John POV: Despite the food which was undoubtedly getting drenched, John could not find it within himself to pick up the pace. The rain, which had subsided for a moment into a light drizzle, had picked back up into a steady fall, heavy enough to soak his head so that his hair stuck annoyingly to his forehead. He could feel his clothes sticking to his skin, saturated no doubt, and as he walked the paper from the bags was beginning to pull and give way as its strength was diminished. Though he still walked slowly, not minding any shelter, not in any hurry at all. He kept scanning the horizon, almost expecting Sherlock to be lingering somewhere in the storm, as if trying to arrange their next accidental meeting. John had felt very strange during the whole affair, and looking back upon his responses he was beginning to get quite a stomach ache, as if his body was rejecting the memories as he produced them. He could tell that Sherlock was in no mood to talk, though he just went ahead and did it anyway! He had humiliated himself, writing his phone number, promising Sherlock help if he ever needed it! What was that, what strange fixation had come over him? John shook his head nervously, trying not to remember some of the more disturbing horror movies he had watched in the past. This was how a strange possession started, didn't it? With the character acting out of sorts, as if someone else was controlling them in sudden bouts of time. Like someone was talking with his mouth, without his consent. He would be very lucky if Sherlock could ever look at him again without laughing. The front door was unlocked when he arrived, meaning that his father had come home from work early. Perhaps the power outage had cut his workday short, forcing him to come and spend time with his family. What a tragedy on both ends, then. John let himself in, dumping the food onto the floor as he peeled off his sweatshirt, drenched and dripping as he set it upon the coat rack to dry.
"I'm home!" John announced, working his way into the kitchen to see if anyone was awaiting him. There was a half empty box of beer on the counter, forewarning the drunken mess who might be looming around any corner. John sighed heavily, making it a point to mind his manners. The first stop he made was to the basement door, calling out to his mother that he was leaving her a glass of water and apple slices on the top most stair. He got but a grunt in response, followed by a scream coming over from the soap operas. John didn't feel a goodbye was necessary, so he just shut the door with a snap. Next he made his way up to the top floor, noticing that Harriet had her music much quieter than normal. Perhaps she had gotten properly yelled at, for their father was never keen on listening to her emo bands though the floor. John knocked loud enough to be noticed, though this time he tried the handle and cracked the door open a little bit. Inside he could see her black painted wall, plastered with photos of her favorite musicians and movies, though he could not see his sister. She had arranged her room so that she could hide behind the door, making sure she never got any unwanted attention.
"What do you want?" Harriet spat, her voice sounding rough and scratchy.
"I brought dinner. It may have gotten a little soggy in the rain, but it should be good." John announced.
"Leave it on the floor." was her quick response. John gave a little smile, though he figured it would be no use to argue. A nice 'how was your day' was really all he wanted, though Harriet was never in the mood for conversation. As per her instructions, John dropped the bag of food and moved on. He wasn't even down the hallway before he heard her groan of anguish, undoubtedly determining that no dinner was better than a soggy dinner. Before he could hide into his own room Harriet's door opened back again, and out came tumbling a whole soiled container of chicken nuggets.
"Oh come on, beggars can't be choosers!" John complained, stooping over to try to rescue as much of the food as he could.
"You won't catch me begging for those!" Harriet hissed, before the door shut with an angry snap.
"I paid good money for this!" John growled, at last collecting all of the chicken nuggets back into their little cardboard box. Just as he had finished his task he was aware of a new presence, a shadow that was now clouding out the newly returned hallway light.
"Got dinner for them?" asked the rough voice of his father. John looked up, snatching away the food into their respective bags and managing a quick, nervous smile. He saw there was a bottle dangling from his father's forefingers, evidence that he was not to be trifled with.
"Yes well, Saturday night. No one wants to be cooking now." John chuckled. He got to his feet, trying to look as innocent as he could manage in hopes that his father would lose interest. The man's face was gruff, unshaven and tired, with his eyes somewhere hidden within the dark black circles. He was much larger than John, passing down his broad build but unfortunately not his height. Years of neglect had turned his stomach into a rather bowling ball sized belly, and his frown had sunken down into his cheeks so that he always looked unhappy. Thus was the terror of the Watson household, whenever he decided to show up.
"How was work?" John asked quickly, figuring it was better to maintain a conversation that would disinterest his father immediately.
