When he went to school the next day, John was almost scared to face Greg, he didn't really want to hear the opinion he had of the skeleton in his closet. Or, in this case, the ghost. But when Greg came on his usual trip to John's locker, he looked positively thrilled.
"Hi John!" he said happily.
"Hi Greg." John sighed.
"So, anything new with our, special friend?" he asked in a small whisper, as if people in the hallways would actually try to over hear them.
"Other than he's still dead and annoying, not really." John sighed, throwing his binder into his backpack and slamming his locker shut.
"Well that's not a surprise really." Greg decided.
"He's kind of mad, that I showed you." John admitted.
"He's not going to inflict his ghostly wrath, is he?" Greg asked nervously, looking around as if Sherlock were standing in one of the corners with a chainsaw.
"Of course not, his ghostly wrath, if anything, would probably be a hissy fit." John sighed.
"I'm guessing I'm really overestimating this guy?" Greg asked.
"Imagine a toddler, but then imagine him having like, ninety years of sadness and things to whine about. That's the thing that lives in my closet, only I can't get rid of it, and I can't hit it." John sighed.
"I'd trade mate, the only thing that lives in my closet is a rat, and it hates all kinds of food I try to trap it with." Greg sighed. John just forced a laugh, and the two of them walked down to history class together. School altogether was extremely boring, same pointless notes, same dull lectures, same annoying kids. Lunch; however, felt like a minefield anymore, but at least John wasn't all alone. Now he and Greg seemed to be shooting out pointless theories and excuses by the second, and no one seemed to accepting them.
"What if Sherlock followed Victor to war, and they killed Hitler together, and then fled off to the country side?" Jeanette decided.
"Hitler killed himself. And even so, how would he be dead in John's house?" James insisted.
"Maybe they just fled then, and something happened, they got killed by a wild bear or something, and his spirit returned to the house because that's where he grew up?" Sara agreed.
"That's rubbish." John decided, and Greg gave a nervous laugh.
"Ya, rubbish." Greg agreed, looking a bit like a cornered animal. John kicked him under the table, as if he hadn't already gotten the memo to shut up and eat his pathetic little sandwich.
"Well, do you have a better theory?" Mike asked.
"Yes, there's no ghost, and it's my sister being a jerk." John decided.
"What about Henry?" Sara insisted.
"That kid couldn't stay on his feet even if we were suspending him by wires." John sighed.
"Maybe that's what it is; Sherlock's not actually a person, but a puppet, manned by Victor himself!" Jeanette insisted.
"I don't even have a comment for that." John muttered. Jeanette seemed to realize how bad her theory was, and she didn't put a word in for the rest of the meal.
"Surely they'll figure it out, right?" Greg asked while they were at their lockers, ready to go home.
"Eventually they might. Want to come over?" John asked.
"No thanks, I'm afraid I'll get decapitated by a ghostly guillotine." Greg muttered.
"I'm sure Sherlock doesn't have one of those." John decided.
"I don't know, he's pretty sketchy if you ask me." Greg admitted.
"He's a baby, we went over this." John pointed out.
"Alright then, you be careful. See you tomorrow." Greg decided.
"If I make it to tomorrow." John said mysteriously, walking away, laughing on the look of fear on Greg's face. When he returned to his room, Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the bed, watching what looked to be Scooby Doo.
"What are you doing?" John asked with a laugh.
"They really are pathetic, it's funny." Sherlock decided as Shaggy and Scooby went tumbling down a staircase.
"Tries to convince kids that ghosts aren't real." John pointed out.
"Of course it does, they don't want the children to know what's out there." Sherlock agreed.
"You're a child yourself." John insisted.
"Ya well, haven't really gotten to grow up yet." Sherlock sighed.
"Casper the annoying ghost." John agreed.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"You really weren't around for cartoons like this?" John asked, sitting next to Sherlock and watching the gang chase around some bedsheet ghost.
"I don't remember it." Sherlock shrugged.
"I used to love this show. Used to have a crush on Daphne too." John laughed.
"Which one is that?" Sherlock asked.
"The one with the orange hair." John admitted. Sherlock just frowned.
"She's a cartoon?" Sherlock pointed out, as if John hadn't noticed.
"Ya, try telling that to half the boys in kindergarten." John insisted.
"Ew." Sherlock decided.
"Oh come on, you had to have had crushes when you were a kid?" John insisted.
"Not that I recall. I never really liked girls, that was before I knew I liked guys though. I just thought I was above love, that's all." Sherlock shrugged.
"How'd that work out?" John laughed.
"Considering that I'm sitting here, eighty years later, trapped because I had a crush? Well, not so well." Sherlock admitted.
"Remind me never to like anyone." John insisted.
"I'll make a mental note." Sherlock agreed.
"Why don't we watch something more educational?" John insisted, picking up the remote and flipping to the sports channel, where they were highlighting a recently played American football game. John found the sport very entertaining, if not a little bit confusing.
"This is educational these days?" Sherlock asked in wonder.
"Of course not, I'm not putting on some dolphin documentary." John insisted.
