"So, what now? You think you can go home, or is there something you need to do before hand?" John wondered at last, his hands dangling upon his backpack strings almost nervously, as if he didn't want to be too forward about asking for a kiss goodnight. They were both thinking it of course, wondering why Sherlock hadn't gone completely love struck in the time they were sitting here alone, though tonight's possession was a much tamer version than the others had been. Tonight it seemed as though their witch just wanted the two to be together, without any highlighted details of what 'together' might mean.
"I'm not sure." Sherlock admitted, though when he stuck his leg towards the door he was happy to see it comply. "I suppose I'm back in control."
"What's the point of pushing you into this locker room then, if she'd just let you go?" John wondered, almost as if he found that disappointing.
"Perhaps she wants us to have some quality time together, rather than waste our conversational time with our lips preoccupied." Sherlock suggested.
"Don't say it like that." John growled, shuttering for a moment before starting his way towards the door. Sherlock followed along obediently, feeling quite small when tagging along with such a broad, powerful boy. This was John's trampling grounds, his home away from home. The locker rooms were his kingdom, and surely that made Sherlock a trespasser. It was a strange world, that of athletics, though his experience tonight only furthered his decision to purse the arts instead. If not to avoid the muscle strain, well Sherlock certainly did well to avoid the showers. As they were leaving John made sure to turn off the light and lock the door behind him, stepping together into the darkened stadium under a cloudy, moonless night. The lights had been turned off but the gate was open, for there were still some snack stand employees cleaning up and loading up the unused food into boxes, to be stored in their garages until the next crowd came along. Sherlock and John made sure to stagger their exits, with Sherlock slinking out unseen in the shadows and John making a very visible, very vocal goodbye to each of the ladies working behind the counter. Presumably they were the mothers of his teammates, and they matched his enthusiasm with their cheerful goodbyes and congratulations. John seemed to revel in their praise, his mouth stretched into a large smile and his steps falling lighter upon the pavement as he went. As Sherlock watched from his poor hiding spot (next to one of the parked cars, shadowed enough to blend in) he wondered just how much attention John got from the people in his life. Tonight's conversations further exploited his family life, making it seem as if he didn't have a family at all. What was he walking home to, if not to the congratulations and praise from his parents who had sat through every minute of the game? At last John came sauntering over, looking quite proud of himself as he strode along the yellow line of the fire lane, one foot in front of the other in a delicate show of balance and control. Sherlock joined him once they got a little farther away, hopping onto the sidewalk that would snake around and back into town. It was a scenic walk from here, cutting near the edge of the rather sad forest that their town called their only share of wilderness. Their lives consisted mostly of a suburban wasteland, with sidewalks and parking lots and storefronts, though what little green that popped up in their life was always appreciated. It was nice to stroll, wordless and peaceful, past the remaining crickets that still chirped throughout the messy underbrush, alive until the first frost. John strode silently at his side, keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his letterman jacket and his head down, as if he was trying to think of a conversation started but was coming up empty handed. Sherlock wasn't surprised, well really what was there to talk about? It seemed as though the most exciting thing happening in both of their lives was each other, and that certainly wouldn't make for a very good conversation.
"Have you told anyone yet?" Sherlock asked at last, glancing only for a moment at his companion's bowed head.
"No, of course not." John said quickly, as if that question really answered itself. Sherlock nodded, not sure if he was happy to hear that or not.
"Me neither." He agreed. "I don't know who I would tell, to be honest. I'm not sure they'd take me seriously."
"I take that back, I did tell my hamster." John admitted quickly.
"Oh that's fine. I'm sure he won't squeal." Sherlock chuckled to himself, though John grimaced, sounding as if he was physically pained by Sherlock's poor attempt at a pun.
"Ouch." John said at last. Sherlock smiled at him, well perhaps he smiled because of him, though kept his expression aimed entirely at the ground that they walked. The crickets could still be heard from the background, though they were fading into the noise of the city they were approaching. The rushing of cars, the clicking of stoplights, the slamming of doors, these were the sounds that Sherlock found more calming and much more familiar.
"I like that you have a hamster." Sherlock said at last. "What's his name?"
"Jelly Bean." John admitted, his face glowing a little bit shamefully.
"Jelly Bean." Sherlock repeated, this time his smile growing wider.
"He's my second secret, actually. Never told anyone about him, for fear they'd all make fun of me. I mean, hamsters are very cool, but they're sort of childish." John admitted.