"It's what pays the bills, John. It's got to be done." The man grumbled.
"Certainly." John agreed with a little nod.
"Why don't you ever get a job?" Mr. Watson asked, running his fingers across his chin as if that was a brand new concept.
"Football is my job. If I work on it every day it'll get me into college for free. The sum of a one hundred thousand dollar employment." John pointed out. Mr. Watson huffed, his head trying to wrap around the concept of scholarships that John was trying to present. He seemed too tired to think for very long, for his squinted eyes relaxed and he raised the neck his bottle back to his lips. Without another word, and deeming this conversation finished, he turned around and walked slowly down the stairs. John sighed a breath of relief, snatching up all of his dinner and dashing into his room before he might be confronted by any other member of his family. The rest of the night was spent scrolling through college websites, trying to enjoy the now waterlogged and cold French fries that he could find in the bottom of the paper bags. He was already maintaining some good conversations with a handful of college coaches, but so far nothing was really jumping out at him. He was expecting one of the websites to have in big letters, John You Belong Here! though none of them seemed to have such an outward advertisement. He figured it would be easier to gauge the perfect school if he was able to visit the campus, but considering they only had one car that was dedicated to his father's work schedule, well he had no chance. He would have to gauge the relationships with the coaches and the pictures online if he was going to pick the right school, or at least a decent one. After thirty pushups and a couple of treats poked into Jelly Bean's cage John settled down in the darkness, listening to the rain hitting gently against his windowpane as he tried to snuggle deeper into his blankets. Before he even fell to sleep he knew that he was going to have strange dreams, considering the last and only thing he could think about was the nervous face of Sherlock Holmes, curled into such a small ball on the bus stop bench. 

The next Monday John went hard in the weight room, adding as much weight as he could physically handle and nearly ripping his muscles in half. It was always a relief to get active following a long and miserable weekend, though this morning he seemed to be working off much more pent up emotions than usual. For whatever reason his family solitude had taken a more pressing toll, the longer he was ignored by his mother, the more sass he received from his sister, the more fear he felt from his father...well how could he not be angry? How could he not use that for fuel to wrench these hundreds of pounds off the ground? It was almost time for the bell to ring when at last John went to the showers, at long last giving up after his coach told him to take a break and hurry on. He was still fuming, though there was a sense of pride as he quickly rinsed off and pulled on his jeans. Something about it restored him for a moment, and inside he felt what could only be a feeling of slight excitement. What was it that he was looking forward to, if not the Shakespeare readings by the monotonous voice of Mrs. Turner? Nevertheless it was a feeling he couldn't fight, and as he joined the crowds of students bustling in through the main doors he felt his steps getting lighter, as if there was a skip that had been implanted into his step.
"John, there you are!" Mike called out from his locker, jumping into the tidal wave of students and joining his friend at his side. "Thought you were going to stay in there until you could lift the ceiling."
"I was going to try." John grumbled in agreement.
"Tough weekend?" Mike presumed. John sighed heavily, figuring there was no point in hiding it.
"The worst." He agreed at last. Mike nodded, remaining silent as he obviously didn't know what to say. Certainly he couldn't offer his condolences, nor his apologies. There was no use in getting involved into the Watson family drama, considering it would take experience to fully comprehend the hell scape that house had degraded into. No one could understand from an outside perspective, nor could they attempt to make John feel better. Better to just leave it go, which Mike very thankfully did.
"Well, I'm sure listening about f*ck will make you feel better." Mike suggested.
"Puck?" John presumed.