"I'd love to watch something on dolphins." Sherlock decided.
"That's because you're a nerd." John agreed.
"Offensive." Sherlock decided.
"That's why I said it." John agreed. Sherlock just laughed, and went back to watching the sports, pretending to be interested. John ended up laying on the bed, with his head propped in his hands like some sort of teenage girl in a Disney show, and Sherlock still sat on the edge of the bed, not having moved a muscle. Then again, he didn't have muscles, did he? It was all very confusing.
"You should read the letters." John decided when a commercial break came.
"Why should I do that?" Sherlock asked.
"Because you need to, it's healthy." John decided.
"How is it healthy?" Sherlock asked.
"Because I feel like you're just balling up all of your emotions, keeping them all locked up because you insist you don't need him anymore, when of course you do." John decided.
"That's not healthy, that's depressing. I don't need to read the letters." Sherlock defended.
"I think you do." John decided.
"You read all of them, right?" Sherlock asked.
"Pretty much." John agreed.
"What did you think?" he asked.
"You want me to give a summery?" John laughed.
"Of course not. But did you, you know, enjoy them?" Sherlock asked.
"I didn't, no. They made me uncomfortable, like I was invading someone's privacy." John decided.
"Well, you weren't wrong." Sherlock agreed.
"But, from your eyes, if he had been writing to me, then yes, I'd be flattered. He really poured his heart out, wasn't being, you know, gay, illegal back then?" John asked.
"It was, yes, but he always hand delivered them, to make sure they weren't intercepted." Sherlock shrugged.
"How so?" John asked.
"Oh, well, he's slip them under the door mat, sometimes put it in a tree where I was bound to find it, slip them in my backpack, or even my books when I wasn't looking. My favorite ones, though, where the ones that he'd drop on my dresser when he was there, for me to find when he had gone." Sherlock sighed.
"Sounds like you two spent a lot of time together." John guessed.
"As much as we could, it was a different time back then." Sherlock sighed.
"I know, still, you think he's still, the one?" John asked.
"Are you asking if I'm available?" Sherlock asked with half a smile.
"Sherlock I swear to god! I am straight, I am not hitting on you, I'm just asking a simple question!" John insisted. Sherlock just laughed; obviously he was just toying with John.
"I know John, you're one of those aggressively heterosexuals." Sherlock laughed.
"What in the world is that supposed to mean?" John asked with a laugh.
"It means that you are just, you know, the straightest of the straight." Sherlock shrugged.
"Does that bother you?" John asked.
"On the terms of availability, not at all. On the terms of the level of red you go when I mention my boyfriend, a little bit." Sherlock decided.
"I don't go red!" John insisted.
"You say as you blush." Sherlock pointed out.
"I do not! I'm totally cool with you and he, I accept you!" John insisted.
"You better." Sherlock agreed.
"Here, to prove it to you, I'll read your letter." John decided.
"Don't read the letter!" Sherlock groaned, but John had already dived beneath the bed, pulling the box out and plucking one of the first ones.
"Come on, that's private!" Sherlock insisted.
"I already read them, remember?" John asked.
"Oh, ya, still!" Sherlock muttered.
"My dearest Sherlock,"

October 6th, 1940: I regret to have to resort to writing letters just to get in contact with you, but this week has proved to be very difficult to speak face to face. Although it's been so long, I still remember the beautiful gleams in your eyes, the magic of your nervous laugh, and the beauty of your blushing face in the moonlight. I long to see and hear these things again, but alas here I am, writing this letter in the privacy of my room. I've decided that I cannot deliver these letters through mail, since it could be easily intercepted, or read, or sent to the wrong address. As you read this, I assume that you have found the letter, which I had slipped very obviously into your locker. It wasn't all that easy though, it's hard to look innocent as you slip a note into a locker, everyone always assumes it's a love note. This time though, it is. I do hope everything is well, and expect a visit from me, oh, well, it's not a surprise if I tell you when. Just don't assume it's a burglar, because I don't want the police anywhere near the two of us.
With Love,
Victor Trevor
Sherlock stared at the letter, reading it one more time and looking around to see if Victor were anywhere to be found.Unfortunately though, Victor never approached Sherlock during school hours. Sherlock was leaning against the wall next to his locker, making sure no one was around of course, and hoping that his undying love wasn't too painfully obvious in his expression.  He sighed, folding the letter back into the envelope and tucking it into his pocket, as if he were carrying a little piece of Victor with him as he navigated throughout the rest of the day. The crowds were the same, a sea of soldiers and the pretty girls on their arms, they all looked the same, they all looked so boring. Sherlock would love to be paraded around by Victor, arm in arm, not afraid to admit they were lovers. But, as society would have it, he was hiding behind a wall, reading a love note in secret. Life was hard, was it not?

"Why are you late?" Mr. Fitz snapped as Sherlock walked in. The rest of the class was already organized in their desks, and the teacher was scowling at him from his desk.
