"This is ridiculous." John growled, presumably in a time that was intended to be quiet. When they weren't scripted it would seem as though they had control of their voices, though when they weren't supposed to be moving their bodies were like stone. It was strange, as if they were acting out a part in someone's play without their intending on it.
"I don't know what will become of this, but I just want to say..."
"Ya, I know. It's not you. Well it's not me, either." John interrupted, his scowl deepening as they now crept along towards the back of the bleachers. This time it was John's turn to look, his head swiveling back and forth just as rapidly as an owl, his pupils dancing within his head as he was not expecting the sudden shift in momentum.
"I hate being interrupted with you." John muttered, his hand stealing into Sherlock's (both boys seethed) and pulling him underneath the topmost bleacher. Any farther than that would require Sherlock to duck down, as his head was standing much too tall to make this affair anymore private. Thankfully this did seem to be a secluded spot, for the bleachers were set up against a grassy hill, one which led up towards some overgrown fields above. No one would be standing up there, nor would they have any reason to. If anyone came to interrupt the unintentional love birds, they would have to know exactly where to look.
"Well then, let's not be interrupted." Sherlock suggested. John chuckled, though his eyes were once more on fire. It was pretty clear to both boys that they were not here for conversation.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." John was muttering, for his hand had since left Sherlock's and was now traveling along to his waist. Settling there, with Sherlock's hipbone resting his hand gently, John took a couple of steps forward so as to collide their chests once again. Sherlock wished it was a position he was entirely unfamiliar with, though this was the same angle he had been forced to endure while in the bathroom. He was very familiar with John's face, even when it was so up close and personal.
"Your eyes belong in a gallery." John whispered, interrupting his string of panicked apologies.
"That's the worst..." Sherlock's voice broke, "Don't let them distract you."
"Shut your eyes, Sherlock." John suggested in an appropriately soft voice.
"My God, after having read Shakespeare, this is almost unbearable." Sherlock grumbled, to which John grunted his agreement.
"Ya, ya." John growled. Sherlock obeyed, or rather someone else obeyed, for his eyelids were closed on command. It took just a moment for him to feel a hand upon his cheek, another surprising touch from John Watson. It was strange, that boy's gentle capabilities. Perhaps it was just part of the script; perhaps whoever was controlling him knew a thing or two about being careful, being loving. For the softness of his fingers, the light and calculated touches, well it was certainly something that Sherlock would have considered out of John's psychical capabilities. His face was being pulled down, his fists were being clenched. With his own control, not even with the suggestion of a third party, Sherlock's hand caught onto John's shoulder, clinging now for the support of another. He thought he might fall over, so overwhelmed with what was about to happen. He could sense what was coming; he had been in enough plays to understand what happened after their height difference was accounted for. Well, to Sherlock's surprise if was not his lips which were given the first kiss. Instead he felt John peck against his forehead, in something of a much more adoring gesture. It was, well it was actually quite nice. If this was the whole of their meeting under the bleachers, perhaps it would not be as hellish as Sherlock had envisioned. But oh, if only that could be the end! Certainly it was just beginning. Sherlock's hand clutched tighter to John's shoulder, his mouth muttering little curses as John's lips found themselves upon his eyelid, a very uncomfortable and almost painful sensation.
"Ew, what is that supposed to be?" Sherlock complained. Once again, John was silent. Obviously he wasn't able to talk, perhaps he was intended and decided to be perfectly silent. His arms were now wrapped around Sherlock's waist, pulling every last portion of their torsos together as their legs were now forced to interlock. It was difficult to keep balance, now that he was both stooped and tangled. The kisses were becoming more centered, narrowing in on a target as they trailed down Sherlock's cheek in a silent but determined path of affection.
"Well, here we go." Sherlock whispered. "Make sure you can still look at me the same..." his words were cut off, for his lips were forced into another occupation. Suddenly there was pressure, the breath of his companion coming in hot through his parted mouth, their faces now perfectly aligned. Sherlock wasn't sure if this counted as his first kiss, for there were many more theatrical ones preceding it. However, if those didn't count then this certainly shouldn't, for it was just as scripted as the others. The only difference was that Sherlock found it within himself to make this kiss convincing. Perhaps he was instructed to by some unseen force, perhaps his muscles were intended to relax. Even if this was entirely forceful, it was still the best fake kiss he had ever attempted. If it had been on the stage even Mycroft wouldn't be able to laugh, for it would be so convincing as to make each audience member doubt that there was nothing but directions between the characters. Perhaps there was something more, had they been enacting Romeo and Juliet. But together under the bleachers, acting as a more daring set of John and Sherlock, the boys were just that. Just scripted, wholly unintentional, but much less disgusted than they first expected to be. If this was Sherlock's first kiss, well dare he admit it was a good one. It lasted the whole of about a minute, maybe a minute and a half if you were being generous. Sherlock was almost surprised to feel john pull away, as his eyes had been closed since his initial instruction and therefore he had no sense of what was and was about to happen. Just as soon as he had felt John's lips pull away his strength returning, as if that was the end of whatever scene had just played about between them. Someone, somewhere, had considered that a reasonable place to take a break. He opened his eyes, feeling John's hands slackening around him as their two faces pulled rather hastily away.