"Ya, that guy. It's just more fun with my version." Mike said with a little grin. John could only manage a doubtful chuckle, though his mood was lightening as he continued on towards the classroom. Something was waiting for him there, something which made his steps quicken and his breath increase. Well, it was only after he stepped through the door that he realized the truth behind his enthusiasm. It was only when he caught the glance of Sherlock Holmes that his stomach managed that back flip, though he could no longer tell if it was in excitement or in agony. He had to cringe when he remembered their last encounter, how strangely he had acted! Certainly Sherlock would not be so quick to forget. Ah, as predicted, the boy's eyes dropped down to his desk immediately, his shoulders shuttering as he forced himself to ignore the newly arrived presence in the room. It was days like these when John wished he had chosen a better seat, one that was not exactly across the aisle from his main grievance. Regrettably John slid into his seat, keeping his shoulders hunched and his face downturned to the desk. More profanity had been scribbled upon the plastic since he was last sitting here, a great slew of obscenities that Mrs. Turner would be appalled to read. Well, at least it passed the time. If John had ever been attentive in one of her classes he would have been surprised, though today seemed to be an all-time low. For a long while he felt a strange feeling in his stomach, one which was on the borderline between wanting to throw up and wanting to punch someone, and for a while he let this strange emotion stew in his gut, trying to suppress it the best he could. He wanted to convince himself that he cared for Shakespeare, just enough so that he could lend Mrs. Turner her due attention, though at long last he had interrupted the class, waving his hand around so as to excuse himself to the bathroom. The longer he voice droned on the more aggressive he felt, finally dashing off down the hall to lock himself into the stalls, there where he might be able to release his own spew of profanities without the ever present audience. John threw the door open anxiously, relieved to find the bathroom entirely unoccupied. For a moment John stood at the mirror, settling his hands on both sides of the ceramic sink and feeling quite able to break the thing under his weight, if he so desired. What was this feeling, this anxious, angry feeling? He felt quite like Bruce Banner, just about ready to turn into the Hulk. Staring at his face in the mirror, John studied the look in his eyes, the almost animalistic look that he hated to recognize. It was a look that he must have adopted from his father, for he had seen it all too many times from a spectator's point of view. Turning on the sink, John splashed his hands with cold water and rubbed the remaining droplets onto his eyes, trying to clear up his head and rejuvenate his mind back into the light. Perhaps today would be a good day to go to the nurse's office, faking a stomach ache in an attempt to get out of school. John was just about to sit down against the wall when the door opened, and all of the sudden he had to maintain a look of normality. He glanced up at his face, hoping there was no lingering moisture that would make it look like he was crying. Quickly he grasped at a paper towel, though as he lunged he caught a glimpse of this newcomer in the mirror, recognizing it to be none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.
"What is this, just a string of coincidences?" John wondered at last, collecting a paper towel and rather smacking it into his face. The boy lingered behind, standing near the wall and looking just about uncomfortable as John felt. Nevertheless, he seemed to be here only for conversation, not for any of the normal reasons one might excuse themselves to the bathroom.
"Something makes me think that it's written somewhere...but where I'm not sure." Sherlock said at last.
"Written? Written, like someone a thousand years ago predicted our overlapping bathroom times?" John snapped. He turned on his heel, leaning up against the sink and looking over into Sherlock's eyes once again. Something about that boy was escalating him, that look that he had been watching over and over again from behind his eyelids. It wasn't helping his mood, though it may be shifting that aggression into something vaguely concerning, though not all together unprecedented.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Sherlock admitted, though his voice spoke those words in a less than sincere tone, as if he was using his mouth as a vessel for a sentence he did not create. John wanted to snap something snarky back, though his mouth would not obey for anything but a strange,
"Well, I appreciate it." John cringed, feeling that same idiotic spell being cast over him! It was just the same as the other day at the bus stop, the same feeling of complete helplessness! Why was his mouth turning on autopilot, only furthering Sherlock's impression of him as a mindless, hopeless jock? Could he not produce an intelligent sentence and be done with it?
"What's got you so tense?" Sherlock wondered.
"Tense, I'm not tense." John defended, though as if on cue all of his muscles began to flex, as if someone was shoving his arms back into his sockets and forcing him into a very tight, constricted position. Sherlock began a strange sort of two step dance, taking a step forward before almost throwing himself backwards against the wall; doing this about five times before John began to wonder if he was giving himself a concussion. It was as if he was being pulled forward, for before long he didn't seem to find the time or strength to resist. He took tiny, stiff steps forward, as if he was walking on stilts without much practice. He may very well topple over at any moment, with a look of complete panic upon his face.
"Are you alright?" John managed quickly.
"I'm coming forward." Sherlock announced in desperation, his voice sounding to be more of an anxious huff, as if he was using every last bit of his energy to resist this forward motion.
"I see that." John agreed, watching as Sherlock proceeded closer and closer with every miniscule step he was forced to take. John stayed where he was at the sink, figuring it would be no use to step away.
"I'm not..." a cough, and then "I almost texted your number last night."
