John was quite happy that he had accidentally remembered their points of contact, for he made it a special point to avoid each and every meeting spot. When he was supposed to pass by Sherlock in the hallway he made it a point to linger a bit, so as to allow the boy to pass through unseen and unbothered. At his locker, John would be sure to stay on the other side of his small gathering posse, keeping at least one of his friends on his right side to block out any potential eye contact he would make with Sherlock down the way. He wasn't sure what was causing these strange bouts of association, whether or not their meeting was triggering it or if their meets were prearranged to look like accidents. It was a wild conspiracy, for what sort of power in this world had the capability of arranging such a strange string of events? Not only did they find themselves virtually trapped together, it also seemed as though their motions and words were being choreographed and scripted, as if someone was controlling them from some distance away. But what use was there, trying to deny what seemed to be the only option? If John didn't begin to believe in the paranormal, well he would be forced into believing in some strange attraction between himself and Sherlock, a phenomena that may very well be less plausible than ghosts and demons. If distance was the only way to prevent it, well then distance would have to be kept. Sherlock would go his own way, and John would go the other. He was not going to risk his reputation (nor the contents of his stomach) on another encounter with that theater boy, one that would undoubtedly end with the popping of their personal space bubbles. Come practice time John had to make up some silly excuse to take the long way around from the locker rooms, trying to make sure he didn't have to stroll through that auditorium and become possessed with another strange occurrence. That would only result in tragedy of the worst sort, in front of the crowds that both held such high judgment! The consequences for getting all tangled up with Sherlock in front of the football team might be so severe that John would probably prefer a very high bridge. The only positive effect of his bathroom experience was his mood, for once he had pushed Sherlock away he felt less angry and more afraid, now feeling as though there were cameras watching his every step, waiting for him to make a mistake. Well, this overwhelming nervousness was better than feeling the need to punch someone every five minutes, though it might not be as helpful as the later when it came to practice. John trudged the length of the school by himself, dragging his feet and trying not to remember back to this morning, trying not to remember just how lightweight Sherlock had been against his legs, or just how close their faces had gotten. Each memory caused him to cringe, so that if he did indeed have a stalker they would imagine he was having some sort of episode. Every couple of seconds his face would scrunch up, his teeth gnashing and his eyes shutting in horror. After a long while he felt as though it might be better to call in sick this practice, on the account of deep seated trauma. Before long John found himself outside, trudging to the field and trying to focus on the green grass below his feet, rather than the frightening images hidden inside of his mind.
"John Watson!" this voice prompted John to turn, seeing their head cheerleader Mary Morstan running over from the parking lot. She was in her practice uniform, though her long blonde hair had yet to be pulled into a pony tail and was flowing wildly over her face. John sighed heavily, though forced a smile.
"Hey Mary." He managed; beginning to saunter back towards the field in hopes that she would figure this wasn't an ideal time to talk. Oh but she never was one for social cues, and just as John feared she quickened her pace, eventually ending up at his shoulder. It was a very well known fact that Mary had a crush on him; in fact John was convinced that she had a whole different universe operating inside of her head. Instead of minding the hints and listening to his repetitive denials, Mary still acted as if they were an official couple. And there she was again! Taking his hand in her own and swinging it back and forth, giving him a great big smile and waiting for John to make the conversation. Well, the quieter the better, and so when she didn't talk neither did he. Together, they walked quickly towards the football field, hand in hand, in complete silence. It wasn't as if this was ideal, for John had no interest in Mary and the empty space inside of her head, though it was a relief to be holding onto an obviously female hand. It was nice to feel soft skin, to see painted nails, and to know that the person he was now so close to would not get him socially ridiculed for life. After finding himself in so many strange situations with Sherlock, John felt almost relieved that Mary was now the worst of his problems.
"I can drive you home tonight, if you want." Mary suggested hopefully, at last releasing his hands when they were forced to go their separate ways. The cheerleaders practiced their stunts at the track, while the football players held their practices exclusively on the grass fields up near the high school. Since their school hadn't installed a turf field, they didn't want to tear up their natural grass on the official playing field.
