John

He was suspended for two days.

Anderson was suspended for a week, because that was his second fight of the year.

Pickard had been so angry, he didn't pick John up. Instead, he called Emma. Who didn't want to pick him up. So she called Harry.

The school nurse said that John didn't really need to go to the hospital. It was just a scratch. Well, not really. John had his nose broken, and just about ruined his pretty little gray blue eyes.

Anderson, on the other hand, had knocked a tooth loose, and had a broken thumb. "He doesn't know how to throw a fucking right hook," John had mumbled to Harry later.

John waited in the office with ice on his face while his sister talked to the principal. When she came out, Harry bought him a Coke and two bags of Doritos, then hi-fived him. "You're a dodgy little man," she'd joked. "Did you really tackle him?"

"Like rugby, back in Camden," John had responded painfully. "Anderson called Sherlock..."

"What?"

John realized he couldn't remember. It wasn't important, anyway. No one said that to Sherlock. Whatever Anderson said.

"I dunno."

"Heh. He deserved it. Phillip Anderson, right?"

"Right."

"Mom is going to hit the goddamned roof when she sees you. You look like you've just been run over with a bloody truck."

"Not that bad," John whispered, trying not to move his throbbing face.

"That bad," Harry laughed. "Seriously."

Harry was right. When John walked in, his mum was literally incoherent.

"You didn't," his mum said. "You didn't!"

"I did," John said with a smirk. "I did."

"You fought? You aren't a fucking punk, John, God, you think you can just punch people and get away with it-"

"-It was Anderson, mum-"

"I don't fuckin' care, son." Harry tried to calm his mum down, but she shook her off. "You're grounded. Forever."

"Awh, Mummy-"

"Go to your room. I don't want to see you."

Two hours later, Harry brought him a capsule of morphine while he was laying in bed. She said it wasn't going to make him high. Apparently not; it made his head hurt even more and then it took away everything, all at once. He'd never been this high before.

Emma had snuck into John's room while he was sleeping. She'd woken him, and said something about why and how and John had just said, "Myboyfrndd," followed by Emma's wide eyed stare.

"What?"

"My boy... friend. Sher. Lock. Mmkay, Mumsy Wumsy? Fuck. I'm hungry."

"Sherlock?"

"Yep."

"Okay, honey. Okay." And his mum practically ran out of John's room.

God. He'd never been this high before.

Sherlock

When John rang the doorbell, Sherlock heard it, all the way up in his room. He'd been waiting on him for maybe three hours.

And he heard Siger answer. "Hi. Sherlock has my stuff, so um..." John said.

A heavy pause. "Really."

"Yeah. If I could give it to him-" and Sherlock's mum approached the door, punctuated by the click of her Prada heels. "Oh, John!" she yelled. "Come in, come in, I was just making tea. Sherlock's upstairs. I'll bring up everything when you're ready, okay, Sherlock told me all about it."

"Thanks, ma'am. Sir." And John clambered up the steps. Sherlock could tell he was going two at a time.

Sherlock heard murmuring downstairs, coming from his mother, "Oh, come on, Siger..." and, "Just a moment. Enough time to make them tea, darling."

John stepped into Sherlock's room quietly. Sherlock was silent, fingers set on his nose. "I didn't say you could come in." Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"Sorry, King Sherlock." John stepped back out and knocked three times. "May I come in, Sire?"

"Yes, peasant," Sherlock whispered. "Has mother made the tea yet? I was rather expecting it by now."

"Um..." John stepped closer to Sherlock, looking around his room in awe. It was enormous, but it seemed small; full to the brim with clothes and books and dirty shoes. He had an entire wall made of chalkboard, and there was a drawing of a tall, dark building shadowing the bed. There was a skull on a mantelpiece adjacent to what seemed to be a library of encyclopedias. "I believe she's..."

"Speak up."

"No," John said. His voice sounded stuffed. "I probably won't be able to drink anything anyway. My nose feels as if it's been lit on fire."

"The fault is none but your own," Sherlock chuckled, eyes still closed.

"Oh, don't be too harsh. Anyway. I need my stuff."

"You mean your jacket?"

"And my backpack."

"Bed." Sherlock used one finger to point.

John ducked, and got it. "I guess... I guess I'll excuse myself, then," he said, throwing on his jacket. "Wouldn't want to overstay my visit."

"No, um," Sherlock said. "Sit down."

"Where?"

"I don't know. In a chair. On my bed." Sherlock rolled left, closer to the wall. "Please. John." And then Sherlock opened his eyes. And looked.

Sherlock literally gasped.

John looked as if he'd been shot in the face; his eye was fifty shades of purple, his lip swollen and his nose absolutely enormous. How could he even breathe? It made Sherlock want to laugh. And cry. And kiss him. God, Sherlock wanted to kiss him. Which was a weird reaction.

"Sorry," John said sheepishly, sitting on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock shut his eyes again, not bothering to ask why John was sorry.

"I threw the first punch."

"I didn't notice. I was too busy being consumed with unquenchable rage." John snorted out one nostril, which made his face contort in pain, and he lay back onto the mattress next to Sherlock when Sherlock sat up to look at him.

"It hurts, obviously. Are you in need of some... Tylenol? Or something to that effect? I've got the hard kind... of, you know, painkiller, if you need it."

"No. No, I'm good. Extremely good."