"It's over." Sherlock announced a bit desperately, at last taking a step away and depriving himself of such a close, immediate share of body heat.
"Ya." John agreed. "It's...well it's so cruel."
"Humiliating." Sherlock agreed, his limbs slackening and his eyes dropping to the ground in embarrassment. Once again he felt as if it was beyond his strength to look John in the eyes, for the fear of seeing those familiar flames of dislike. He didn't like staring too closely into the window to John's soul, considering his soul was a foul, stinking pit. Sherlock sighed, dropping his hands into his pockets and feeling as if he was trying to swallow a golf ball. There was a strange feeling to him, a mix between nausea and excitement, as if he was going to throw up the contents of his stomach but cheer for the duration.
"I had better get going...Mycroft will be looking any time now." Sherlock shuttered. John managed a smile at last, chuckling to himself as that name brought back some of his oldest memories.
"Mycroft! Oh what a delightful brother you have!" he laughed.
"That's one word for him." Sherlock growled.
"I can remember one time in about third grade; your brother was just learning to drive so he came to pick you up from the playground. I think I was throwing mulch at you or something, some other childish offense, and he hit me square in the face with a basketball. Nearly broke my nose." John chuckled.
"Sounds like you would've deserved it." Sherlock pointed out.
"Of course I deserved it, but then again he was what...sixteen? What business did he have beating up on some eight year old?" John protested. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his eyes squinting suspiciously.
"Is this really the time for reminiscing?" he asked at last. John shrugged his shoulders, his face growing a little red.
"Well, figure you ought to get to know a guy after you just kissed him." John suggested.
"I know you well enough." Sherlock snapped.
"Perhaps not." John muttered. Sherlock, again, grew more suspicious.
"You're sure you're saying that?" he wondered. "Not some script again, going in for round two?"
"Is it really so difficult to understand that I'm just making conversation?" John wondered.
"Yes. But if you want to make a real conversation, we really ought to come up with some good excuses for our being under the bleachers." Sherlock insisted.
"What are you talking about? We just walk out, surely..."
"Sherlock!" called a faraway voice, one that was strained in panic. As if on cue.
"That's why we can't just walk out. I mean, you have every reason to be down here, but me? They'll suspect something, immediately." Sherlock insisted.
"Why don't you just say we were fighting?" John suggested, since that was a perfectly plausible explanation.
"Because I walked out of the theater in a huff! They were making fun of me liking you, and they'll be looking for any correlation they can find!" Sherlock snarled, desperation now getting a hold of his common sense. John blinked, looking at Sherlock with that trademark expression of absolute confusion.
"They think you like me?" he clarified.
"No...ugh! They're making fun of me in the context of that; laughing...oh it doesn't matter. They have no evidence, and if they get any we'll both be ruined. That's Victor out there, he loves drama." Sherlock reminded him, shaking his head before trying to catch a glimpse of where the voice was coming from. With just a quick look out from under their hiding spot he could see Victor's figure standing on the top of the hill, hands on his hips and right knee bent with all of his weight.
"Striking a pose even when he's alone." Sherlock muttered, pulling his head back in and cowering down towards the lower levels of the bleachers. It would be the end of them both, if Victor saw even a glimpse of Sherlock down here he would immediately suspect! It wouldn't be so easy to tell the truth, especially when Sherlock didn't even understand the truth for himself. How would Victor be convinced that this was completely involuntary? They would be ruined.
"Okay. I've got an idea." John announced. Sherlock huffed, kneeling down onto the soft mud and looking up at John with some doubt. It took a moment to look away from his lips, as if Sherlock's mind was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that those lips, out of all others, had been the first to properly grace his own.
"This should be good." Sherlock muttered doubtfully.
"No, no I think we'll both really enjoy it." John assured. Sherlock sighed heavily, but in the end he decided to listen. John was a schemer for sure, and the plan he presented was one so outrageous it might actually work. A perfect mix of block headed football solutions and a touch of finesse, probably something he picked up from listening to Shakespeare in Mrs. Turner's class. It might work...well, it had to work. There was no other alternative, at least not now. 