"Ya, that would be fine." John agreed, for the same rather selfish reasons as he had accepted her hand for so long. It would be a breath of fresh air, getting romantic attention from a woman instead of a thespian. Mary gave him a great big smile, that trademark grin of hers, and proceeded to jog down to the track, presumably going as fast as she could to tell her teammates that she was going to be spending the evening with John. In her eyes, that was the equivalent of a marriage proposal. John sighed, sauntering over to where his team was just now getting warmed up, only a few minutes late. Well, a few minutes was comparable to a whole hour in the eyes of his coaches, and so while the rest of the team did their dynamic stretches and laps around the field, John was forced to do one hundred pushups and sit ups, as punishment for his tardiness. The aggression that he had been feeling this morning had all since melted away, and in its place was a rather unappreciated lethargy. Instead of taking on the world, he would much rather take a nap, and his attitude during practice reflected this. His energy simply was not there, for all of his had been drained in the tense nerves he had been feeling for the whole of the school day. The stress had passed, his fight or flight response turned off, and now he was sinking into a shallow state of exhaustion and misery. He threw the football, he ran his sprints, but when the time for practice was over he could not wait to get hurried home. It was one of those times when Mary's obsession attention came in handy, for he was in no mood (or shape, really) to walk all the way back home. Once he was able to retrieve his things from the locker rooms John waited on the cement bench by the parking lot, figuring that Mary would be around when her practice allowed it. In the meantime, he was alright with waiting. John dropped his bag onto the sidewalk, holding his chin up in his hands and staring drearily down into the pavement ahead. He didn't know what to think, he wasn't entirely sure if he even wanted to think, though in the end he figured there was no helping it. He allowed his mind to wander, to go back all of those hours, all of those days... What had happened between the time he hit Sherlock and the time Sherlock hit on him? Had there been some evil curse placed upon them, some witch who had been disguised as a high school student this whole time? What other explanation could there be, except some strange form of magic? John knew that he wasn't in control those two times when he had been confined with Sherlock. His mouth was not obeying him, his brain was not working, and it was as if his vocal cords were producing exactly the opposite of what he wished to say! His body had been immobilized, his brain high jacked...well what rational explanation could there be? One might suggest a strange case of falling in love, as if his body had been possessed by none other than cupid. But that was implausible, impossible, really. If he was in love with Sherlock he would've known it earlier, certainly there would have been a more obvious sign, a more noticeable transition? It wasn't as if he was unable to love Sherlock, for he had always been rather open minded about who his heart clung to, it was just that he was unwilling. Gender wasn't the issue here, it was just the personality, the...well, everything. They were two sides of separate coins, powerful in their own ways but starkly different. He wasn't interested in dating someone who he found to be insufferable, he wasn't drawn to a boy who would insult his intelligence and hobbies every available opportunity! John sunk even deeper into his hands, letting out a soft groan of annoyance. The worst part of it all was that he could have no confidants except for Sherlock, for explaining the situation to anyone else would not only be volatile, but unbelievable as well. The only one who could understand happened to be the only problem he was having. Thankfully Mary's car pulled to the curb before John's mind could wander even deeper into his problems, the horn honking quickly as her arm waved madly above her head. Mary's car was some sort of customized pink convertible that her parents had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, proving that she wasn't just beautiful, but she was also rich. She really was the perfect combination of a girl, that is if she had any brains or personality to her name. She got by alright with her two qualities; so much so that she often forgot that the world was not completely in her hands. Part of her confusion with John was the fact that she couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to date her, so much so that she took John's avoidance to be shyness, and before long had conjured a world where he was madly but silently in love with her.
"John, get in!" Mary exclaimed excitedly. John sighed, getting to his feet and dragging his way around the car to the passenger seat. He sat with his backpack on his lap, settling in and strapping his seatbelt as the girl hit the accelerator rather madly, shooting the car down the parking lot and towards the road in near breakneck speeds.
"Woah!" John exclaimed, clutching tighter to his seat as the wind nearly pulled his head back against his seat. He wasn't used to driving in convertibles, much less going eighty miles an hour.
"Oh, sorry John. I forgot that you liked to take it slow." Mary muttered, reducing her speed but chuckling to herself, as if this was one of the funniest remarks that she had made all day. John gave her a rather forceful grin, but continued to hold on for dear life. Well, perhaps it was a good time to get into a fatal car accident. That way at least he would not have to face Sherlock Holmes again. 

