Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One 

The building reeked of cigarettes and pot, plastered on every goddamn smooth surface were all sorts of paintings, sketches, graffiti and whatever else came out of the minds of dirty drugged up kids who called themselves artists. John was surrounded not only by the ominous and slightly psychedelic concrete thoughts of the students, but the kids themselves. They stood stationery against the wall, all of them bleary eyed, glaring down at him, wearing the most ridiculous attires and sporting blue in their hair. 

He must've looked like an alien.  John Watson: lacrosse co-captain, top student in his year, clean-shaven and wearing recently washed clothes. Next to the hippies he could be God the way he radiated pureness and light. Except they wouldn't worship him, more like try to execute him.

"Hey, pretty boy!" One of them calls, John cringes, nearly doesn't look back, but when he feels something hit his back, he does. The bloke that called him was an average sized brunette. He wore an ugly salmon flower print button down with a hideous hat that he had adorned with various colourful feathers. 

"Wanna take a ride tonight?" The skinny boy bravely asks leaving John baffled. John blinks a few times and frowns. The guy only smirks and looks sickly satisfied. He turns to his friends, who peer at John like he's some sick joke, and they all laugh. 

"I'm sorry?" John says starting to lose his patience. The longer he stayed in the artists’ side of the campus the filthier he felt. 

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean, you rich boys come here all the time looking for some cock, and I fancy some of yours," he purrs, batting his lashes and biting his lips in a manner that was supposed to be seductive. His friends laugh, one of them having a coughing fit in the midst of it. 

John feels his cheeks redden and disgust fill him. The little pricks actually thought that he was interested them. How dare they imply such profanity on him and his friends? It was ridiculous! 

"Piss off," John hisses. He doesn't bother snapping at them any longer and walks off with his hands clutched at his sides with his jaw hard. Fucking hippies.

John has his eyes cast low at his feet and his head filled with the pulsating reminder that he was going to be late for practice -again. The distraction keeps him from noticing someone in front of him, whom he almost crashes into. He just slightly bumps into the person, it was nothing really, but he's so full of it with those hipsters and the worry that he might get thrown off the team, which would only revoke his scholarship, that he doesn't bother apologizing and keeps walking. 

This did not please the person he bumped into.

"Excuse you," an annoyed voice coming from the person he bumped into snaps. Normally John wouldn't have said anything, but he was late and upset. John turns around, prepared to glare and say something rude, but as soon as his eyes land on the face of the stranger he was instantly intimidated. 

This bloke wasn't like the others. Despite that he dressed exactly like them (dark black skinny jeans, a wrinkled deep purple sweater that hung loosely from his thin frame, no shoes), he was different. There was something about him, a certain air of seriousness that made him distinct.

His skin was incredibly pale, even for London and its cloudy demeanor. It stretched on, creamy and smooth, from the tip of his slender fingers, the crisp outlines of his collarbones, to his long neck. John found himself thinking back to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, convinced this was the description the author had been aiming at when depicting the character. 

As if the stranger’s skin wasn't intriguing enough, his eyes were all the more captivating. His eyes were an odd shade. They were blue, but not just blue, hints turquoise, yellow and moss green circled around the pupil as well.

If you stared at them for too long it was like you were drowning in the spiraling smoldering abyss of colors. They were calculating, penetrating and controlled. He could read John, inside and out, through his soul and mind. It was disturbing yet thrilling. 

"Sorry," John huffs. He keeps his eyes anywhere but those powerful blue ones. 

"That's more like it. Couldn't have you running along with no manners," the stranger replies even though he seemed nothing like someone who had manners. 

"Right," is all John can say with those eyes on him. He feels dried out, sucked empty.  

He watches the pale stranger look out towards the greying skies, an admiring look on his face. John doesn't really understand what the stranger is obviously finding pretty about the dull sky. Like he'd said earlier, fucking hippies. 

"Are you going to just stand there? Your stupid is clogging the air," the stranger snaps suddenly, looking back at John with a disinterested look in his eyes as if John was some bug flying around irking him. 

"Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you. I hope my presence wasn't bothering you," John says sarcastically, his previous anger returning. 

"It was actually," the stranger admits in such a genuine and smug way that John wants to wring his neck.

"I'll be on my way then, don't want to disturb the genius," John snaps while spinning on his heel towards his side of the campus, the sane side. 

"You there!" The stranger calls out, a light sneer in his voice. John doesn't turn back but keeps his ear alert in case the prick says something worth listening to.

"You should really tell your sister to get help and all, I can tell it bothers you." 

John stops. He turns around slowly, eyes cast on the tall stranger. He hoped he'd heard him wrong, surely he couldn't be talking about Harry- 

"Send her to alcoholics anonymous or something,” he says smirking down at John, a dismissive look on his face. 

"How do you-" John begins to ask, but the stranger has already stopped paying attention to John. He rudely turns away from John and slithers into a dim lit art gallery, closing the door shut behind him.

"Piss off then!" John hisses. 
         

 •••••••••••• 

It's a Wednesday and John is late for practice once again. Last time it was due to the annoying prat he had stumbled into whilst taking a shortcut through the artist’s side of campus, this time it was due to falling asleep. Inevitably John was rather ticked off; John hated being late, lacrosse was all he had. He was dedicated to the sport. It was his only way of getting a scholarship so he could study medicine at the prestigious university he attended.

John barely had any time to grab his uniform out of his locker. Tight on time, he sprinted through the hallway despite it being strictly forbidden, praying to God that there be no one in his way. But of course, his prayers weren't answered. A History professor spotted him dashing towards the field exit and stopped him short in his tracks. 

"Watson!" The professor snaps and John groans because he really really was late for practice now. 

"Look, I've really got to get to practice, it was the only reason I ran, please- 

"Watson this university has a strict code of conduct, precisely on running in indoor corridors-"

“I am honestly sorry, I merely did it due to practice. Sir, I am quite late.”

The professor remains silent. He stares at John accusingly, his lip in a firm line and eyes hard. After what felt like hours, the professor comes to a decision.

“Alright Watson,” John was about to head out to the field, “but you have behavioral observation."

John wants to roll his eyes, but he knows better than to do so. Instead he nods in understanding while grinding his jaw silently. Behavioral observation was about the stupidest thing their university had come up with. It was daft, high school cliché and absolutely pointless. You were required to spend a half hour in an empty room reviewing the entire University guidelines and conduct rules.

Netherless, John was grateful that he didn’t have to follow the professor to his office and get a lecture. Walking at a fast pace he continues to venture towards the field. He was just about to get there, when he heard a moan as he crossed past the field bathroom stalls.

Feeling a natural curiously, John slowed down and angled his neck in the direction of the sound. He expected it to be one of his teammates who had been benched and his girlfriend. John was prepared to do something jokingly to humiliate the couple. What he had not expected was to see the tall pale body of the stranger he had bumped into with his face arranged in deep concentration and deep pleasure as some male bloke sucked him off.

John remained still, frowning at the act, partly shocked and slightly disgusted, but mostly burdened by an odd curiosity to see, to watch; to look at that beautiful pale face, not a trace of control on it as he gets close to letting it all flow and explode. 

The noises that came out of him as he came will be permanently branded in John's brain no matter how much he promised himself they would be gone in less than an hour. 

"See something you like?" The dark haired bloke sneers and John flees for his life, cheeks red and heart pounding wildly. Which was not from his running. 

Fucking little hippie prick. 

During practice John is lost, he’s been captured by brain fog, swept in by the memories of the pale skin, intense baby blue eyes and noises that were in no way holy. He found himself being tackled over, attacked, tossing the ball in the wrong direction and being yelled at for his recklessness. It was like he was being sucked in, drowned in a spiraling blue. 

"What the fuck Watson?" The coach yells in John's direction as he nearly misses catching the ball. 

"What is it, have you gone all soft? Lost in ya’ head?" One of his teammates snickers. John just rolls his eyes. He's not lost, he's trapped, rapped in memories he doesn't want to have. 

"Go John! Go John!" A female voice chants as John finally manages to catch the damn ball and try to squirm through the bulking bodies of the other guys.  He looks up to see Harry and her friend Clara cheering him on. He smiles at their support and nearly looks away until he sees a hint of baby blue. It's his eyes, the cold eyes that belonged to him alone. They leered at John from the corner of the bench were he sat silently.

At the sight of him, the stranger, dressed in the most ridiculous multicoloured scarf, his hair a curly mess, his appearance obviously lacking hygiene as most hippies do, just sitting there in John's environment as if it was the most natural thing to do, as if he owned the place, as if he was the most important thing there, when he most certainly was not because this was John's side, this was John's world. It irked John to the point where he ground his mouth shut hardly, clenching his jaw and making his temple jump. 