"Hamsters are perfect for all ages. Don't let society shame your pets." Sherlock scoffed. "How old is he, anyway?"
"About two years. My dad got him for me for my birthday." John admitted with a sigh. Sherlock bit down on his tongue once again, though this time it was for fear of insulting John that he contained his laughter. Even though pets were a thing to cherish at all ages, he had still imagined Jelly Bean to be remaining from John's elementary school years.
"It's okay, you can laugh." John assured at last, perhaps noticing Sherlock as he cringed to hold in his true emotions.
"I'm not laughing." Sherlock lied quickly, though even as he allowed words to escape so too did a sharp giggle, and finally he gave up on hiding it. "Sorry, sorry."
"No, it's fine. It's pathetic, I know. My dad still thinks I'm ten." John growled. This faded Sherlock's laughter away, for he heard true hurt within John's struggling voice. He didn't know exactly how to respond, though he figured no words were better than the wrong ones.
"My life is a disaster." John admitted again.
"It's not." Sherlock protested.
"Not the part you see!" John insisted. "Sure I'm cool at school, but I'm the only fully functioning member of my family. Mom's got depression and won't leave the basement, Harriet never leaves her room and yells all the time, and my father's an absent alcoholic. It's sad, it's pathetic!" John's voice had raised now to a rather aggressive yell, and for a moment he stumbled around on the sidewalk looking for something to kick. When nothing presented itself (Sherlock was happy his shins weren't a candidate) John simmered back down, muttering quick apologies and hunkering farther down into his jacket. Sherlock wasn't sure what to say; in fact he wasn't sure there was even a response necessary. Though he couldn't let such a statement hang in the air between them, especially not when their walk promised another ten minutes of solitude!
"If that's true, John, then it sounds like you made a lot out of a little." Sherlock said at last, his voice dropping low in his apprehension. Surely John got the message; surely he understood it to be a soft and motivational speech. Though he remained silent, perhaps caught between wanting to curse his life and thank his friend for at least trying to offer an optimistic view.
"Ya well, who knows? Who knows what I'll make of myself, if anything at all." John sighed.
"Two weeks ago I would've had a definitive answer for that, but now I'm not so sure." Sherlock admitted with a little chuckle. John turned at last, this time his face wavering towards an accusing smile. It seemed as though he was trying to hide his amusement, but was not utterly failing.
"What would you have said two weeks ago?" John demanded a bit forcefully. Sherlock gave a quick shrug, smiling down to his shoes.
"Well, I'd say you'd make an inmate of yourself." He admitted at last.
"You thought I would end up in jail?" John clarified.
"John, I only ever saw the side of you who enjoyed smashing kids' heads into lockers." Sherlock defended.
"You knew I played football! What, you never considered that I could make it to the big leagues?" John wondered nervously.
"Dare I consider you being more successful than me? Of course not." Sherlock admitted with a guilty little grin. "But I believe you could do it now, of course."
"What makes now different than then?" John wondered with a pout.
"Well, now I'm rooting for you." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"Right." John whispered, nearly forgetting to walk as his brain paused to understand what could only be a compliment. He seemed dumbstruck, unable to think up a good enough response. Sherlock held back his pride, though he was very happy to have rendered John helpless. This was further proof that the boy was offered no compliments within his daily life, and when at last presented with one he had no idea how to process it. It wasn't an answer that came as a result, not a verbal one at least. As Sherlock focused more intently on the empty storefronts stretching above him, all closed for the night, he felt something catch within his hand, so abruptly that he almost jumped when he felt his fingers getting squeezed. It took a moment to realize what was happening, and with a quick glance down at his hand his suspicions were confirmed! It wasn't alone where it swung by his side, there was another hand around it, there was John's hand. Sherlock's head snapped back in the forward facing position, so frightened now to ruin what may be a defining moment not only in their relationship, but in their entire lives. He felt as though he had somehow tamed a wild animal, and with one wrong move he might lose the trust forever. The only thing he could think to say, well the only reasonable response there was,
"Is that you?" Sherlock whispered, silently hoping that they had not fallen under that strange spell again. John was quiet for a moment, as if wondering if it was in his best interest to lie.
"Ya, it's me." he agreed finally. Sherlock pursed his lips to hide his smile, though it broke through his defenses nonetheless. He didn't respond, though he clenched onto John's fingers with a reassuring little squeeze. So it was John's intention, then. And it was slowly becoming his as well. 

