John

He never meant to say it. He regretted saying it.

Not because it wasn't true. It was definitely, obviously, irrevocably true. That was the only way to explain how John felt.

But he regretted it. He regretted saying it over the phone. He regretted saying it so early, especially after finding out what Sherlock felt about Romeo and Juliet.

How did one fuck up so badly? It was obvious Sherlock didn't feel the same, too. Obvious. Entirely.

When Rory came back, he payed John fifty, and then reassured him that he could come to visit, any time. Amy hugged him viciously, and told him to call her if he needed help, and he had kissed Melody on her soft, pale head.

"She's beautiful," John said. "Best of luck."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll see you. I love you," Amy said, and John smiled at her, even though she was saying it to Rory. Amy waved at them before John hopped in the car with Rory, and drove off.

The entire car ride was comfortably silent.

John felt guilty about stealing five toothbrushes and a bar of Dove's. He'd stuck them into his pants when the family wasn't looking; he was pretty sure Amy saw, though. At the time, he didn't care.

When his dad dropped John off, Harry ran out to see him. She was wearing high heels and a mini-skirt. Rory's eyes seemed to bug. "Take that off," he'd said.

She replied, "The clothes, or the make-up?"

"All of it! What the hell does Emma think she's doing?" Rory had yelled.

"Her best," John whispered calmly. Rory had gotten back into the car after fixing John with a tight-lipped stare, and reached into his stuffed wallet.

"Buy a sweater," he said to Harry. "And take off all that makeup. You look perfect the way you are, lovely." He kissed her head as he handed her a hundred. His eyes were pleading. "Give Pickard my wishes."

"I will."

"And Emma."

"I will," Harry laughed. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you."

For the first time ever, John contemplated shoving Harry into the car with Rory and forcing them both to drive away, but Rory ended up driving home by himself.

After two hours, Harry still hadn't stopped talking about him, and finally, Pickard got fed up. "We're going to a movie," he said, staring directly at John. "All of us."

He jammed them all into the back of the truck, in which Harry and John huddled against each other. The wind whipped across their faces.

"Do you still hate him?" John asked.

Harry looked at him, and frowned. "I dunno."

"You don't?"

Harry nodded, and looked away.

On the way out of the neighborhood, John passed Sherlock's massive house. He almost swore he could see a figure, sitting in the dead grass, scarf wrapped round his neck, black curls against his forehead. Watching.

On the way home from the movie (Avatar), it began to snow.

Pickard drived slow, it seemed, on purpose. As if to enact revenge upon John for babysitting.

When they drove by Sherlock's house again, in the dark, no one was out - but he couldn't help but wonder which window was his.

He'd never lied to his mum. Never about anything important, anyway, but when Pickard was washing up for dinner and his mum was cooking, John said he might go study at a friend's tomorrow.

"Who's house?"

"Anderson's," John said. First name that came up. "Phillip Anderson's."

His mum smiled as she opened the rusty oven door. "That's lovely, John," she said. "Glad you're making friends."

Sherlock

Sherlock's day had been slow. Very... very slow.

Mycroft was heatedly waiting for Sherlock to switch from pajama bottoms to trousers; he'd been sitting in bed all day, staring up at the ceiling. He'd look at the colors dancing on the walls and he'd thought of John's eyes. And then he thought of John's mouth, saying those words, and he'd censored the last three. He didn't want to feel this way. Not about anyone. 

Mycroft had told him several times that Siger was going to have a strong inclination to put Sherlock over the knee if he didn't get up, but Sherlock found he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He couldn't move. He didn't feel happy, for some reason, just knowing... that. That John did. Which Sherlock figured was the wrong reaction.

They were going down the street (a door down) to Violet's parents' house. Every Saturday night they got dressed to eat dinner in their home, and that was the time where Siger about just stopped drinking. Violet always said, "My parents are in love with you," to Siger. Sherlock guessed that's what did it. Maybe it was that overwhelming desire to please his wife.

Sherlock had been trying to get dressed for three hours. He'd taken off his trousers, put them on, taken them off, contemplated calling John, and then shoved on a Cashmere sweater.

"Are you finished?" Mycroft called from outside, "I'm certain our company won't mind our lateness, as long as we are fashionable."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated," Sherlock said back, tying a bow tie. "I have to look a tad bit presentable, Mycroft."

"I'll be outside, then. Just hurry."

When Mycroft and the family had gone, he reached into the slit in his mattress and took out a ziplock bag filled with pills he'd collected from his parents. Analgesics. Antidepressants. Sedatives. He needed them all. Sherlock didn't care. He'd keep up appearances.

And it wasn't... it wasn't him. It couldn't be. It couldn't be because John loved him, right, that was insane. Absolutely abnormal. He wasn't taking these pills for the first time in months because of John. He was doing it because he wasn't good enough for John. John couldn't love him, and he'd prove that.

He counted out 1,750 milligrams.

Sherlock looked at them, sitting in the palm of his hand, and then threw them into his mouth. It took a moment for it to hit him as he stood, but it definitely hit him. He felt his perception tilt when he was halfway in his grandparents' drive, and then he felt it again when he was at the dinner table, bent over a meal of mashed potatoes.

He could see the colors vibrate across his vision, and then he felt it all disappear. There were murmurings in the back of his mind, and he felt his breathing slow down as he stared at his grandmother.

Her body shook, contracted, and then she spasmed as Sherlock felt... himself... fall...

"Did you hear about John?" his mum whispered. "Something tells me Sherlock's ready to tell us something!" she said giddily.

"Yes," Mycroft drawled, "quite."

"Sherlock?" Siger said calmly, "Are you going to elaborate on this... John?"