He forgot about the sex, forgot about Harry and Clara, about his behavioral observation and concentrated on the blue eyes, the blue eyes that looked at him as if he were some sick limpet, a dreary little piece of slime that wasn't worth him wasting a minute on. He gathered all his annoyance and tore his way through his much bigger muscular team mates until he reached the white net where he put all his force in the throw, making the ball fly out and right through the net. 

Cheers fill his ears like glory. His score made his side win. Arms grab him, pat him on the back and lift him in the air. There are chants of him leading them to victory when the game comes, about how he always saves the game. 

John feels satisfied. He looks over to where the baby blues had been with a smug smirk, ready to show him that this was his turf, that he was king here, but there's nothing there. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Behavioral observation on a Saturday was always a drag, especially when John hadn't had coffee yet, nor a proper meal or a shower. John awoke several minutes late to his mother chastising him that he was twenty-two years old and should already be acting like a responsible adult. He was also nursing a headache from being slammed at Friday's practice. Holding his head in his hands in pain, his eyes closed shut against the streaks of bright light that came in through the blinds, his jaw set hard as his teeth crunched together in attempt to repel the pain, John barely had time to slip on his clothes and start his car before things got worse.

John had to jump several red lights and nearly ran over someone's dog just to make it on time. He swallowed two Motrin pills; they felt slick and slippery as they went down his throat hastily, while bent down in front of a water fountain. Once satisfied, water dripping along the side of his mouth, John staggered to his assigned room. John had expected some alone time, in which he could study or muse out plans for his weekend, possibly even sleep; he had missed a lot of sleeping due to his busy schedule, which he had to balance between practice, medical school and his family.

John disdainfully discarded all his expectations the minute he walked up to classroom BS098 and found another bloke waiting outside the room as well; a bloke with a mangled mess of dark curls and penetrating blue eyes. John sighed and silently stood across from him. He suddenly wished he’d at least had a bite of breakfast or ran over the dog even, so he could have a reason not to have come. Intending to establish and air of silence between the two (John really needed to sleep, he had to read at least three textbooks when he got home and do his laundry) he pulled out his phone from his pocket and flicked through his texts. There was nothing new. The last text he had received was from Lestrade after practice; he was asking John if he was all right.

"Pretending to be busy texting,” the bloke speaks up, his voice echoing through the room, “ah, now that is a classic. Still don’t understand why people do it; I can agree that conversation is rather dull.” John locks his phone and sends a cold stare in the direction of the stranger as response to his sneer.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

The dark haired boy raises a thick dark brow. “You weren’t? I’d say on the contrary; you looked at your phone and didn’t make any expression other than a frown, you wanted to see a text but there was none. You kept looking through your texts, looking for something to strike up, of course there was nothing worth talking about, therefore-”

John sighs. “Okay, okay. I get it now. Yes, I was pretending. Happy now? Can you just,” John pauses, watching the mild smirk on the bloke’s face, “shut up?”

"No manners?" He retorts, earning an eye roll. John can swear, he taps his foot against the floor, eyes looking up at the ceiling, that he’s just like a child. Doesn’t stop.

"Watson! Holmes!" The professor says appearing around the corner. He looks frizzled and just as tired as John. John doesn't know why professors and staff do these things on weekends, they're only punishing themselves as well.

"Behavioral observation is in the Sociology classroom, please do not engage in any fights, we do not want to have any suspensions done today. Don't we?"

The professor stares pointedly at the two with a forced smile on his groggy face, "Watson, this is Sherlock." At the word Sherlock, the professor stretched and emphasized it, giving him a cautious look. John raised his brow in curiosity and wondered what the hell Sherlock did to get stuck here on a Saturday.

"And this is-”

"John, I can tell by- " Sherlock interrupts.

"Not now, Sherlock!" The professor hisses, he points in the direction of the classroom and waves for them to go on in.

John does as told, walking in first. He enters the room, delighted to find that it is dim lit by the natural sunlight that pounds against the shades, attempting to shine through. It’s mildly warmed as well, not too cold or too warm. John takes a seat at a desk, crossing his legs and studying the desk’s surface, plans for sleeping still intact. He could feel bags hanging beneath his eyes and his lids felt heavy. Sherlock follows him in; he sullenly takes a seat a few desks away from John. John watches Sherlock slump down and takes no further notice of him. The door clicks shut and John lays his head down on the wood of the desk. He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

John only sleeps for ten minutes before his back starts to cramp and his neck feels stiff. He changes position, but the desk still feels too hard and despite his size he feels too big to sleep comfortably on a desk. John gives up and in bitter disappointment he stares ahead silently. There’s nothing to look at, the classroom looks exactly as all the others and John starts to feel his patience reach an end.

Sitting in stark silence for three hours with a patchouli reeking prick, wasn't exactly what John had anticipated for his weekend. He didn't like it, being locked in a room, unable to move, to talk, to breathe. He felt fidgety and uncomfortable and extremely bored. John had always had things to do, to occupy him. Whether it was lacrosse practice, extracurricular activities, internships, parties, spending time with friends, dating or even family. He was never still. There was always something, someone, who needed him or his attention. He was never alone, always surrounded by people. Talking, charming, acting, that he could do.

But this silence in solitary confinement, that he did not know how handle and it was aggravating. He was drowning, slipping and sliding into nothing as his brain rotted away. If there was at least something to look at, John bites his bottom lip and rubs his palm against his knuckles, a painting or a person. A person. Of course, how could he have forgotten? Sherlock sat not too far from him in the same room. He had been so silent that for a second John thought himself to be the only person in the room.

No, no. John shakes his head. Not him, not the little prat. John keeps his eyes ahead on the whiteboard. If there was something he most definitely was not going to look at it was Sherlock. He didn’t like him at all; there was something about him that was unsettling. No, not unsettling, it’s something worse than that. John purses his lips in thought. It was aggravating. Annoying.

He wasn't going to do it; John wasn't going to turn around and meet those blue eyes that were abound with the colour of the summer skies. He wasn't going to open his mouth to speak, he almost didn't when he turned and found Sherlock with his eyes closed and his chin perched on his hands in a prayer position, but he did. Damn me, he thought as he edged in direction of the only other breathing creature in the room, and opened his mouth.

"So, have you got a boyfriend?" John pipes up. When Sherlock abruptly opens one eye, achieving to glare at him, he wishes he hadn't.

"Not really," Sherlock replies dryly. He gives John a studious glance, as if checking if he's worth paying attention to and shuts his eye.

But John persists. "A girlfriend?"

Sherlock sighs. "No."

John smiles a little at Sherlock's impatience. Now the git knows how it feels. Taking advantage of the reversed situation, John scoots his seat closer, much to Sherlock's irritation.

"So you're gay or something?" John asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He remains utterly silent and lost in his own head.

John doesn't mean to, but he lets his eyes stray along the curve of Sherlock's jaw and down the slender lines of his neck, all the way to where his neck dips into his thin collarbones. Those were nice collarbones; they were thin and frail, perfect for running your teeth over, then nipping at-

John shakes his head. No, not him. He averts his eyes and places them back on Sherlock’s face. It’s been too long, John thinks in dismay as he tries to come up with something else to say (he needed to have conversation with something other than his head) now you’re jumping at every person you see, regardless of personality, gender or if you’re even attracted to him or her at all.

John furrows his brows as he recalls the past three days. It was always their necks, the slender outline of their collar, which was all he ever saw. The skin always looked soft and so tangible. John had a thing for hickeys; it was something about the throat that made him weak in the knees. That was all he ever saw these days. God, it’s been Tommy from the team, the girls in his classes, the mailman; so many necks everywhere. He had to get a grip or he’d end up fucking the first person with a neck that he saw.

"If you must know," Sherlock starts suddenly, shaking John from his thoughts and making him turn beet red. "I am what you lot would call bisexual, not gay. In case you were too busy with the mainstream heterosexual tendency to stereotype and label everything, bisexual is-"

"I know what it is, Sherlock!" John snaps. He rolls his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. Of course I know what it is! Simple logic for fuck’s sake, besides they’d droned on about it every week in Human Sexuality! John could still feel the headache from when he sat in HS, his head lolling as he tried to listen for the third time in a week why humans fucked whatever the fuck they thought was appetizing. He felt insulted by what Sherlock had accused him of.  

We all know why you’re really upset; John’s head betrays him. HS was an easy pass; don’t pretend like you didn’t cherish it. John grumbles to himself in silence. It was true, what was upsetting John was that Sherlock had a knack of making John feel like an idiot. Even the simplest things that John did somehow to Sherlock were insignificant and stupid. Another reason why John stayed away from artists, they all thought they were highly intellectual and philosophical, as if their intelligence weighed over everyone else's.

