"Greg, can you go check if the drug store is open?" John wondered suddenly, looking up to his friend, who was now sipping at his caramel coffee with a dissatisfied frown. Maybe it had gotten cold. 

"Oh it is, I looked..." Greg started, but John held up a hand to shush him.
"It might have changed." John reminded him. Sherlock tensed, looking at John with his mouth nearly open in surprise. John felt a little bit crazy as well, in fact he had no idea what sort of whim he was getting at, he just knew that whatever it was, he would rather be alone with Sherlock than with Greg's judgmental and doubtful presence.
"I really doubt that...oh. Wait." Greg muttered, blinking very stupidly as his mind started to connect the dots. He opened his mouth to say something but evidently nothing came out, and so with that he turned on his heel and ran so fast out of the little notch they were hiding in that John heard him stumble into a lamp post on the sidewalk while trying to change directions. Well, at least he didn't make a big scene. John turned back to Sherlock with a newfound awkwardness in his limbs, humming through his bloodstream and turning his feet and hands to static. Sherlock obviously felt the same sort of uncomfortableness; however he was good at hiding his emotions, so he simply leaned up against the fence once more and watched John with inquisitive eyes.
"You sent him away." Sherlock observed rather obviously. John cleared his throat, nodding stiffly once more and looking upon Sherlock as if daring him to make any sort of move. Sherlock seemed dormant, however, more confused than aggressive.
"I don't think his presence was really necessary." John admitted with a shrug, as if he had simply sent Greg away because he didn't like his comments. Maybe that was it, that would be a very heterosexual answer to this new solitude they shared. Sherlock was silent, obviously waiting for John to make the first attempt at conversation, too timid to attempt it himself.
"At the...at the dance." John started, looking at Sherlock once more. "Why did you run?" Sherlock took a breath, as if he didn't expect this sort of conversation so rapidly.
"The dance was all a bit of a blur to be honest." Sherlock muttered slowly. "It was never my intention to...scare you."
"I'm not scared of you. I'm curious, however, about why you were scared of me." John answered quickly, waving away Sherlock's apology carelessly. John didn't need an apology simply because there was no harm done, in fact, he should be thanking Sherlock right now simply for existing and picking John to coexist in this world together. There were hundreds of other likely candidates for Sherlock's advances that night, however something drew Sherlock to John, and for that John was eternally thankful.
"I wasn't scared of you, so much the institution you represented." Sherlock admitted in small, quick voice, his words spoken so quickly through timid lips that John almost had trouble understanding him.
"I'm sorry?" John wondered, blinking once to show his confusion.
"Wisteria! I'm scared of that hateful school, and I saw your tie, I assumed you'd go and blab to the headmaster, God, can't you see how that would ruin me?" Sherlock asked in a breath, and an impatient one at that. It seemed as though he expected John to already know all the answers to the enigma that was his heart and soul, and yet he couldn't understand that John barely knew the answers to his own homework, mostly due to his concentration on Sherlock's heart and soul.
"I won't tell." John admitted in a rather small voice. Sherlock took another breath, this time it shared the same air of impatience as his last remark, as if John's heroics weren't admirable, but just plain annoying.
"And why not? Why wouldn't you get the adults involved, why wouldn't you want to send the hounds after me? I'm a homosexual John, in most people's eyes I'm a criminal, why should you not want to see me punished?" Sherlock asked, rolling his head along his neck so that his eyes craned up at the sky and then back down to John.
"You don't deserve to be punished for something you never did." John insisted flatly, crossing his arms and frowning at this very unappreciative boy. He had just admitted that he was terrified of Wisteria and the power they held, and yet he was basically begging John to do the very thing he was afraid of in the first place! It was like he wanted to be caught!
"Oh but it was a crime, just being with Victor landed me in this hell hole." Sherlock growled, wincing as though he was remembering all of the tortures he had to go through just to walk free.
"What have they done to you Sherlock?" John wondered rather nervously, taking a sort of step closer, as if closer proximity would help him understand the broken fragments of Sherlock's soul. At that moment, however, the telltale huffing and puffing coming around the corner announced Greg's return, as if he hadn't wanted to leave John alone with Sherlock too long, so he had run.
"They're still open." he announced proudly, clutching at his side and leaning against the brick wall painfully, as if his legs weren't able to support his weight for long enough without an aid.
"You're so out of shape." John decided with a laugh. Greg ignored that comment, which was probably for the best, and instead studied Sherlock and John, as if trying to figure out what they had been up to while he was gone. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to notice hi arrival, since he had taken to seemingly writing something down in a small notebook with a simple ballpoint pen. John looked at him curiously, wondering if this was some sort of exchange of phone numbers, and his heart did a sort of hopeful leap in his chest.
"We should go." Greg said quickly, looking at Sherlock with an almost suspicious glare, as if expecting him to break out some sort of martial arts on the two of them and kill them instantly. John just sighed, however he knew there was no arguing with Greg without looking like he was positively desperate for Sherlock's company. He had asked what he wanted to ask, found out just enough to clear Sherlock's name; all in all it was a successful visit.
