycroft walked away. Thank god he didn't smell the soup, Sherlock thought.

He waited for John to enter. He counted every single second as the clock ticked on the wall.

John knocked. Sherlock literally shot up and ran to the door. "John," he said, panting, as he opened it, "I made soup."

"Sherlock." John was tight-lipped and stuttering, "your parents are home?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. Come in."

"I'll come in if you smile."

"If I smile? What?"

"Smile, Sherlock."

"Um." Sherlock tried to, but then gave up. "I can't."

"Never... never mind. It's fine. Shall I?" John said with an awkward chuckle, stepping in.

Violet was standing in the door way to the kitchen, stirring Sherlock's soup, "Dear, this is a bit watered down, can I add some-"

And she saw him, the first time ever. She ran out, and grabbed John's face. "You're John?" she said giddily.

"Um. Uh, uh, yes. Yes, ma'am."

"Call me Violet, darling." She kissed both of John cheeks quickly. "Sherlock made the most delicious soup. Sweetie," she turned to Sherlock, "go get it? Make us some?"

Sherlock went into the kitchen, and turned off the stove.

"Do you live close, darling?" Dahhhling.

"Oh, yeah, I suppose. Maybe ten minutes."

"Ten? You should've taken a car! Did your father drive you?"

"No, ma'am, I walked."

"Sweetie, we could pick you up!"

"Oh, no, believe me, I need the walk."

"Why, dear?"

"I never exercise."

"You seem very strong to me, sweetheart. Maybe put a little meat on Sherlock's bones!" She joked, trying for lightness but falling entirely flat.  Sherlock cringed in the kitchen, where his mother couldn't see as he poured soup into the bowls. He came back, carrying a bowl for John, and a bowl for his mother. "Aren't you going to have any?" John said with a smile.

Sherlock froze. "Um." God. He should have thought this through. He couldn't think things through, now. Because of John, and now he felt like a fucking idiot. "I'm good. I've eaten," he lied.

Sherlock said, "May we watch TV?"

"Yes, dear. I'll take the dishes when you're done. Have fun, now," she said, and she made her way into the basement.

John sat in the middle. Sherlock sat on the far, far end, as far away as was possible; he recovered the six inches, his hands bent over his knees, his posture straight.

"I was expecting more cuddling. More flaming homosexuality," John teased, pushing Sherlock's arm. Sherlock stared at the floor. Then the telly, with nothing playing. "Hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the bowl of untouched food John was holding. "Hey."

John scooted closer, and took a bite of chicken: "Sherlock, this is delicious-"

"John?"

"Yeah? Do you want to try some? It's truly great. Best soup I've tasted, ever-"

"Why... why did you tell me to smile?" Sherlock didn't look up at John.

"I dunno," John said, "nervous. Here," John continued, handing Sherlock some soup. "Have some."

"Why are you nervous? Oh. No, let me guess. You don't like being here. It's too big, and too grandiose..."

"No. I like it here," John said. "Really. Course I do. Sherlock... you okay?"

"Then what?"

"I just never have been over to someone's house that was like you."

Sherlock stood, and bit his lip. "You should go."

"What?"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sherlock, I just began to eat this soup you made, what's going on? Are you okay?" John stood up as well.

Sherlock looked up at John, his head tilted, his eyes small and critical, "Someone like me?"

"You know that wasn't what I meant, Sherlock-"

"I think that's what you meant."

"I meant someone I cared for."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Am I embarrassing you? I honestly shouldn't be here, then. I'm sorry. Really. I'll go, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked away as John handed him the soup. "I didn't mean to fuck it up, Sherlock. I want to stay."

Sherlock looked up. He knew nothing. "Can I stay, Sherlock?" John held Sherlock's free hand. "Please?"

Sherlock sat down, and John sat down too. Sherlock only did that because he was afraid if John left now... he'd never come back.

"I hate this."

"Why?"

"I feel embarrassed."

"Of me?"

"No. No, because I'm taking everything wrong, and you just want to help, but you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"You don't know half the things."

"Tell me, then. What happened, Sherlock?"

"I'm not sure."

John took the soup from Sherlock, and sat down, pulling Sherlock down with him. Then he filled the spoon full of soup, blew on it, and offered it to Sherlock like he was a sick child.

Sherlock shouldered his hand away. He wouldn't be able to eat it if John stuck a tube down his throat.

And when Sherlock wouldn't eat it, John set it down on the coffee table, and put his arm around Sherlock's back, using the other hand to lift Sherlock's hand to his lips.

"Don't."

"Why?" John whispered. Sherlock's hand felt on fire, his fingers only inches away from John's mouth. He could feel every breath touch his hand.

"My mum will walk in."

"She doesn't know?"

"She knows. I just haven't told her yet."

"Tell her."

"No."

John frowned, and whispered, "Should I go?"

Sherlock looked away and nodded. John stood uncertainly, as if he was a lost child in the midst of a city, and he walked to the door. "Sorry, Sherlock."

And he left, trudging through the snow. Sherlock wanted to pull him back. Tell him, no, he wasn't embarrassed. No, he wanted him to stay forever and ever and why was he so stupid?

When Sherlock looked back, his mother was smiling. "John seems like a nice boy."

Sherlock nodded.

"Darling, are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and ran up the stairs. He flopped into bed, breathing hard, and then stuck his hand into the slit in his mattress, looking for something to ease the pain.

John

Sherlock was probably going to break up with him the next day. It didn't matter, as long as he didn't have to meet his dad; god. He looked as professional as Violet, Sherlock's mum.

John wondered if Violet liked him. She was beautiful. Full, pale, even skinned, dark haired, brown eyed... Like a porcelain doll.

Sherlock's family was perfect. Even the dad, who, apparently, Sherlock hated, but he looked nice. Nice enough, at least. His smile seemed real, in the family photos John had seen glimpses of. Sherlock was about seven - first year Sherlock? Adorable.

Siger was like a taller, thicker version of his eldest son, Mycroft. And Sherlock was tall, but he wasn't that tall. He was sort of tall. Sherlock didn't look like him, except for those piercing blue eyes and that crooked smile, whereas his mum was tiny compared to Sherlock. She looked like a porcelain queen. Siger looked like a king.

The Holmes' family was domestic perfection personified.

John imagined Siger and Violet meeting at an AA meeting, their faces contorted with the emptiness that alcoholism brought - and then he realized he couldn't imagine that. As if.

John was so huge compared to Sherlock's mum. Only an inch taller, but so many more inches thick; he had a chest cavity that could fit her inside it.

John knew he was stocky. But he didn't feel that fat, really. Maybe he wasn't fat, he was just muscled, because he could see bone when he stretched and he had at least a two pack. Maybe that's why people used to like him.

Sherlock was going to break up with him, tomorrow, if that was the correct term, not because John was huge. He was going to do it because John was a huge mess, because he scared everyone away and he said stupid stuff about wanting to see Sherlock's smile. Because John loved him.

It was too much. Meeting his pretty, perfect mom, in their pretty, perfect house with little coffee tables and story-tall windows and columns... And embarrassing him. Making everything worse for him.

Jesus.

In this town, everyone had wall-to-wall carpeting with house plants and blue wallpaper. They had fridges that were always full and dispensed ice. In this town, people wore suits to school and spoke Vietnamese, in this town, John would never fit.

John didn't even fit in his clothes. Or his skin. He would never fit anywhere.

He would never belong. Not in Sherlock's living room. Not in school.

He only belonged in one place, and that was by himself, in bed, where he could pretend to be someone else.

A/N: *tear* leave a vote or a comment. i want there to be sunshine and butterflies everywhere ;-;