"Sorry sir, just reading something." Sherlock muttered, walking into the class and sliding innocently into his chair. He hated to give Mr. Fitz any sliver of respect, but then again, he didn't want any farther investigation, in fear that he would find out. Mr. Fitz was probably the second worst person to find out, other than, of course, his father. He was sure the teacher would be an absolute bear about it, telling everyone and making sure to have the two of them locked up for good. So Sherlock was silent as the lesson began, but he couldn't stop his thoughts from straying to the note he had tucked safely away into his pocket. When Sherlock left, he couldn't help but look desperately through the hallways for Victor. Sometimes his search was successful, other times though, he was disappointed as he went into his next class. Today, however, he could see Victor's beautiful head coming down the hallway in the opposite steam of people, going the other way, so Sherlock kept his head down, making sure he wasn't awkwardly staring at him as he came by. Finally, when Victor was a good ten feet away, Sherlock picked his head back up and gave him a timid smile; as if afraid it wouldn't be returned. Victor smiled softly, and as the two of them passed, Sherlock felt one of Victor's fingers poke at his hand, as if the most pathetic attempt for a secret handholding ever. But, of course, Sherlock glowed red and had to keep his head down the rest of the hike to his next class, as if afraid it would be too painfully obvious that he was flustered. When lunch time came, Sherlock was at his locker, trying without any luck to stuff his now over flowing binder into his locker, but also trying a little bit to delay, in case, when the crowds died down, some very handsome soldier wanted to come and help him. But alas, when the hallways were pretty much empty it was only Sherlock and some couple in the corner, who looked very busy, so he just gave the binder one final kick and shut the locker, sulking down to the lunch where he sat at the end of one of the longer tables, ignoring everyone and propping up a book.
"How was school dear?" Mrs. Holmes asked as Sherlock walked through the door with a scowl.
"It was fine, just school I guess." Sherlock sighed.
"You look sad, is everything alright?" Mrs. Holmes asked. She was in the living room, reading some magazine. Everyone else seemed to be absent.
"I'm fine." Sherlock lied, ignoring his mother and walking up the stairs to his room. When he got there he anxiously looked out the window, as if Victor would come crawling through to take him away from this stupid house. But no, there was no one in the window, and there probably wasn't going to be for a long while. Sherlock just flopped onto his bed, taking out the letter and reading it again, smiling silently to himself as his eyes traced the familiar loops and curves of Victor's beautiful cursive writing. That boy was literally the most perfect creation that Sherlock could ever ask for, and of course, he had to be in love with him. On some days that is the only thought that would keep Sherlock sane, on others it was the exact thought that was driving him mad. Sherlock stayed in his room until dinner, when he slouched downstairs to where his family was sitting around the table, staring at some sort of mysterious casserole in the middle, which was still steaming.
"There you are." Mr. Holmes grunted.
"Sorry to disappoint." Sherlock muttered, sinking into his chair and looking around the table with a frown, as if expecting new faces to join his family. They said a quick prayer and then started to eat, the casserole still being unidentifiable even when it was cut up, but Sherlock didn't really mind, he wasn't hungry anyway.
"How's your punishment suiting you?" Mr. Holmes asked, a tone of pride in his voice.
"Miserable, thank you." Sherlock spat.
"Don't use that tone with your father." Mrs. Holmes advised.
"That was my normal tone!" Sherlock defended.
"And don't use that tone with your mother!" Grandma Holmes insisted. Sherlock groaned, but went back to picking aimlessly at his casserole. He wondered what would happen if, right now, Victor came plowing through the door, confessed his love for Sherlock in front of the entire table, and then swept him away, the two of them living in some secluded cabin in the woods where the only thing that would judge them would be squirrels and deer. If that did happen, it wouldn't last long, surely Mr. Holmes had a shotgun hidden somewhere in the kitchen, and Victor would get at least three bullets in the back before he finished his sentence. Sherlock, then, would probably get shot a couple of times for good measure, because why not, right? He was sure his father really wanted to give him a good bullet, in his opinion Sherlock probably really needed one. Sherlock would have gone with Victor, even if it did mean certain death, he'd run off with him. They'd live off the land; become one with nature, one with themselves, together. It would be perfect, who cares if society frowned on it, there was no society out there anyway, it would be perfect! But nevertheless, here he sat, in the midst of his extremely judgmental family, eating who knows what baked into a casserole. When dinner was over and all of the dishes clean, Sherlock ran up the steps to his room and shut the door, looking out the window once again, hoping beyond hope that Victor was out in the yard waiting for him. Time ticked by, Sherlock would read for maybe five minutes, then he'd get up and look out the window at the dark, empty yard, then he'd sit back down and repeat until about ten o'clock, when he finally decided that Victor wasn't coming. He read the letter once more before he went to bed, in hopes that he might dream about the boy or something, which would really be nice. Of course, Sherlock thought about him twenty four seven, but dreams were different, they were your sub-consciousness telling you what they thought, Sherlock had no control and therefore he really did want to just live out another life in his head. So when he snuggled down into his blankets, the last thing Sherlock looked at was the pale blue envelope on his dresser before dozing off.