"So do you draw or something?" John asks. He almost laughs. This should've been his first question. He'd found Sherlock amongst all the other artists, and he still didn't know what it was Sherlock really did in that world (his world, the world where he did belong). He could be anything on that side of the campus; John knew there was a vast selection of classes to take. Which ones to be precise, he had no idea. John had only seen a glimpse worth of the courses when Harry was looking through a catalog for when she was to start college after high school. There were all sorts of stuff; Sherlock could be any one of them or more than one for all John knew.

"I'm a painter," Sherlock replies, finally opening both of his eyes. He lets his hands fall from his chin and looks over to the window closest to him. John watches him, eyes wide and bottom lip caught between his teeth, he was interested and curious (it was the boredom, John needed some sort of relief) and hoped Sherlock would elaborate a bit more. Or course his hopes staggered and crumbled when Sherlock was dead silent for five minutes straight.

John just about loses any fleeting hope that Sherlock would at least utter one word, the sound of silence was worse than the screech of noise, and lets his gaze fall from Sherlock. It’s for the better, you can’t stand him anyway, he reminds himself. John looks back up and nearly gasps when he finds Sherlock facing his direction; eyes plunged fixedly at John's small form, sending all sorts of chills down his spine. John licks his bottom lip, wondering and waiting, all the while meekly admitting to himself that the fact that his stomach felt compact and cold due to the way Sherlock was looking at him was something to be worried about. It’s probably just the unease.

"I also take Photography and Chemistry classes," Sherlock says calmly. At the word chemistry, John's brows raise slightly. He didn't know that art and science could be possible in the same body. Weren't artists like drop outs, because they weren't much good in the science and math areas? Something about being dominate on the right side of the brain…

"You don't think I'm smart enough to be in Chemistry," Sherlock states, as if he read John's mind.

"No, I do believe you, for some reason. I just didn't think it was possible," John replies honestly.

Sherlock smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's being sarcastic. John can already tell he's going to feel stupid and useless in a few seconds.

"Oh, John, how petty your brains are. It must be nice to be like you," Sherlock says. John doesn't even fool himself by believing it’s a compliment. Not with the way Sherlock leered at him from in between the dark curls that fell on his face. Stupid, stupid, artists, why did they all think they were so much better than everyone?

"So aren't you going to ask me if I do any sports?"

"I already know you do. Co-captain of the lacrosse team, should be captain because of your superior abilities, but your height didn't do you good. I also know that you are on a scholarship, hence the reason you are so determined to prove yourself, show how good you are. You want to hurry up and finish university so you can be a doctor then travel the world on your pension with hopefully a spouse and two kids, one female the other male, the female older than the male.

 “You have been on the honour roll since your first year of high school, earning you two medals; one at fourteen the other at sixteen. You have a perfect record, except for one traffic ticket, which you did community service for. You live with your mother; who happens to be a single mother, and that reckless rowdy punk rock girl who drinks and parties too much, Holly was it? I'm never too good with names."

"Harry.”

John remains silent with his mouth open and eyes wide as saucepans; he feels a strange mix between astonishment, admiration and the overwhelming need to punch Sherlock. He feels exposed, open to the public. Sherlock, the cocky artist git had just told him in play-by-play detail, every aspect of his life. He even knew John’s bloody goals! John had never told anyone that and yet Sherlock knew. Sherlock was either stalking him or he had an ability to read minds.

John can feel the baby blue eyes burning on him. He keeps his eyes low, restraining himself from looking up. Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up. Sherlock's eyes still haven't moved from him, they just sit there fixedly watching him do nothing. John felt intruded, as if he was being X-rayed. He could feel himself already start to get self conscious, which was rather absurd because John was in no way self-conscious (his size not counting), but as the blue drilled into him, John began to worry about trivial things such as his hair, his face, his nose, his lips. He didn't like the new loss of control and decided to pull his I'm the cool kid card, even though it was very teenager like of him.

"What? Are you checking me out or something?" John asks, putting on a cocky grin and giving Sherlock a daring look. He pretended to be much more confident and assured than he really was. He didn't like Sherlock being in control. John was always in control. It was always him who left the people abashed, it was him who kept them guessing, it was him who charmed them, who puzzled them, fazed them.

Sherlock furrows his brows and looks at John questioningly. He shoots John a slightly skeptical glance that hurt John more than it should have.

"You? Please, you're ordinary."

John feels slightly offended and wishes he could say the same, but that would be a lie. Sherlock Holmes was in no way ordinary. He was extraordinary, he was alluring, he was different, he was paralyzing and irritating. He was brilliant! Of course, John would never say that aloud. He could barely admit to himself that Sherlock was much more than a wannabe Picasso, much less go ahead and tell him.

"But you," Sherlock continues with a pretentious look on his face. "You were checking me out."

John's face is hot, but he keeps an impassive look. He gives Sherlock the same dismissive look Sherlock had given him and scrunches up his nose to make it nastier. He wanted that perfect pretentious genius to feel hurt as well. Just because Sherlock had some freaky higher intelligence, X-men abilities and creamy Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs skin, it didn't mean he had to make others feel plain.

"Please I would never date you," John sneers. He really wanted to see the smirk on Sherlock's face degrade.  "I mean look at you, you're wearing a bloody tunic with rolled up jeans and Toms, you look like a dick and no to mention the stink of whatever it is you're wearing is really making me want to hurl. It's pathetic." John says matter-of-factly.

"Excuse me willy Watson," Sherlock says using his childhood nickname, sending burns of anger down John's throat and a slight fear that maybe Sherlock knew about it because they still called him that behind his back. They called him that when he was in elementary school, because some kid said that his penis must be small and his nickname was small-penis-Watson but they got in trouble for that so willy Watson was the new one. Then in middle school John became popular and ever since everyone wanted to be his friend.

"At least I don't look like a bloody idiot, seriously my grandfather wears jumpers like those and the military cut does not do you any good. It's like you get more and more boring every minute. It's not even worth wasting brain cells on." Sherlock says with a yawn. He looks away from John and John now feels like he can breathe properly. Sherlock doesn't look back and focuses on nothing in particular. Anything but John. He wasn't worth wasting brain cells on. How does that even work? Was John so boring that he killed his brain cells?

"You know that because you're boring," John retorts. It was puerile, but he felt deflated after being criticized and he didn't really know what to say. Nothing seemed to hurt Sherlock. It was like he was bulletproof. But John knew better. There was a word for everyone, one special word that made them flip. John just hadn't found it yet.

"I happen to be quite satisfying and appealing due to the amount of sexual contact I get on a daily basis. Unlike you; one girlfriend that dumped you because you were insensible and plain, hadn't she said that?"

John scowls. "I would never date you, much less have sex with you"

"You wouldn't be able to handle me."

John scoffs. "You got that right, no one can stand an annoying dick for too long. You wouldn't be able to handle me, I'm the one who's actually got a life."

"Fine," Sherlock says. He looks over and stares at John blankly.

John drops his smirk. "Fine, what?"

"I dare you to go out with me." Sherlock's eyes start to glint maliciously, suggesting danger. John starts to feel like he's on the edge of a cliff, whatever he does next will tell of he falls or doesn't.

"No. I dare you to go out with me," John sneers. It was dangerous. This was a game to Sherlock. Who knows how John would end up after it? Probably broken and confused, but the thrill of it all drew John in and he found himself stepping off the edge.

"Fine, we go on a date. Whoever backs out first loses," Sherlock says, holding out a hand. John doesn't hesitate taking it. When he does he's falling, except it feels more like flying the way his heart is beating and the thrill that chills his insides.

"I'm not going to lose." Sherlock promises.

"Trust me, I won't lose."

"I don't trust liars."

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

John stands in front of the mirror, having tried on his fifth jumper. He liked this one; it is a fuzzy cable knit khaki one. John rarely used that jumper. He couldn't bring himself to ever wear it for fear of it getting ruined. He wasn't sure why he was wearing it to his 'date' with Sherlock.  A date where there would most likely be drugs, sweat and his jumper would get profusely dirty.

John really had no idea why he put it on, perhaps he wanted to impress Sherlock. But would a jumper, especially a plain khaki one impress Sherlock? He doubted it. Sherlock wore exotic things, all sorts of hipster trends John wasn't familiar with.

He decided to wear it because it made him comfortable. He felt a bit more confident in it. Which was what he needed. Confidence. Because Sherlock had a way of ripping out of him insecurities he never knew he had.

He also bought himself a pair of those hipster shoes he'd seen a lot of the kids at the artists side wearing. Those flat ones that looked like a cross between old fashioned vans and jazz shoes. He got himself a pair of sandalwood brown ones with mahogany laces.  John felt foolish wearing them, as if if the hippies saw him in those they would scream wannabe and shove him out, but he decided to go with it. Anything not to have the prick look at him like he's vermin.

"John really, you're starting to act like a girl," Harry says perching on the threshold of the door. John catches the reflection of her face in the mirror and like always is surprised to see how very alike they were. Especially since she got her blonde hair cut short. They both had the same petite frame, round little noses, the light doe eyes of their mother, gruff outlines on the face and the standard corn yellow hair that ran in the family.