"Oh! I heard as well!" Sherlock's grandma said, clapping her hands. "Who is he? Not a boyfriend, I hope." Her face lit up in a coy grin before Siger cut her off with a tense smile.

"Sherlock wouldn't take part in such activities. I'm sure John is just a friend."

"Oh, no, Siger, you're playing. If Sherlock is falling for John Watson, then so be it!" his mum said, leaning forward. "I have heard from Sally-"

"Sally. Is. Wrong," Sherlock hissed, head spinning. His gaze fixed on his dad, tilting his head almost demonically to the left with a crazed smile, "I'm sure I wouldn't dare take part in such heinous activities."

There was a silence that lasted much too long before Siger smiled meaninglessly and stabbed his fork into a carrot. "I should hope not," he said, and then Grandmum smiled as well, and ate her beef.

"This is nice, as always," Sherlock murmured before quietly biting down on a boiled beet. His stomach tightened, so frighteningly empty but not ready to eat anything else.

I will swallow this, Sherlock chanted thoughtlessly, I will eat it and I will digest it. It looks so good and I want it to fill me up and make me feel real again, because I need to feel real. I need to eat this.

"Are you okay, there?" Grandpop was looking worriedly at Sherlock, who was bent over his food, staring at it.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up. "Yes," he whispered.

"I asked if you were alright."

Sherlock smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just... tired." And Sherlock shoveled his food into a mouth that was much too small; pinhole sized. Not able to eat it all. Not able to consume it. He was going to vomit.

He had to.

John would be so disappointed.

Sherlock stood up. His chair fell down behind him as he limped into the bathroom, coughing. It wasn't as if his mother didn't know what he was about to do, but he heard her lie: "I think he has the flu, if you know what I'm saying. Diahhrea."

He couldn't see; the drugs were clouding his vision, making him spin and spin and spin and God he shouldn't have been so stupid and taken so many pills what would Mummy think what would John think God it hurt so badly Godgodgodgodgod-

Sherlock stumbled and fell to his knees, as if he was held up by puppet strings. He looked into the toilet and felt the bile rise up and up and up...

He could feel it brim at the edge of his throat. He could taste it. Sherlock looked down into the porcelain toilet and stuck two fingers down his throat.

He choked. And he vomited. And vomited.

His stomach contracted, and then tightened, and closed, and it was done and Sherlock was staring at what he'd eaten that day - nothing. He'd eaten nothing.

Sherlock looked down, at his sweater, and then he tasted the dribble of vomit that was in the corner of his cupid bow lips.

John would hate this.

Sherlock had regurgitated the drugs, too, so he didn't feel as high anymore, but now... he realized he was just dirty.

He lifted up his shirt, to reveal bare ribs, angled outwards and rock solid. Standing up, he turned on the water, and put his fingers into the sink. It was freezing. With one motion, he washed his face, and then he scrubbed his fingertips, and then he ran his freezing hands over the bones protruding from his stomach.

He proceeded to shrug back on his sweater, and walk out.

Everyone was dead silent. Staring. Empty. He'd heard what they were whispering about John. About him.

"John Watson's dad... Yeah. Yeah, him, Pickard. He's always been bad. He smashed our mailbox. Lived up in that little house until he moved to Cornwall, but apparently he thought moving back would be a good choice. With a new wife, too! She's gorgeous, don't you think?"

"Y'think?" someone replied. "She's pretty, but she looks like a tramp - honestly! I mean honestly!" A defensive voice rose in pitch. "You can dress like that in London, not here."

"What about the kids? The John boy... He's poor. But good. A good influence."

"Harry?"

"I don't know. She's a bit... of a slut."

"Siger!"

"Sorry."

"Not in front of Myc."

"Surely you can complete my entire name."

"I said I was sorry, Violet."

"He's a mistake," Mycroft had whispered. "Not fit to be seen. I guarantee you, if you let Sherlock converse with that filth-"

"Mycroft. You will not speak ill of Sherlock's" - and in a husher tone - "only friend. Not while I'm still breathing."

"It's true, Grandmummy, I swear it, he is no good-"

"Mycroft!"

"I say that if he asks to have John over, we let him. God knows Sherlock's been better since meeting him. And I will not deprave my child of the friendship he deserves."

"Sherlock... doesn't have friends."

"Mycroft, hush."

"It's true. And John will just make him worse-"

And their heads had snapped up to see Sherlock. Staring. Waiting.

"If you're done," Sherlock whispered, "I will seat myself."

Siger stroked his clean-cut chin and growled, "You will sit, whether you like it or not. You will not disrupt this dinner!"

Sherlock sat. And he looked. At all of them. "Your discussion seems to be inconclusive," he whispered, "Let me conclude it for you: may John Watson come over?" His mum blinked a few times, awed. She hadn't meant for him to hear those things.

"Um, yes. Of course," Violet said. "Anytime."

Mycroft excused himself, and the entire family watched him up and out the door.

"This beef is delicious," Sherlock commented quietly. "How did you make it?"

"Oh, dearie, a magician never tells her secrets."

"Fair enough," Sherlock whispered, locking eyes with his father.

"Fair enough."

A/N: This chapter makes me sad, especially about how Sherlock copes with it. He knows it isn't normal to hate himself about someone feeling for him, but he does because he's so screwed with Siger hitting him he's sure if he returns the feelings John may find out about it. And then John will do the same thing to him, so he feels as if he needs to disprove John's feelings for him. Distance himself; he doesn't trust anyone to love him except for Redbeard, and that's sort of why I thought hurting himself would be the right choice, in his mind. He's not a sociopath. He's a teenager. (long an over pls leave a vote er sumtin)