"Really." Sherlock turned to John, who now had both his eyes closed. Sherlock reached down and brushed John's hair off his forehead. It hadn't stopped growing, to Sherlock's dismay. It felt soft, and fuzzy, and too long, and too nice. Sherlock wanted to fill his pillows with that hair. That was so fucking scary.

"Yeah."

"Really."

"Yeah, Sherlock," John said thickly. His voice kept on cracking.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Entirely?"

"Yes," John choked, and a tear welled up in the corner of his left eye. "I'm sorry. Have I... have I fucked everything?"

"Every-what?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head left, stroking John's blonder than blonde hair. Sunshine personified.

"Every-us," John said.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "Not possible, lovely," he whispered. "Although..." Sherlock was distracted by John's arms, suddenly more muscled than ever, finding his palm, "...I think you might have ruined your face."

John groaned.

"It's alright." Sherlock sighed. "You were always too handsome for me, anyways."

"You think I'm handsome," John suddenly laughed, not moving his mouth, so it looked more like a ripple passing through his swollen face.

"You look ghastly, though."

"Thanks. Handsome and ghastly."

Honestly, John wasn't handsome. He was beautiful. Breathtaking. He was a star that hadn't risen over a horizon, he was a human that made a god forget about being a god.

And somehow, shockingly, somehow, John looked even more beautiful with the swelling, like he was a butterfly about to break out of a chrysalis.

"You know," Sherlock blurted, "Your testosterone filled display of masculinity changes nothing. That's like telling a pack of wolves to turn into dogs by hitting them."

"It helped, though," John insisted. "They'll leave you alone for a while."

Sherlock leaned over John, who was laying in his bed, feet over the bedpost. He needed to say something. "John. Listen to me."

"Yes," John mumbled.

"This won't stop them from hating me, or bullying me. So I need you to do this, I need you to do this, for me. I need you to stop caring. I need you to clench your fists and I need you to keep your head held high, because one day, they might take you too-"

"Never," John said loudly.

"One day," Sherlock continued, "You'll leave, and I need you to swear to me that when I look back I'll remember you with your head high and your eyes forward. Can you do that for me?"

John's eyes furrowed. "No," he whispered. "I can't."

"Because, John, it doesn't matter to me." Sherlock held John's hand. "As long as you like me, nothing else matters."

John pulled Sherlock's hand to his chest. "How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock..." John's teeth gritted, "I don't like you..."

John

John wasn't coming back to school until Friday. He was grounded, as he said, "Forever," and his mum was contemplating kicking him right out of school.

For some reason, he found another perverted note on his textbook that said, "i cum thinking of you," which John, instead of scribbling it all out, John threw the cover in the trash. Maybe John was living in poverty, but he could still get paper bags.

When John got to his bedroom, there were two new jeans on his bed. His mum told him she got them from Goodwill after "finding money in the laundry." What that really meant that she found money in Pickard's pants.

Pickard never knew; he always assumed he spent it at the bar or that he spent it on hookers or whatever else he did.

Emma had become like a double agent since marrying that man. She stole money from him - ten, fifteen dollars, nothing major, and bought underwear for Harry... Pants for John.

Bottles of perfume and sticks of cinnamon. Apple vinegar and toys.

Frankly, she was a superheroine, but John didn't like recognizing that fact - it was too easy on her, like, just leave him and the family will be broken the right way. Not shattered. Just broken. And now, Harry was easing on Pickard too... but John knew he would never give in.

The jeans were a bit big. John didn't mind. All his other pants had flaws, like a tear in the crotch or a broken button. It was better this way. He needed pants that did nothing other than sag. He actually did a happy dance when one fit perfectly, but then he realized that when he threw it in the wash it would shrink. He looked good in them. For the time being. He took them off and slipped into his pajamas, but as he did... he saw the prize.

The boots. They were work boots. Brand new, tanned, leather; must have been eighty pounds. When he saw them, he thanked God, and then ran into mum's room to praise her. But she wasn't there.

Pickard was there, sitting on the bed. Reading.

"Hi, John," he said. Looking upwards, he put his book down and took off his reading glasses. He was sober. Honest-to-god sober.

"Heyyyyyyy..." John said, stepping over to him. His hair wasn't oily. It was cut, washed, professional looking, and he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He looked clean. Handsome, almost, like if he shaved his pointy rat nose diminished and eyes became greener and warmer.

"See you found your boots."

"Yeah," John said. "I did."

"I bought them." Pickard smiled. "Hope you like 'em, son."

"I do," John said. "Thank you." He'd never called John his son before. That made John almost as happy as it made him confused. He'd never seen this side of Pickard before; well-mannered, a bit likable.

"You're welcome."

John grinned as widely as was possible with a broken face, and bowed before awkwardly walking out the door and closing it behind him.

John soon found out that Harry got a present from Pickard too. Clothes. It was just two navy sweaters. Nothing provocative. Nothing sexual. When Harry saw it she smiled too. "Wow," she said, "Pickard must have wracked his peanut brain for this," but she honestly looked ecstatic. And that was good.

And the next day, before it was time for Sherlock to step on the bus, John walked to his stop so he could wait for him to appear.

A/N: What if John's mom accidentally tells Pickard what then omg should I write that in imma write that in woo and did I mention Sherlock called John lovely maybe that's uncharacteristic of him but God I like imagining it and WHAT IS PICKARD PLAYING AT EXACTLY