Although the siblings looked quite alike, they were in many ways different. While John belonged in things like lacrosse, had honours, always did what was expected and played by the rules, Harry was found in the heavy metal subcultures. She was a tough girl, she liked to speak her mind and be independent. Unlike John who was mostly good natured and happy, Harry would feel  lonely at times, which led to her drinking and going to parties. That bothered John, but he never said a thing about it.

"I just wanted to look good is all," John replies trying to sound offhanded about it. He fluffs his hair one last time and sighs. Who was he kidding? He was worried about how he looked.

But.

It wasn't because he was worried what Sherlock would personally think of him. He just wanted to win the damn bet. That was all.

"Okay," Harry says obviously not believing him. She fiddles with the hem of her Sex Pistols shirt before asking meekly; "Can I come?"

John turns to look at her with a frown. It wasn't like he was going on a real date, but honestly he didn't want his sister there interrupting the so called 'date'. Sighing John assumes that perhaps  she just wanted to be his chaperone, which was ridiculous. It wasn't him who needed chaperoning, it was her.

"Harry, really?" John says raising a brow. Harry shrugs and rolls her eyes. She heads off towards her room in a chorus of "Okay, okay. Gee you're boring," and John smirks.

When John feels he's ready, he goes down to the garage, the scent of cigarets and vodka hitting him in the face. That came from his mom and sister on blue nights. John was thankful he wasn't a woman. They got lonely too often and apparently wanking wasn't an option to cheering them up.

He starts the car, an old Chevy, and drives smoothly down the driveway and to the street. Sherlock had picked out this club on Baker Street, it was called 221B. Sherlock said it was nice and not many people John knew would be there. John assumed lots of Sherlock's people would be there though and his stomach dropped.

It took fifteen minutes of passing endless suburbs filled with white houses that basically all looked the same, to transitioning into a more dark folk looking street with houses and flats that all seemed to have this rich uniqueness to them, to get there. The place, 221B was away from the people and the city, near open grounds and a glistening lake. On the outside it looked more or less like any other club, but once John had parked his car on the field and stepped in, he was surprised to see the inside a lot different than expected.

It was earthy and open. There were lots of balconies and outside lounges. Inside the building grew small trees and potted plants. The decor was mostly bohemian and indie things like feathers, dreamcatchers, stones, patterned silks, prayer flags and lots and lots of artwork. Not the boring kind, like the renaissance or whatever, but more like modern day art. Photographs and sketches of women with long hair, boys in skinny jeans, shoes, grunge fashion and surprisingly soft porn that looked artistic instead of dirty.

John let it all suck in, torn between not liking it and admitting that it was kind of nice. It was nothing like the warm regular pubs that played football and eighties classics instead of the weird dubstep stuff that screeched in this place, but it wasn't as bad as he imagined. However, it was very dark, which John didn't particularly enjoy.

He searches for Sherlock, but he's nowhere to be found. Brilliant, just brilliant. He doesn't know what to do and just sits down doing nothing while college students, dressed in mismatched clothes, dance around and swallow neon coloured drinks.

Maybe Sherlock set him up. Maybe he's not coming. He probably isn't going to, John thinks bitterly. He should've known. He couldn't trust those hip artists. They were probably getting back at him for all the times he and his team mates made fun of them. They shouldn't have taken it personally, with those damn lip piercings, weird haircuts and odd clothes, they were asking to be made fun of.

John sees light from the corner of his eye. He looks over to the door and finds it open. A girl, pretty and pale, with long light brown hair that she'd adorned with feathers, walks in. She wears a floral print dress with old brown boots. John decides that she's attractive and if Sherlock doesn't show up, he'll chat her up so the joke's on them. He'll do it to show that their set up was nothing, even though she's one of them and his kind didn't mix with theirs that way.

Except that Sherlock does show up, right behind her. At the sight of him John freezes up a bit. At first his eyes are locked on the tall man's face. He admires the lips, the baby blue eyes, the silky curls. Then Sherlock starts to yank his blue scarf off, and the world goes into slow motion. It was all suddenly sexy to John, the way Sherlock's slender neck was exposed as he ripped it off, the shake of his curls, the quirk of his lips into a sly smirk.

He's dressed different today. A bit more normal. He wears the same black skinny jeans John saw him with on the first day they 'met', with a long sleeve jean button down that dips down his chest nicely and fits him snugly, making John feel really gay for looking curiously.

"Nice to see you, John," Sherlock says sauntering over. John already feels intimidated from the way Sherlock looms over him, giving him an intensive stare.

"Sherlock," John says formally because what else has he got to say? He's outside his environment and wearing hipster shoes to impress a guy that makes him feel so much smaller than he is.

"This is Molly, my friend. We work together." Sherlock gestures at the girl that John had thought about chatting up a minute ago, but now won't even think about it. The girl, Molly, smiles at him. She seems nice and in love with Sherlock from the way she looks at him.

"Nice to meet you, John. Sherlock has told me lots about you. At first I couldn't believe he had a friend that's on the lacrosse team, but here you are!" Molly says giving him a friendly smile.

"We're not exactly fr-" John starts, not knowing how to say it.

"So Molly..." Sherlock starts, interrupting John.

"Right, yeah, date. Have a lovely time. I'm gonna be with Sally if anyone needs us," Molly says giving them one more of her bright sunshine smiles and disappearing in a group of people wearing wide frame glasses and bandanas.

"So, go on show us the date," John says squinting up at Sherlock. He was trying to look tougher than he actually was, but Sherlock saw right through it. He smirks at John and shakes his head.

Bright blinking lights that hadn't been on a minute ago shine in John's eyes. The music pumps louder, vibrating from his toes to his heart, making his blood feel carbonated. All around them people have started dancing, flowing in up and down movements. Some are pressed closely together, looking spicy and  sensual, while others are more friendly, jumping around holding neon drinks.

"Want one of those?" Sherlock says gesturing to the neon drinks. John had no idea what was in the bloody things, but he was willing to guess it would leave him really drunk. He didn't really mind the idea of getting a little drunk and nods.

Sherlock asks him what colour he wants and disappears into the tightly close dancing people. John is left alone feeling like he's slowly being consumed by the hot moving bodies. At some point he is so surrounded that he is forced to dance with them. A girl with a purple fringe and really red lips grabs him and starts to dance with him. She smiles a lot at him, probably because he looked uncomfortable, and John finds himself feeling a bit better about the whole dancing situation.

"Excuse you, but that is my date you are dancing with," Sherlock snarls at her when he arrives with neon pink and neon blue drinks. The girl looks over to find him glaring daggers at her. She gives him an apologetic smile and hurries out of his way.

"Here," Sherlock says handing John the pink one- John doesn't even know why he chose pink- with a much softer face.

"Thanks." John grabs the cold drink and swallows down as much as he can. It burns his throat and heats up his belly. John is already worked up from the dancing earlier, so when Sherlock offers to dance he doesn't say no.

After five more neon drinks, John goes from just dancing comfortably with Sherlock to a hot haze. He doesn't really know what's happening, just that there's bright colours everywhere, everybody is screaming, jumping, the music is pounding and Sherlock is everywhere. His scent is all over the air John breathes, the blue eyes hover everywhere he looks and he's holding onto skin white as snow while messy curly hair brushes John's cheeks, jaw, neck, shoulders....

John vaguely hears Sherlock say something, but he doesn't really catch what it is. John takes it as a question and he nods. Sherlock grabs him by his arm and drags him out of the tight pulsating clutches of the dancing heat and outside where he is met by fresh ice cold air. He has a hard time walking and he can't remember what's happening half the time. The only thing that protrudes clearly in his mind is that first he was with Sherlock leaning against his car talking about wigs and then they both were sprawled out on the grass, looking up at the starry night, rolling a joint.

John lay silently beside him, his head lolling towards Sherlock as he watched him run his tongue along the joint to seal it. A warm heat spreads dangerously towards his groin. He watches as Sherlock presses the white joint to his nose and inhales its scent as if it were some precious perfume, then brings it up to his lips, slides it in and takes a deep sensuous drag as he lights it. John's breath hitches when Sherlock lets the smoke waft out of his mouth in slow movements, then his tongue runs along his bottom lip slowly.

"Want a few hits?" Sherlock asks, his glistening baby blue eyes on John, absorbing him in as if he was something that Sherlock could just take.

John nods and takes the offer, keeping his eyes glued on Sherlock's the whole time. Little did John know that a few hits would lead to them to lying facing each other, their faces so dangerously close that their noses touched and John was trying to control a pressing urge to kiss Sherlock.

Actually he didn't really want to kiss Sherlock; he wanted Sherlock to kiss him.

"John," Sherlock whispers. His voice is different, softer, genuine, holding emotion. An emotion that John can't exactly detect, but it sends butterflies down to his stomach.