"Yes, I suppose we should." John agreed with a very hesitant tone, glancing once more over at Sherlock, who was just capping the pen and tearing off the top sheet of the paper. He didn't give it away, however, he simply stowed the notebook and the pen back into the deep pocket of his billowing trench coat, crossing his arms and balling up the newly torn piece of paper in his white fist. Greg didn't seem to notice, he was checking his watch impatiently, as if they were on some sort of countdown here.
"We need to be at Wisteria in thirty minutes John, and you know how long that walk is." Greg warned, glaring at John nervously.
"Alright, fine, let's go." John agreed, following Greg out into the sidewalk before a surprisingly strong arm pulled him back for just a moment. John turned, finding himself so close to Sherlock Holmes that even he had the temptation to step away, however the tight grip on his forearm and the almost desperate look in Sherlock's eyes convinced him not to. In fact staring into Sherlock's eyes was so hypnotic that the normal reaction of stepping away was almost replaced with the need to step closer...Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dropped the paper into his palm, manually curling John's fingers over the paper to make sure he didn't lose it.
"Write to me." Sherlock said in an almost pleading whisper. John was left in an almost helpless state, and all he could seem to do at the moment was nod stupidly.
"Oh...oh come on!" Greg's voice exclaimed from the other end of the sidewalk, obviously having marched all the way down the block without noticing he wasn't being followed.
"I...I need to go." John whispered, and Sherlock's head nodded very stiffly, very quickly.
"Then go." He agreed, drawing back and finally releasing John's arm. John stood there for another moment or two, his fingers clutching over the paper in his palm as his eyes stared up at Sherlock in awe. But he couldn't stare forever, he knew that even Sherlock was getting impatient, and so without a proper goodbye John rushed to the sidewalk, breaking off into a run as he raced down to meet Greg at the doors of the drug store. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was forced to tell his therapist everything, it was something of a honesty system, she just assumed that she knew every aspect of his life even though he scarcely told her anything of importance. For example, Sherlock openly discussed his trip down town, just getting groceries and things for his mother; however he left out the obvious fact that he had obtained more than just groceries, but something that you simply couldn't carry away in paper or plastic. It was hope. John Watson had come in the form of an angel, descended from the horrific walls of Wisteria and presenting himself to Sherlock so willingly...it was almost too good to be true. A boy, a beautiful boy that is, who believed his story and saw him as more than a freak but as a human being! Sherlock simply couldn't believe it, and to think his life had changed so drastically and here he was, sitting in a chair, discussing photocopied images! She knew so little about his life and yet she expected to know everything, this was probably part of the reason he went nowhere with these therapy sessions.
"You said she had nice eyes, could you explain why?" Dr. Thompson wondered, peering over the grainy image of a rather pretty red head who had seemingly brown eyes. Sherlock just rolled his own beautiful eyes, remembering just picking and choosing things to write down to please his therapist. Of course he eyes weren't unattractive; however he had no idea how to describe them with passion or emotion. It was a photograph, he was sure even the most imaginative heterosexual couldn't bring up more than two things that made a girl's eyes pretty. However Sherlock knew of another person in this world with eyes like that, brown eyes, seemingly made of melted chocolate, staring so intensely into Sherlock's with such hidden passion and timid delight, fearful, curious, trustworthy.
"The eyes, her eyes, I don't know. I just...when you look at them you kind of think of what looks could be hiding in there, waiting to be unlocked by some sort of emotion. I love eyes, and when I look into...hers, I just see opportunity." Sherlock admitted rather poetically, leaning back in his chair in the soft morning sunlight and looking at Dr. Thompson as if for her approval. She was writing something down, nodding her head of black hair as she scribbled, as if trying to get down every word Sherlock had just said.
"And what sort of emotion do you want to see in those eyes Sherlock?" she asked, holding up the picture as if he was using it for a reference. In reality when he stared in front of him he saw now his therapist, not the picture, not even the room. He only saw John, that idiot jock with the crooked smile and caring eyes, wearing a sort of expression that told him he was safe, that he was accepted even in a world when everyone was out to get him. John would wrap his arms around Sherlock and cradle him until the entire world forgot about his flaws, and then and only then could they truly be alone, without the prejudice and disgust of the civilians.
"Care." Sherlock said in a small voice, almost feeling John's arms around him as he spoke the simple word. An emotion so simple yet so meaningful, someone who didn't care about who you were but cared about how you were, and what you felt. Caring about not what people say you did but what you insist you did, not caring about titles and ghost stories but facts, logic, and love. Dr. Thompson sighed, writing something down even though she didn't seem satisfied with Sherlock's answer.
"And this woman, you said that you liked her hair, and her smile." Dr. Thompson muttered, looking at the picture once more before looking up at Sherlock curiously.
"She's not smiling." Dr. Thompson observed, and Sherlock tried to pull his best confused face. In fact, she was right, this picture was of a very monotone looking girl with a blank face and long dark hair. Sherlock smiled rather guiltily, shrugging his shoulders and trying to make something up.