Sherlock POV: Good idea? No...no this was a bad idea. This had to be a bad idea, or else he wouldn't be going ahead with it. Sherlock sat nervously on top of his bed, staring down at his phone and reading over the long message of apology that he had spelled out. Despite his strange encounter with John at the bus stop he still had the intuition to copy the phone number onto a separate sheet of paper (to ensure that he could wash the digits off quick enough for his family not to notice), and it was that number now that he had typed into his phone. A long message, one that would spell out exactly what had come over him, would certainly clear the air. After all, Sherlock was not only protecting his humility now, but also presumably his life. One more move like that on John Watson and he may find himself getting beat to a pulp, either by the rascal himself or by a gang of his unruly friends. It was best to clear the air now, pack his things, change his name, and flee the country. Well, perhaps that was getting a bit too far ahead. Though at the moment it was not impossible. Before Sherlock had time to rethink he pressed send, figuring that it was his definitive intention to send this message even if he was second guessing himself after it had been written. There was no changing it now; all that was left to do was wait. And waiting, mind you, was agonizing. Agonizing! Sherlock dropped his phone onto his bed, throwing his hands over top of his face and splaying out onto his stomach, groaning slightly and imagining an unbearable process. Hours awaited him, maybe even days! Who knows how long it would take John to respond, who knows just how much that boy had to say? He could envision it now, an invitation to a duel, or a restraining order...or a restraining order duel, in which you had to shoot each other from a minimum of twenty five feet! Oh, the agony...eight o'clock now, what might spiral and increase until at least midnight, perhaps into the...Sherlock's phone buzzed. He sat up, dazed and confused, wondering if that really could have happened so fast. For a moment Sherlock sat, keeping himself propped up on his forearms and watching his phone with some apprehension, waiting for it to combust into flames. Instead, the little device just sat innocently on his blankets, looking as if it could cause no harm. Sherlock swallowed hard, wondering if he even wanted to read the response to his long and whining apology. Perhaps it would be better to leave now, and to leave technology behind? Oh what was he kidding? Sherlock snatched his phone up anxiously, scrambling to unlock the message and read it over. Well, when compared to his long message on the left, John's response was quite simple. It read Ya, I know.
"Ya, I know?" Sherlock complained out loud, sneering at the response. "That could mean anything." he continued. How was one supposed to respond to that, how was one supposed to even interpret it? Was this John's way of ignoring him, or was it meant to be hostile? Was John beginning to blame Sherlock for this whole ordeal, or was he dedicated now to forgetting his counterpart existed at all? Sherlock groaned again, trying and failing to imagine an answer that would be suitable. Well, perhaps John didn't want a response. Perhaps he wanted to be done with it all together. Though as Sherlock finally decided he might toss aside his phone and lament, the three bubbles of anxiety popped up onto his screen. He was typing! For about three minutes Sherlock stared at those bubbles, waiting for the joyous moment when they might turn into a message that could ease his aching heart. He just needed a response, something that would highlight John's exact feelings, intentions, reservations, and theories. Was that too much to ask? Sherlock must have rolled back and forth on his bed about twenty times before John's message was delivered, this time a much lengthier one that Sherlock could appreciate. It read: I don't know what's causing this, but we can both agree it's not us. I think we should just avoid each other now, at all costs, in order to prevent it happening again. Sherlock nodded quickly, nodding as if John might be able to see is agreement from the other side of the phone. Well, he had to wait a couple of moments for sure. Didn't want there to be any strange inferences spawning off of his lightning fast response time. So Sherlock changed apps, scrolled through Instagram for a perfectly timed two minutes, and then promptly typed up his response. I agree, and I'm sorry again for any misunderstanding. That seemed short, sweet, and to the point. He nodded, sending it quickly before breathing a bit easier now. Well, everything seemed to be in order. At least the two of them were on the same page, for now at least Sherlock had it within him to relax. There was no response for the rest of the night, but this came almost as a relief rather than a worry. Sherlock was actually able to settle to sleep at a reasonable hour, a sort of relaxation he might've thought impossible moments ago.