"Yes..?" John replies. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock's trying to get them imprinted in his head. He didn't want to forget them, not with the way they were looking at him like he was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

"Would you- do you...." Sherlock starts to ask but his words trail away and something that looks like fear shows up on his face. John wishes he weren't so wasted because he knew he would forget that look and he wanted evidence that Sherlock was humane too.  

Even though Sherlock never finished his question, John knew what he was talking about. So he leaned in closer, just enough for their lips to be brushing and the baby blues to be right fucking there. John waits. He doesn't make a move because he really wants Sherlock to do it, to kiss him with those gorgeous plump lips, while his blue jewel eyes are covered by his pretty lashes.

"John..." Sherlock whispers once more. He gives him a meaningful look and closes his eyes. For a few seconds he remains there, eyes closed and John worries that he fell asleep, but Sherlock opens them, keeping his blue ones on John's as he leans in closer and closer until their lips press slightly together.

At first it's all soft, shy brushes and nudges, but then John's heart starts racing and he wants more and more. He pulls Sherlock closer, connecting their lips together, moving them in sync. Thin ones against plump ones.

John feels all warm and tingly inside, a feeling he hasn't had since his first kiss, and everything is perfect until Sherlock starts quivering and John feels tears against their cheeks.

John breaks the kiss, pulling away then holding Sherlock's face gingerly in his hands, telling him that it's alright, it's okay, that he's got him.

Sherlock nods and the tears stop flowing from his eyes. John doesn't try to kiss him again, but he does lean in closer to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, seeking warmth and his patchouli scent.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

When John wakes up in white salt water scented sheets he isn't a slight bit worried. It wasn't his usual bed scent, but he did sleep with white sheets. They were their usual fluffy sea foam coloured selves, that weren't too hot or too cold which meant he made it safely and sanely home.

Except that when John opens his eyes, he isn't in his small bedroom, but in what John imagined a hurricane disaster aftermath looked like. Clothes, shoes, objects of all sorts and even food is strewn everywhere. There isn't a single thing placed in its proper spot in an orderly fashion. He is in a one room studio flat. The bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom; all in one room. All a huge mess. There is a desk, two small tables and a kitchen counter, all covered in science gear, paint jars, paint brushes, crystals, a bong, books, parchment, tea cups, newspaper, old socks and peculiar objects that John didn't find necessary.

There are two arm chairs, both draped by jackets. One with a union flag, the other with a worn out one-eye-missing teddy bear. In front of them sits a glass coffee table, that has paint splatters and two ashtrays on it. Down by the coffee table's feet is a pink bra that makes John's stomach swirl. John looked away from the bra and up at the wallpaper; some vintage one that is ruined by a yellow paint smiley face. The land lady probably wasn't going to be too happy about that, but then again, she probably wasn't too happy about the flat in general, not with the disaster it was in.

Smiling comically to himself, he looks back at the bed. It's a king sized mattress, four poster canopy bed that had blue sheer silk and prayer flags hanging from it. John didn't like the feeling he got when he saw that. He slowly turns his head to the left, praying and hoping that -please God let it be that pretty ball of sunshine Molly girl, she's a hippie too- and not Sherlock, but to his horror it is.

Sherlock lays sitting up, holding a joint in his left fingers and looking at John with a bored expression. His raven hair is tousled, cheeks and neck flaring red, lips slightly swollen in an attractive way. He reeks just had sex in general. John normally would have felt great waking up beside someone, unable to remember what happened last night, looking like sex happened, except this was Sherlock an obnoxious brat that had a highly functioning penis.

"Oh my God!" John cries out in horror, jumping a few centimeters away from Sherlock. He holds his face in his hands and cries out 'oh my God', a couple more times.

"What?" Sherlock asks calmly. Of course he's calm. John is now just another one of his straight conquers that he can brag about in free period. John should've held onto his Sherlock-is-setting you-up thoughts that he'd had when Sherlock arrived late and ran for it. But they had a bet and John didn't want to loose.

"Did we..." John asks in spite the fact it was quite obvious that they did. He doesn't fully ask the question, just waves his hand around the bed and gestures at their private parts with a look of horror on his face.

Sherlock looks at himself then at John and bursts out laughing. It's deep and throaty, and a lot more appealing than it should have been. He stops laughing and puts the joint to his lips and sucks in, allowing the smoke to flow out smoothly a few seconds later. John pretends it wasn't kind of really hot.

"No. We didn't. You had too much to drink. I shagged some girl and let you stay in my place, figured you didn't want your mom seeing you like that," Sherlock explains taking another drag and Johh looked away just before his stomach could squirm.

"So we didn't, you know..." John says feeling relief sweep through his whole body. He was still safely douchebag hippie gay sex free.

"Nope," Sherlock replies.

"Then why aren't I wearing a shirt?" John asks.

"Your idea, I came in and found you in those red pants. You said the room was too hot."

"Oh, okay," John says blushing that Sherlock had not only seen him in his undergarments, but in those particular red ones. It was bad enough that his best friend knew about them, the sexy pants, now Sherlock did too. Just brilliant.

"I'll forget those red pants exist, if that's what's bothering you," Sherlock says doing that thing again where it's like he can read John's mind.

John is stunned as usual, but he doesn't ask about it. As long as Sherlock erases them from his big head like he said. Those red pants were John's secret guilty pleasure and yes he knew they were more fit for a tall muscular Calvin Klein model, but he kind of liked them.

"Okay, that's good. So we had no sex, nothing... Good, good. No sex right? Like nothing, not even a kiss? Or anything right?" John asks looking at Sherlock, because even though he just got confirmed that nothing happened between them, he couldn't shake off this feeling that he was missing something and that maybe just maybe something small did happen.

Sherlock still hasn't looked away from the window. He keeps his eyes there, his concentration there and John starts to think that maybe Sherlock didn't hear him, but then Sherlock looks over at John with this serious expression that just slightly didn't match the blue eyes. John tries to read it, whatever that look in his eyes is, but he gets nothing and soon the blue eyes are void of anything once more.

"No. Why would anything happen?" Sherlock says, making it sound more like a statement than a question. John wasn't going to answer, so it was all fine. It didn't matter that he felt that something was wrong.

"Okay. Then it's fine, everything is fine. Besides, you probably don't have sex with people in your own bed."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asks turning to look at him with an actual genuine look of curiosity.

John blushes. "Well, you gave me the impression that you have a lot of shags and most people consider their beds personal, so I assumed you wouldn't bring all those meaningless shags to your personal bed. More like a motel or something..." John explains slowly, really hoping that he didn't sound stupid. Sherlock had already told him that he wasn't worth wasting brain cells on, he didn't really fancy another insult like that.

"Oh. Well I wouldn't shag you in a motel," Sherlock says grimacing, and John who had been holding his breath and waiting for the: you're so stupid John, let's the air go and kinda smiles because Sherlock might have just given him and indirect compliment.

But he's also curious. "Why? Why  wouldn't you shag me in a motel?"

"I don't know."

John raises a brow.

"Look, just forget I said anything. Eliminate it off your hard drive."

"My hard drive?" John asks with a chuckle. He can see the slight hint of a smile on the curve of Sherlock's lip.

"Your brain."

"Oh, okay," John says and in seconds things go back to normal. Sherlock's face is blank, he focuses on anything but boring old John. John feels the small hint of what had been having a good time dissolve.

John sighs. He's really has to go, back to his real life, to his world. If he stayed any longer in the incense smelling train wreck mess flat he might join a cult and start to wear thrift shop tunics and douchebag skin tight jeans. Besides he needed to sneak out now while its early and he'll be unnoticed. He didn't want people getting the wrong impression.

"So. Um see you-

"At our next date."

John blinks. "D-date?"

"Yes. Not one of us lost last night. The bet goes on until one of us backs out. Tomorrow it's your turn to take me out on your date."

John swallows. Just when he thought it was over, that he would go back to being the regular kid on the lacrosse team and Sherlock being the hipster painter and they would never talk again, it turns out they have another date. John isn't sure if he felt good or bad about it.

"Oh, right, okay. I'll see you on the next date." John says, Sherlock doesn't look up at him or even seem to acknowledge him. He's already lost in that deep place he goes to in his head, so John awkwardly waves goodbye and slides out of bed.

He finds his clothes; his favourite jumper, grass and dirt stains on it, blue jeans and those hipster shoes nicely folded in a pile beside a skull on the bedside table. John knows he was too wasted to fold them like that himself and the sheer fact that it had been Sherlock who did it, when he doesn't even fold his own clothes, made John feel like he wasn't a waste of brain cells.