John POV: It was a strange sensation, waking up to a knock on the door. John couldn't remember a time when any of his family members cared about his punctuality, especially not on a Saturday morning. John rolled over in his bed, blinking through groggy eyelids to see that it wasn't even seven o'clock yet. The sun wouldn't even be out, oh who could be calling at this hour?
"What?" John growled in protest, his voice still too sleepy to be threatening.
"Get up John." his father called from the other side of the door, rattling the handle so as to emphasize his urgency. John had no intentions of getting out of bed, though when his arms pushed him into a sitting position he realized that his own control was being overridden by another source. Oh would that witch not give it a rest, not even at seven o'clock? With a pang of fear John wondered what could be so urgent, especially if his father was calling so agressivley? If he was under this strange spell, well then who's to say that Sherlock wasn't as well? Could something have happened last night, something that he had forgotten about? For a moment John's brain jumped to the worst case scenario, that being his father finding a naked Sherlock Holmes lying on the downstairs couch. But no...no certainly John would've remembered that! Certainly he walked Sherlock home that night, yes, he could remember it clearly! Nothing had happened, nothing that would lead his father to suspicion. For a while John's body was on autopilot (or rather someone else was conducting his daily routine for him), as he was getting dressed and ready all while fretting over the ungodly hour of summoning. For a while his hands played in his hair, working without his consent as they bunched up what little strands they could into the shape of a very poor, struggling ponytail. Strange that he would be tempted to put his hair back, considering he had never done that in his life.
"Coming!" he called out, wincing at such an uncharacteristic declaration. John tried to prepare himself for the worst case scenario; he tried to create a handful of excuses in his head. If Sherlock was at their front door he would have to play it off like he was getting tutored or something, and if Sherlock was in his house...well then he'd have to pin it all on Harriet. Certainly that wouldn't be a good defense, but it was perhaps more believable than admitting to it himself! As John began his way down the stairs he certainly heard voices, though none of them seemed to belong to Sherlock. In fact as he listened John could swear that he heard a small collection in his kitchen, each voice heavily accented and youthful. What sort of party was his father hosting, now at this ungodly hour of morning? John turned the corner into his kitchen, standing barefooted on the tile and staring up at the strangest assortment of visitors he had ever seen. His father stood in the middle, surrounded on both sides by tall young men, all wearing stylish suits and dazzling smiles. From their confidence alone John could tell that they had money, though despite their trimmed facial hair and their kind eyes he could not determine who they were or what they were doing in his kitchen. He stared, and they stared back.
"Who the h*ll are you guys?" John snarled. The men didn't answer, instead the five of them just kept on staring, examining John top to bottom as if he was a farm animal up for auction. They were muttering amongst themselves, though John couldn't catch a bit of what they were saying. Whatever it was, it sounded serious. John huddled into himself, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling very vulnerable under their rather penetrating gazes.
"He'll do." the shorter one decided at last, pushing his curly hair behind his ear and nodding.
"Do for what?" John snarled in return, suddenly worried he was here to be tested on by some experimental pharmaceutical company. Or where they college recruiters, taking a new approach?
"John, go and pack your things." his father demanded at once, accepting a large envelope from one of the other men and tucking it into his front pocket. He looked proud of himself, though for the life of him John could not determine what was happening in this situation.
"Why..." John muttered quietly, taking a step back in protest.
"I sold you." His father admitted at last. John's face grew a bit pale, though he could only process this as a joke. He managed a laugh, shaking his head quickly. The curly haired man stepped forward, his smile widening and his eyes growing a bit more threatening.
"John, my name is Harry Styles. Go and get your things, and we'll take you on home." 

Hugging his hamster cage, John sat anxiously on their usual park bench, the most secluded spot where neither the walking groups nor the strange men could witness his conversation. Jelly Bean seemed especially enthusiastic about going to the park, for he was pressed up against the bars of the cage and trying to sniff his little nose into the fresh air. It was a beautiful day, uncharacteristically warm for this time of September, though it was not the weather that frightened him. John was almost shaking as he sat still, wondering just when it would be when his new guardians noticed he was missing. Of course it was his first instinct to run away, as soon as they left him alone in his room he was already crawling out the window with Sherlock on the phone! How could he live like that, how could he ever go back? Something was severely dysfunctional here; somehow even their theory of witchcraft couldn't cover the reality that John was suddenly facing. If he wasn't mistaken he had just been adopted by One Direction, and unless he had severely underestimated the motivations of a boy band, well John was pretty sure that didn't happen regularly. In fact, he was pretty sure that didn't happen at all. And yet here he was, hiding with his hamster while all of his possessions were packed away in suitcases, strewn out across the floor of his new bedroom in the top most level of their strange mansion, built alongside the secondary highway which led into the town. This world had taken a turn towards the grotesque, and for the life of him John couldn't figure out why, or even how.