"That's the point though, isn't it? She's not smiling and I like that. She doesn't feel the need to fake happiness when all she's doing is looking into a camera, with nothing remotely pleasing at all. I hate fake smiles." Sherlock said quickly, feeling very confident about his utter bull crap answer. However Dr. Thompson knew better than to believe something like that, and so she set the picture onto the small table next to her and took a deep, annoyed breath.
"Sherlock I can't figure you out. I know that you want to get better, social exception means a lot to you, you struggle with your illness and I understand that. However you can't get better if you don't try, and coming to me with your homework half-finished does not count as trying. I want you to get better quickly Sherlock, because there are some new forms of therapy that I might have to prescribe to get you well again." Dr. Thompson insisted. Sherlock blinked, but he already knew that whatever she might 'prescribe' he wasn't going to like.
"What might that be then?" Sherlock wondered rather snappily. Dr. Thompson rearranged her notes rather hesitantly, as if she didn't want to admit certain treatments until she was absolutely sure that they were necessary. However she was a woman of answers, and so she couldn't hesitate but speak the truth when asked a question directly.
"Well, some studies have shown lobotomies to be an effective treatment to homosexuality." She admitted in a rather reluctant voice. Sherlock froze for a moment, his fingers gripping at the arms of his chair in a state of previously unknown terror.
"A...you mean like..." Sherlock held a trembling finger up to his eye, and Dr. Thompson nodded gravely. Sherlock went pale with fear, and suddenly decided that maybe John Watson wasn't worth a spike in the eye and permanent brain damage. Maybe he should just go out with Molly Hooper and play heterosexual for the rest of his life. Maybe he should just do his darn therapeutic homework.
"Oh dear....oh dear." Sherlock whispered fearfully, blinking rapidly as if trying to keep any ghostly ice picks from getting shoved in his eyes for the time being.
"Incentive enough I hope?" Dr. Thompson asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, oh yes. I um...I'm suddenly very motivated." Sherlock admitted with a small smile. Dr. Thompson nodded, wearing the smallest of satisfied smiles as she went on through her notes.

    "Now your mother reported an incident at school, but I see from your face that there may have been more than one. Could you tell me what happened?" Dr. Thompson wondered, leaning forward on her chair and clicking her pen noisily against the metal arm of the chair. Sherlock sighed, brushing his fingers ever so gently against his cheek, which he had stopped covering with a bandage. It looked well enough to be exposed, and it seemed to be on the way to healing properly.
"I um...well we had a group game thing, and Molly Hooper picked me to be in her group. Which was fine, I mean we won, or we would've. But a girl, I don't know her name she uh...she flirted with me. she said that she found my homosexuality to be attractive, and she took my hand and kind of wrapped her fingers around mine..." Sherlock stopped for a moment, shuttering in disgust at the mere thought of that girl's disgusting fingers anywhere near him.
"Go on." Dr. Thompson encouraged, as if finally happy he had some sort of contact with a girl.
"Well I ran, obviously, I ran out of the room and sort of hid in the bathroom until I calmed down." Sherlock admitted with a sort of ironic laugh. Dr. Thompsons's hope rather diminished; obviously she was looking for a much more heterosexual reaction to that situation.
"Why did you run?" Dr. Thompson wondered. Sherlock just laughed, wondering if she were actually serious right now. Did she not just hear his account of the story, did she not find that at all disturbing?
"Well obviously I ran because I was disgusted! She just came up to me, and sort of attacked me, I didn't ask to be touched and yet she....she just took my hand like it was hers to take! Like I wanted it!" Sherlock exclaimed, a shiver of disgust running down his spine slowly. Dr. Thompson nodded, writing something down and looking back up at Sherlock with a sort of pitiful glare.
"Sherlock you say that as if you're solely a victim of nonconsensual romantic advances. If you felt this way by merely a hand touch, could you imagine what Victor might have felt that night?" Dr. Thompson wondered. Sherlock groaned loudly, rolling his head along his neck to show his annoyance at this persistent question. She always wanted him to take Victor's point of view; she always wanted him to create a horrible scene in his mind for the sake of 'therapy', even though it had never even happened in the first place.
"Dr. Thompson please would you just believe me that I didn't rape him?" Sherlock wondered in a low drone of annoyance.
"No I won't, Victor says otherwise, your headmaster says otherwise." Dr. Thompson said with a very unamused glare. Sherlock just laughed, rearranging himself on the chair as if he found this all to be very funny.
"Ex-headmaster, and still, what does he know? It's not like he was there that night, watching." Sherlock pointed out with a sneer. What she didn't understand was that Victor had been there, he had been willing, God he had almost started the whole thing in the first place! If he wasn't so much of a coward then the whole truth would be known, and yet he still sat there and made up lies, to this day he's been feeding them down people's throats! No doubt he told John Watson his whole tale, woven from the truth so that the two were almost indistinguishable! Dr. Thompson didn't seem to know how to respond, so she just flipped a page in her notebook and continued to write something down.