"That's nice." John managed. Sherlock's face was now smeared up in effort, as if he was fighting with all of his might to retrain himself. At last his feet stopped moving, settled now just a couple of inches away from where John stood. The space between them seemed almost perfectly negligible, enough so that anyone who would walk in on their little episode would immediately imagine something that would ruin their reputations for good. Only one onlooker and this strange scene could be interpreted as something much, much worse.
"I dreamt about you, for hours and hours. When I woke up I couldn't help myself, I was so close to dialing your number and just letting it ring, knowing that somewhere you might be on the other end."
"That's really...."
"I'm not saying this." Sherlock sputtered wildly, all of those syllables leaving in but a single breath as he tried to fit them in.
"It um...it sounds like you." John pointed out in protest. Sherlock gave a little whine, pushing his hands against his face and managing just another step backwards before he was pushed forward again, this time more agressivley, and much closer. Their chests collided, with force enough to push John up against the sink and hit his head very lightly against the mirror behind. His entire body was trembling, as he never would have thought he would have to support the whole of Sherlock Holmes's body weight against his knees.
"So you're feeling just the same as I am." John's voice said, very much without his permission. He followed that immediately with a little yelp, trying to cover his mouth with his hand. When he found that wouldn't work (his hand seemed to be stuck onto the sink) it was all he could do but bite down hard on his tongue, trying to keep it from speaking without his consent.
"Frustrated?" Sherlock presumed, his voice dropping lower but his eyes growing wilder.
"Very much so." John agreed, his throat issuing a sigh as his feet jabbed into the air. He was afraid what was coming next, for their mouths were both sealed, though in such a position there could only be one final outcome! Sherlock was nearly leaning over top of him, with his waist pressed up against John's stomach, his arms beginning to spread, as if intending to press against the wall and steady himself firmly around his prey. All John could see was the closest details of Sherlock Holmes, the small freckles he had splashed in the corners of his nose, the eyelash that was clinging to his smooth skin. The bruise, which was now turning a more relaxed shade of purple, healing away and turning some of his skin back to its normal shade of white. It might have happened; in fact John could almost feel Sherlock beginning to lean in, when the loud clanging of the school bell shook them out of whatever trances they had fallen into. With such an interruption John found it within himself to lift his arms, he found that he had regained control of his own body, and just as soon as he decided he might push Sherlock away the boy had already flown, throwing himself with such force towards the back wall that he crashed into it and slid down hard onto the tile, landing in a frightened heap on the floor.
"What the Puck just happened?" John exclaimed horrifically, clawing at his eyes as if to try to tear them from their sockets. Perhaps then he wouldn't have to look at Sherlock anymore, perhaps he wouldn't have to know that Sherlock was looking at him!
"I don't know, I don't know...John please, please believe me! That wasn't me, someone possessed me, I couldn't control it, they were..."
"I believe you." John announced at last, cutting off the boy's wild sentences in an attempt to silence the room. He couldn't think with all that boy's sputtering, especially when John had been feeling exactly the same way. No need to use the powers of persuasion when you were so obviously defending the truth.
"Thank God." Sherlock whispered in the smallest voice, as if he was still collecting his wits. "Are you feeling that too?"
"Yes." John agreed anxiously. "Yes, I'm feeling it. At the bus stop, now here! What is it, some sort of paranormal candid camera?"
"Thank God." Sherlock whispered again, finally summoning the strength to pull himself up once more. "I was worried I was the only one speaking out of terms at the bus stop. I thought I went crazy."
"We have, obviously. We have gone crazy." John announced in a nervous huff. Sherlock remained silent, brushing off his clothes and glowing just about as red as a man could before his skin set fire. He was even trembling, as if he was afraid of some strange retaliation. Before their conspiracies could continue, the door was opened and their bathroom became host to an actual student seeking this bathroom's main purpose. Finding their time expired; both Sherlock and John scurried out into the hallway, now growing increasingly nervous to what their absence might seem to be. John had no idea they had spent so long together, and now so flustered and afraid...oh someone might get the wrong idea! Or worse yet, the right one...
"I hope I don't see you around." John muttered quickly, seeing Mike making his way down the hallway with John's backpack in hand.
"I'll make it a point to avoid you." Sherlock agreed, and with that he went scurrying in the opposite direction, presumably to retrieve his bag from the classroom and issue a string of apologies to Mrs. Turner for his absence.