"Sherlock, thank God!" John exclaimed, at last getting to his feet when he saw the slender form making its way through the trees.
"It sounded urgent; I came as soon as I could." Sherlock assured, prancing lightly to John's side with that characteristic look of concern. It was almost touching to see how worried Sherlock could be, for his eyes were wide and his face was flushed.
"It is urgent." John agreed, wincing as Jelly Bean began to run on his wheel and cause the whole cage to shake up against his chest. Sherlock paused, even his savior's motivation seemed to fade as he looked upon the strange creature that John had taken along.
"Is that Jelly Bean?" Sherlock presumed. John sighed heavily, but nodded.
"I didn't want to leave him there, God forbid." John admitted, at last sitting down and accepting his defeat. He set Jelly Bean's cage on the ground, allowing the little hamster to enjoy the view it might have had if he lived in the wild. From there he could see the underbrush of the forest beyond, as well as each of the bugs which were crawling around on the blades of grass below. Though while Jelly Bean was living his best life, John was pulling his knees up to his chest, his face paling as he remembered the strange events of the day.
"I think we've got our theories wrong, Sherlock. I don't think she's just controlling us, I think she's controlling the world." John admitted at last.
"No one can control the world, John." Sherlock scoffed doubtfully.
"That's what I figured too! But this morning my dad woke me up, and he sold me." John admitted at last. Sherlock hesitated, for whatever response he had been formulating in his mouth seemed to be rendered irrelevant. For a moment the boy blinked, his face down turning into a very concerned expression, his mind struggling hard to think of a way to rationalize that.
"Sold you?" Sherlock clarified at last.
"To One Direction." John agreed mournfully. The laugh that escaped Sherlock's lips seemed to be unintentional, for he covered it anxiously with his hand, muttering apologies while his face grew red in the effort of containing himself. Obviously there was nothing to be said for himself, for if it still seemed like a joke then perhaps John's situation would appear to be funny. It was a nearly pathetic position to be placed in, though it seemed desperate enough to seek help.
"You mean the boy band?" Sherlock chuckled at last, finally containing his breath enough to formulate a coherent response.
"I'm not joking, Sherlock, I wish I was." John insisted. "They came to my house, it was seven o'clock in the morning, they paid my dad, they packed my things, and then they drove me off in this Land Rover to their brand new mansion."
"John that's ridiculous." Sherlock muttered at last, though his face remained concerned.
"I know! That's what I'm saying; it's so ridiculous that it can't be true. It's got to be this witch, whoever she is." John said again. "The thing is, I'm wondering just how much power she's had this whole time, if she could summon these guys to adopt me and materialize a mansion on the side of Route 203."
"You're saying we're living in a world that's not real? Like some sort of...movie characters?" Sherlock presumed, though his voice was still ridden with doubt.
"Tell me Sherlock, have you felt normal ever since that first time in the bus stop? Have you felt like you were just continuing living as you always had, with only your own thoughts stored in your brain?" John wondered quickly. Sherlock thought for a moment, slight color sprinkling upon his defined cheeks as he examined his mind in more depth.
"I'm not sure." He admitted quickly.
"The answer is no, Sherlock. I know the answer is no, because I haven't felt right either." John insisted.
"John, we know when she's controlling us." Sherlock protested a bit weakly. "We know when we're not in control, when we don't want to comply."
"Perhaps we did back then, before she got into our heads and completely rearranged our minds! And our world!" John exclaimed. "Sherlock, we're only in control now because we're doing exactly what she wanted us to do!"
"And that is?" Sherlock whispered nervously, his voice coming as no more than a squeak as his wide eyes joined with John's. At that John hesitated, now worried that his final declaration would either come as a surprise or as an insult. Perhaps Sherlock could already guess the answer, though he kept his big pout focused on John as if to pressure his final declaration out the hard way.
"Well, falling in love." John whispered. Sherlock pursed his lips, his head staring back down at the hamster cage as if he didn't want to look into John's eyes for any longer. He didn't protest, though he didn't seem too eager to agree. John's muscles grew clammy, and for a moment he wished he could shove all of his theories back into the deranged mind they had come from.
"Sherlock, you know what I'm saying. It's just...it's just uncharacteristic." John whispered at last.