John quickly puts his clothes on and flattens out his dull blonde hair, looking at his reflection in a mirror that has a bunch of little photographs glued onto it. He looks carefully at a few, finding most of them to be things of the city. The sunshine through a window, a wall with a heart on it, a statue, different people who weren't aware their picture was taken. He then sees one that he really likes; it's a picture of a much younger Sherlock grinning up at the camera, eyes closed with someone else, a bloke with chestnut hair doing the same. Under the picture he sees the words Holmes Brothers scribbled in curly hand writing.

"I live above 221B, go out the back door when you're downstairs," a voice says behind him. John looks back to find Sherlock standing by the window, looking down.

He lives above 221B.  John goes through his damaged memory and remembers the outside of the club before going in. Indeed the upstairs of the place had looked like it had flats.

How does he even sleep?

"Right, well um, bye."

John should've known that just because he wasn't with Sherlock he wouldn't be free of him. Everywhere he went, everywhere he looked was Sherlock. It was like the git was harrassing him, pressing in closer and closer until he smothered his whole life.

John sat in a dimlit hallway reading a story that was required for one of his classes, thinking of  the git's sheen curls when the words raven and hair appeared in the same sentence. In laboratory practice he thought of Sherlock's science gear, of all the flasks he owned with different plant oils, chemicals and poisons. When he passed the gardens on his way home, he wondered if they had any patchouli despite the plant being South East Asian. Later on during practice he kept glancing at the bleachers in case Sherlock was there.

But he wasn't.

"Why are you smiling?" Harry asks while John thought about the smiley face in Sherlock's flat.

"Nothing," John says much too quickly. Harry gives him one of her suspicious looks, but doesn't ask anything else. She just takes a seat next to him on the couch and hands him a cup of tea.

John takes it. The cup is small and warm in his hands. Its exterior feels soft and glassy. Its colour white as snow, like Sherlock's skin. He brings the cup up to his nose and inhales, the endearing scent of coconut chai fills his nostrils with a loving caress and John takes a sip, running his tongue along the brim of the cup. Was Sherlock's skin soft like that?

"' 'Member that time I really wanted a dog but no one would agree? So I pressed on and on about it? And then mum finally agreed?"

"Mmm.." John says, not really paying attention. He keeps his eyes on the blank wall before him, his whole head feels foggy and slow. He has to find somewhere. Pick something out. It's for tomorrow. Their date.

"Remember how I kept smiling silently to myself about it?"

John sighs. He can already see where this was going. Harry must already think she's right, that she knows what's going on, but she doesn't. She thinks it was a girl John went out with last night on a real date when he actually went out with Sherlock, one of the freaks from the artist's campus. On a fake date.

"You look kinda like that," Harry says smirking. She's got this look in her eyes that says she knows John is into someone. But she's wrong. She's oblivious.

John doesn't want to reply anything to that so he remains silent. He brings the cup up to his lips, over and over again. Anything to have his mouth busy. He wants her to take a hint, to go away. But Harry kicks off her boots and puts her legs on the coffee table. She presses her head on John's shoulder as she had always done as a child, then as a teenager when she needed a pillow and now as a coming of age adult when she was bored or had too much to drink.

John is glad when she grabs the remote and turns on the telly. She puts on that one channel that does talk shows with celebrities.  

"Hey Harry," John finds himself piping up after a while of listening to Angelina Jolie talk about some movie she was in.

"Mm, what?" Harry asks. She has her eyes glued to the screen. Her light brows are creased and her lips firm. A sign that she was paying deep attention to the telly, but she had answered him, which meant she was vaguely aware of him. The state she was in was just what John needed to ask questions.

"You hang out with the art freaks sometimes, right?"

"Mmm hmm." Harry's eyes widen at some gossip confirmation on screen. God she was such a suck up. Half of the stuff on there isn't even real.

"Do you know Sherlock Holmes?" John asks tentatively. His fingers go slightly cold and his cheeks warm.

Harry is silent. She's started frowning now, but not at what's on the telly. John's heart palpitates a bit when he worries that she's jumped back to her senses, and questions he doesn't want to answer might be asked.

"Umm, yeah.  I've seen him," Harry says, her eyes get cloudy once more.

"What do you know about him?"

"A prat. No one is 'worthy enough for him'. He shag's everyone, bit of a male slut if you ask me. Knows everything about everyone and a damn good painter. They say he's smart too, science and stuffs smart."

"Oh," John says, he doesn't know what else to say. He didn't get the loveliest description about Sherlock, but at least he wasn't the only that saw him as a pretentious dick. However, there was one thing that did put John on edge. No one is worthy enough for him.

"Anything else? My show is soon coming on."

"No, that's all. Thanks for the tea." John lifts her head off him and gets up from the couch.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

John isn't sure if he goes down the stone path that leads to the west side of the campus to use the library, as an excuse to mingle in the art freaks side in order to see him or if he really does want to get his assignment done days before it's due. He decides not to think about it, anything not to get his head in a messy knot, and focuses on the transition of setting. He'd just come from the clean polished side of campus where the hedges were properly cut, everywhere smelled like peppermint, the girls all had the same hair, the same smile, and the guys were either in lacrosse uniforms or Lacoste shirts and had short kept hair. He came from his world where everything was black and white and into a messy conjuncture of an artistic temperament and abstract ideas and creations where nothing made sense and even the unusual was usual.

This side of the world was always alien and surreal to John. It never felt real. It was too abstract and alternative. It was like they melted and mixed real life with dreams and illusions. Nothing mattered yet everything mattered. Just passing by the dorms hearing either prayer chants, sex noises and raucous music being created, made John feel guilty and dirty. And also like he was in the mid-1960s.

"Want some?" A bloke with dread locks and various piercings asks, holding out a pink bong. John is so fixed staring at the hair in horror that he doesn't notice the guy only wears a sarong and a sarong alone. When his eyes travel down from the brown tangled mess to the rainbow sheer sarong John feels his blood pressure lower.

"N-no thanks," John says trying to keep his face from looking like he saw a ghost. He hurriedly walks past the dread locks guy, glancing back at him with are-you-out-of -your-mind? looks.

Once he had a far enough distance from the almost naked guy, he starts to look for the library. And for a mob of curly raven hair. His eyes rake over the fields where girls with long hair and guys with equally long hair play instruments and sing, a couple kisses like no one is there watching and two boys run around taking pictures of whatever they found their odd inspiration in. Worried Sherlock wasn't in the field, he looks over at the steps, but all he sees is a girl with her head bent down drawing.

There isn't really anywhere else to look. The library was right there and if John just stood there looking or went somewhere else to look he would get caught for sure. Then explanations would come and John didn't even have an explanation for himself as to why he was looking for Sherlock, just that it had started out with him needing to cross the freak's side of campus so he would get to the library faster.

Inside the library it's dark. The only light comes from skylights and a few lanterns here and there. There's books everywhere. Piles and piles of them. Selves after shelves, just filled with stories, ideas, theories, gifts from people's endless hours of thinking.

John always knew libraries had books in them, but he never imagined so many. Just by stepping through the entrance he was surprised to see that so many of these papery print objects had been carefully created for people like him to read. Sometimes not even for that, sometimes they were just made for the sheer fun of it. John had to admit he respected that. The only thing he'd been able to create for anyone was the food he cooked when his mum was tired. And it wasn't all that good.

John couldn't look through all these books by himself for the medical practice one he needed. He asked one of the girls there to steer him in the right direction. The girl, one of the English teachers, lead him through rooms and rooms just filled with books until she came to the back where there wasn't really any people looking through book tittles and pointed at a book shelf where all books on medicine were.

The bookshelf was near the corner of the library, hidden from all eyes and ears. John wondered if people came to have sex there. He smirked to himself as he imagined walking in on someone. Their looks of horror would be funny. He supposed he had sick sense of humour if that's what he found amusing. But hey, some people walk around semi naked in nothing but a sarong, some walk only on the left side of the street and some are a pretentious scientist and artist. Everyone had something.

John can't seem to find what he's looking for, he shifts a little down the bookshelf where he isn't so huddled in the dark corners. He looks through tittles, not thinking much of what's going on, but then he gets the feeling of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. The feeling that someone is watching him.

When whoever is watching him consistently still stares even though John has made it obvious with his body language that he noticed, John knows it's Sherlock. He was the only person that could stare intently at John-or anyone, really- making it look like he was either going to devour him or destroy him.

The thought of both sends an unwanted shiver down John's spine.

"You're staring," John's lips quirk as he says this. He doesn't turn around, but he knows Sherlock heard him. He's always aware of everything.

"You know," John starts when Sherlock doesn't answer. "I'm starting to think you're in love with me. Which is understandable." John smirks and looks over at Sherlock for a reaction. His stomach feels like its compressed.

"I stare at lots of people," Sherlock says slowly. His head is bowed down, messy curls fall into his face. He sits with his legs crossed, elbows perched on his knees and hands supporting his head in a prayer position. "It doesn't mean I'm in love with them. Besides, just thinking of you lowers my IQ," he replies dryly. John's stomach sort of shrinks and falls but John ignores it. He shouldn't feel hurt. He was joking about Sherlock being in love with him. He didn't want it to be real.