John ducked around the bleachers, so as to make it look as though he had been sitting on them this whole time. Then he jumped down, onto the field and in the open as if to respond to Victor's calls. Sherlock watched from the space between the bleacher seats, knowing well enough not to jump into the action just yet. There would be a cue, a rather obvious cue, which would be his signal to run. As he watched Sherlock tried to stretch out his legs, knowing that a stiff muscle might be the line between life and death. If he couldn't clear the field in the span of about thirty seconds, well then it may very well be over for the both of them. This all relied on John's acting abilities, and on Sherlock's nonexistent stamina.
"John, have you seen Sherlock around?" Victor asked, his voice just barely audible from where Sherlock crouched. John continued to walk forward, as if he hadn't heard the question.
"Why would I have any reason to see Sherlock? Surely if I had, he'd be strung up the flag pole already." John chuckled. Victor scowled, though he stood his ground. Perhaps he saw some suspicion clouding this scene, a supposedly innocent John Watson, alone when his main target was missing. Victor was probably suspecting the worst, that they'd find Sherlock nailed up in a coffin somewhere, or cemented behind a newly laid brick wall.
"I didn't know if you saw him wandering, that's all." Victor snapped in response. John continued to get closer, all as part of the plan... Sherlock braced himself, knowing that his moment was coming soon.
"Why would Sherlock be wandering?" John wondered.
"Because he's got the soul of a romantic poet, and hates being confined indoors." Victor said. "Why would I tell you?"
"So moody, Victor. A simple answer would suffice." John insisted.
"I'll give you a simple answer! F..." with a yelp of agony, Sherlock knew it was time to run. Just as soon as he saw John's fist make contact with Victor's stomach he took to the grass, counting on John to give Victor a proper beat down so as to keep his attention wholly contained. A nice kick in the teeth would be a nice compliment, to make him clutch his face and therefore cover his eyes...oh but it was no use now! Sherlock raced at near break neck speeds, perhaps running faster than he ever had gone in his life. The school was close, and ever present were the yells of Victor's continued agony. Yes, yes! Sherlock grabbed hold of the door handle, successfully slipping inside without any suggestive calls from his friend. It might have worked, but there was no time to rest on their laurels now. Sherlock raced to retrieve his backpack, navigating through the back stage of the dark theater to capture his belongings once more. Then he raced towards the door where Mycroft usually met them, making sure that he didn't recognize that obnoxious vehicle before he at last slowed his speed, caught his breath, and walked casually out onto the sidewalk. From here he could see Victor and John still brawling in the grass, now Victor was attempting to defend himself by clinging onto John's back, somehow having managed to keep the boy occupied and avoiding further damage to his facial structure.
"Victor, Victor!" Sherlock called out, putting on his best show of remorse as he raced towards the boy's side. Not knowing a better technique, Sherlock slung his backpack off of his shoulders and swung it madly, hitting John square in the face with the corner of a binder and sending the poor boy crumbling to his knees.
"Sherlock!" John groaned, at last letting go of Victor as he clutched onto his face in agony.
"Sherlock!" Victor exclaimed, sounding much happier for the arrival than John was. He arose from the grass, now with a sizable welt on his lip and blood sprinkled in his hair. Despite John's promises to go easy on him it was no surprise that the temptations of beating Victor down to a pulp were too much to restrain. It would be so satisfying to just smack the lights out of him, again and again. Nevertheless, Victor seemed to be in much better spirits with the arrival of his hero. John recovered, standing up and now displaying what appeared to be scratch marks down the whole of his arms, as if Victor had attacked him with a very wild catlike aggression.
"I was looking for you everywhere, and now I find you're fighting with this miscreant?" Sherlock snarled.
"I was looking for you! I swear, this was totally unprovoked! He just ran up and started hitting me." Victor protested, feeling upon his face for any wounds and frowning when he felt the welt that was continuing to grow. "I swear." He said again.
"Well, I suppose there's no helping it now. We'll get ice on that." Sherlock decided. "And you, John Watson, stop terrorizing my friends!"
"Oh trust me Sherlock, I would rather stay ten feet away from you and your friends at all times." John responded, sounding a bit pained as he still held his hand over his left eye. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt, wondering if he had managed to inflict a nasty wound on the poor boy's face. It took only a moment to remember that it would be payback if anything at all, and so with a smirk and nothing more Sherlock took Victor's arm, trying to pull that boy away from making any last moves now that John wasn't expecting it. There were no goodbyes issued, though Sherlock suspected that John didn't have one anyway. He could only imagine they were feeling the same way after today's wild string of events, helpless and all together speechless.