John stares at him, expecting Sherlock to follow the normal human norms and look up, say something. I mean they had a 'date' tonight, John's date. Even thought they weren't alike in the slightest way, they could still say hello to each other. Right?

Sherlock keeps his eyes on his book.

John bends his head a bit to get a peak of whatever he reads, see what's more interesting than himself. The book Sherlock reads is called Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit by Daniel Quinn. John rolls his eyes. Of course he's reading something like that.

John sighs and bites his lip. Looking at Sherlock like that, curled up around a book, a passive look on his face, the baby blues dreamy and clouded, was truly surreal. The way the light fell on his snow white skin, making it look like he was alight. The shadows that ran along his slender cheekbones, the paleness of his lips, his hair; silky curls that looked so soft and perfect for running your fingers through or tugging gently as lips found lips.

John looks away when his stomach flutters at the thought, but then he looks back again because he really can't look away, despite that it's Sherlock and he can't stand him. Despite that Sherlock is a guy and John only looks at women like that.

"But you," Sherlock starts. He looks up at John straight in the eyes and for a few seconds, maybe just one or half, their eyes connect and those blue ones, the ones that seem to suck all the blue out of the summer skies, aren't void, but hold something instead. Something real. In that moment John's whole skin is on fire and his heart backflips.

"You are staring at me." Sherlock finishes. John doesn't know what to say, doesn't even know if he can say anything because he has no air in his lungs and his head is a knot. Like old yarn. Twisting and turning.

"I'm going to..." John gestures behind him. He feels slow and off. He shouldn't have come. He really shouldn't have.

"I should go!" John gasps. He turns and just flees because even though he tells himself his speeding heart and lack of oxygen was a spontaneous random hypoxia attack, which is utter bullshit because he is healthy and has nothing to cause it, he knows why he can't breathe. Why his insides are melting. Why his blood is cold and sparkling.

He had to get out, out of the library, out of the art freak's campus, out of the university. He had to escape. Escape the realization that just hit him like cold water in the face. He knew. He knew why his head and lungs felt like they were filled with water. He was drowning.

Drowning in Sherlock.

And it was all his fault. He shook Sherlock's hand that day, selling his soul to the devil. A devil that dresses in thrift store clothes and owns the bluest eyes in the world.

"John?" A small voice says behind him. John turns around ready to bark and tell them to fuck off, his face already hard and angry because this really wasn't the best moment to talk to someone, but then he sees the small delicate Molly Hooper and he drops it.

"Molly," John says. Surprised to see Molly all the way over here.

"John." Molly smiles, looks up at him and she sees it. She sees it all. His realization, his feelings.

Her sunshine smile fades and she looks at John concerned. It isn't like the others, his so called friends who ask him what's wrong and pretend to care but all they want is a story. No, she's real.

"Are you alright John?" She asks, even though she doesn't need to. She knows.

" M' fine," John says softly. He can't look at her eyes so he glances down, catching a bit of her shirt. It's blue. Baby blue, like his eyes,

"Are you sure? Because you look troubled." The wind blows her hair, ruffling the feathers in it. John almost laughs when he remembers his first impression of her was that she was pretty and he would try to shag her. Now she's asking him about his feelings. For Sher-

He couldn't  say it. John looks up at Molly, trying to tell her with just his eyes because he has to tell someone, let it off his chest, but he won't say it out loud.

"John."

"No one's ever worthy enough for him are they?" John asks bitterly.

Molly looks at him sadly. He notices she carries two bags with her, along with her purse. One of them from IT the other from the drugstore. He identifies the pills quickly. Antidepressants. Anxiety meds. 

Who were they for? Molly? It couldn't be. She was a little ball of sunshine. Her family? Friend? Most likely. It doesn't matter. It wasn't his business.

"John?" Molly says looking at him a little hesitant.

"Yeah?" He asks stuffing his hands in his coat and putting on a happier face. Maybe not happy. More like fine.

"Come to my flat, I've got tea and we can talk, if you like...?"

"Fine," John agrees. Because what else was he going to do? Go home and rip himself to shreds?

Molly lives not to far off from the place John and Sherlock had their first date. Her flat is nice. Mostly everything in there was pastel colours. She had a guitar and paintings of intense coloured figures against cooler blue green backgrounds.

John asks her if she does any paintings herself. She laughs and says that's funny. He learns she plays guitar and writes lyrics. Mostly indie and folk songs.

They talk about her at first, both clutching pale yellow cups and sipping tea. She tells him about her life, the freedom and expression of it, then about some place she worked at and after she mentions she started seeing someone named Jim from IT, to get over Sherlock, and the Sherlock talk starts.

John doesn't want to go too deep in it, it scares him, so he just brushes against the edges. Telling her about the fluttering of his heart, the way his skin feels sparks.

"He does that. Has a way of getting into your head and wrapping himself around. Then he treats you like a worthless shit," Molly says and John just nods to agree. He doesn't really want to talk.

"But with you, he was different," Molly suddenly pipes up. "When he told me about you, there was something... Just something."

"Probably glee that he was going to do this to me," John snaps.

"No. He showed emotion... John, I think he's scared."

John huffs. He just wants to go home. Get some sleep. He thanks Molly for her time, her tea. He promises to listen to one of her songs and takes the bus to his house. There's no one there, thankfully. He just goes straight to bed.

In the dream the scent of patchouli is strong and something cold seeps into his favourite jumper as he presses against the grassy dirt. There is something warm and solid against him, the source of the smell. His hands hold raven silky curls and the sound of club music thumps nearby.

It was the night of the first date. He and Sherlock lay curled together, eyes on each other's, their lips brushing. And then it's happening, their lips move in sync and everything feels warm and right.

John wakes up to Sherlock's tears falling on his cheeks. He remembered. That's what had happened that night, the bit he couldn't remember. Sherlock had kissed him. They had both willingly kissed like two lovers and Sherlock had lied, said nothing happened. John couldn't understand why though. John had reasons to be scared of a kiss, he was straight, but Sherlock was bisexual. Kissing another man was normal to him.

Except nothing about that kiss had been normal. Sherlock's eyes, they had been sincere and genuine, filled with strong emotion and Sherlock had cried from the feeling he got from the kiss. Sherlock kissed lots of people, but John was willing to bet Sherlock didn't cry all those times.

"John, I think he's scared."

John stands in front of the mirror unmoving. It was time. Time for the date and he had no idea what he was going to do. Things were different now, so different. It wasn't black and white, it was moving water, pushing and shoving until it filled his brain, clogging up all thoughts.

"You really like this girl, don't you," Harry says sitting on the sink counter beside him. The whole minute John had spent looking at himself in the mirror feeling like a sick joke, she had just sat there and watched him, trying to read his mind.

"A bit," John responds feeling foolish. God, liking Sherlock. It sounded so pathetic and ridiculous.

"You're worried. Don't be. It'll be fine," Harry says smiling softly. She  puts her hand on John's shoulder for support. John feels a bit comforted, but then he remembers that Harry thinks he's going on a date with a normal girl. And that he has no idea what he's doing.

"I don't know where to go. How to act. Where to take hi-her," John stops himself before he could let the gender of his "date" escape. His cheeks flood with hot blood.

"Just be yourself. Be honest. That's what dates are about, showing, truthfully, to others who you are so they can decide to be with you or not." Harry slides off the sink and walks past him into his room. She stands in front of his closet, looking at his options of clothes. After letting her eyes roam over his collection of mostly jumpers and jackets she looks satisfied and chooses his striped white and black one.

"Wear that with that black coat of yours. You'll look cute."

John doesn't wear the stripped jumper, but does go with the coat. He hopes that what Harry had said about being honest in dates wasn't utter bullshit and takes the underground to the city.

He waits for Sherlock under a lamppost, as people of different sizes and ages walked past him, minding their own business and enjoying the night. John starts to feel like bolting but then he sees a mob of curly hair and Sherlock walks right up to him.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says. He doesn't smile or offer to shake a hand like most would, but that's Sherlock for you.

He doesn't look as hippie as he usually would. Today he wears a simple pale blue button down, untucked and half buttoned. It brings out the colour of his eyes. He also wears those damned black jeans and a long overcoat. He could almost pass for normal, if he didn't have this stand out air about him. Or the paint splatters on his hands and cheeks.

"So, you've been painting," John says. He feels stupid and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. Not because he's nervous, because his hands are cold.

"A bit," Sherlock says dismissively.

John intakes a breath. "Right."  

"We going somewhere? Because it's cold just standing here."

John opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it. He looks up at Sherlock, who squints down at him and he shrinks. His stomach wrinkles up and he feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He's mortified. What if he did something Sherlock found stupid?

"Well?"

"Right, we should get to it," John says feeling embarrassed. His cheeks are probably pathetically red and Sherlock must be reading his mind, however it is that he does it.

"Follow me," John says. Sherlock raises a brow but doesn't comment. They both walk beside each other in the cold air. It's slightly dark, but sometimes the city's lights will cast a glow on their skin. Cars zoom by them, people walk past them, but John can't pay any attention to that, or any of the world in general. Not with Sherlock standing that close to him.

John expected more questions from Sherlock. He expected himself to be a bit more hesitant. Or that he would run away, but his feet remained moving in the correct direction. Each footstep feeling heavier than the last.

John glances down along the length of Sherlock's arm, to where his fingers stick out from the coat. It was ridiculous really, John wanting to hold his hand. It wasn't even a real date, just a stupid bet that was starting to feel more and more unreal, but his hand just itched to feel the slender white fingers against his own.

"Cross that street," John directs.

They were heading towards a park near the bay. John liked it there, even though he hasn't been there in ages. Not since he just started uni and would come down when school was up to his chin or everyone at home was drunk and fighting. He hadn't really taken anyone on a date there, his dates were always girls from school or someone he found attractive at the pub. Come to think of it John never really had dated someone in a way where he really wanted a relationship, where he shared himself. He just sort of drifted with partners.

John walks through the park, passing benches, trees, fountains and a few people here and there. Sherlock is still by his side, a bit closer now. Their shoulders and hands slightly touching. John pretends not to notice. He keeps his eyes up high and wide as they drift through the mushy grass in a trance like state, watching multicoloured beams of light drift through tree branches.

They walk like that in silence until they reach the edge of the bay. There's a mini cement wall where people would sit on and watch the water ripple in the wind. John would always sit there, let the fresh air wipe him clean of thoughts and just enjoy the view of the glowing city. He would count the passing cars, pretend he was a giant watching the mini ant sized people walking, or if he was feeling really lonely and pathetic, wonder what it would be like to have someone there, sitting beside him, keeping them both warm.

He was about to find out. John clambers up so he's sitting on he edge. He turns to look at Sherlock with an expectant grin. Sherlock just stands there, hands in his coat pockets, a peculiar look on his face. He expects Sherlock to soon scowl and tell him to get down, that he was being childish.

But Sherlock sighs, rolls his eyes and to John's delight clambers onto wall with him.

"See, it wasn't so bad?" John says grinning. Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but John can see the hint of a smile on his lips.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says.

"Oh, come on. I'd have thought that you art freaks did this kind of stuff all the time."

The wind blows a bit harder, ruffling Sherlock's curls and brushing against John's exposed skin making him shiver violently. Sherlock notices when John pulls on the cuffs of his sweater and he sighs like he's about to do something he might regret. He lifts his hands up to his neck and pulls off his scarf.

"Here," Sherlock says averting his eyes. John looks down at the blue scarf in disbelief. He takes it and wraps it around his neck. He was pretty sure Sherlock had never done something like that before and his heart flutters.

They go back to being in silence once more. It isn't awkward or anything. It's comforting. They don't need to say anything. Just sitting beside each other, their legs touching as they dangle over the edge and their hands brushing, was more than words could ever say.

John smiles to himself because this is what he had kind of always imagined. Watching the nighttime light show against the water with someone solid and warm beside him.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asks, keeping his eyes on the water.

John shakes his head. "Nothing."

John turns his head to look at him. Sherlock remains staring idly at the water, his head low, eyes cast on the ripples and flickering lights. The wind ruffles his coat and hair but he doesn't seem to feel the cold. His tongue snakes out of his mouth and slowly licks the dry skin. John doesn't mean to, but at the sight his breath hitches and he really wants those lips on his own once again.

Sherlock feels John's gaze on him and abruptly looks over. John doesn't have time to look away and their faces are closely huddled together, noses bumping, baby blues locked on grey eyes, lips just an inch apart.

John's heart is pounding so hard he can hear it ringing in his ears. His whole system feels like it's been paralysed. He can't breathe, he can't move, can't speak. The air is much too thick, it's stretched out and jumping with electric charge, just waiting for one of them to move and an explosion to break out.

His head is slow, but moving at the speed of light at the same time. Everything feels like a contradiction. One minute it's slow and dead, but then it's fast and confusing. He's sure it's some sort of unnatural event if he feels like he's frozen, but catching fire at the same time.

"J-John? What are you doi-" Sherlock begins to ask but he doesn't finish. John's lips find his before any more words could be formed.

If John thought that he was on fire then it was nothing compared to how he felt now. It was like every single cell in his body had spontaneously burst into little fireworks. His insides were warm and bubbling, but in a good way. And the way Sherlock's lips felt on his... Like heaven and hell combined.

But then the warmth is fading, the scent of patchouli is farther and farther away and John finds himself blinking up at cold baby blue eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock snaps, backing away from him in disgust.

John can't seem to grasp what's going on. One minute he was kissing the softest lips he'd ever felt and now he felt cold and empty. Like a shell. Sherlock hovers above him, glowering down at him and making snarky remarks, but John can't tell why. He looks upset. But why?

"You actually thought I liked you or something?" Sherlock sneers. He slides off the wall and turns to look at John nastily. John doesn't like the look. It made him feel stupid. He didn't like it when Sherlock made him feel stupid. Especially when he couldn't tell what was wrong.

"Your date was pathetic, John. Ordinary and puerile. Just like you, like all you idiots."

At that John feels a blow of hurt that awakens him from his stupor. John narrows his eyes and balls his hands into fists. He slides down from the wall and marches towards the prick.

"A night on a sea wall and a kiss, was that supposed to impress me? Was it supposed to be exciting?" Sherlock snarls.

Each word out of his big perfect mouth feels like daggers to John. John had just tried to be nice. Just tried to please Sherlock. Because that's all Sherlock ever wanted from people. He didn't care about friends or feelings. He just wanted someone to please him. To make him feel as important as he felt he was, and now John was stuck with these feelings for someone who wasn't even human. Someone who didn't care.

No one seems to be worthy enough for him.

"No Sherlock. I wasn't trying to impress you, not this time. I was being honest, because that's what dates are about. They aren't about going to clubs and drinking, aren't about showing off. They are meant to be sincere, to show someone, truthfully, who you are and let them decide if they want to be with you or not. That's what I was trying to show you," John says. He wants to yell at the dick, beat him up and tell him how much of an asshole he is, let him know that he's hurting John, that John is confused and really doesn't know what he's doing.

"Why would you do that? We aren't on a real date. It's just a bet, a joke! That's all. Or did it actually mean something to you?"

John swallows the ball of dark twisted hurt that wants to come out. "No, it's not like that-

"Then why did you kiss me?" Sherlock sneers.

John looks up at Sherlock in disbelief. He was trying to make it John's fault. Trying to say John had started it all. When it wasn't like that at all. Sherlock had kissed him first. Sherlock had made it all happen.

"Because you kissed me first!" John yells, starting to feel frustrated and even more confused. Everything was spinning. He was sinking, falling into the deep blue water. He didn't know what or why anything was happening. Nothing made sense at all.

"No, I didn't. I never kissed you." Sherlock snaps. He still wears that nasty look that made John want to crumple up.

"Yes, you did! On the first night on the grass. You kissed me!"

Sherlock scoffs and raises his brows. He looks like he truly doesn't remember and John starts to question if maybe it was all a dream, just his head messing with him, but it felt too real, too vivid. It fit perfectly into the mix. It had to be real.

"I never kissed you on the grass, you were wasted and I let you sleep in my flat."

"Yes you did!" John shrieks. He marches up to the git's face and grabs him roughly by his coat, pulling their faces close. Not to kiss him, to get the message straight. John was starting to feel desperate now. He knows that Sherlock kissed him. He knows Sherlock did this to him. It wasn't his head. He wasn't making it up. Why couldn't Sherlock just believe him? It was confusing enough as it was without Sherlock playing games

"You did this to me! You got into my head!" John says trying to hit him without damaging him. He can feel tears running down his cheeks, he knows he looks ridiculous and probably will regret it afterwards, but he doesn't care. Sherlock won't believe him. He won't accept it.

"Let go of me!" Sherlock snaps, shoving John's little self away from him and walking away abruptly, leaving John feeling even more confused and alone.

"So that's it then?" John calls after Sherlock's fading form. He doesn't stop or look back but continues walking, disappearing into the darkness and taking pieces of John that he wasn't supposed to have.  

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John shouts again. He needs Sherlock to turn back, to clear things up and tell him where he stands, but it feels like he's calling out to the empty darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

In the three months after his failure with Sherlock, John became a ghost. 

He did everything that was expected of him; went to his university classes on time, put all his strength and determination in lacrosse, maintaned his perfect grade scores, took care of the house, took care of his mother, and sister and kept up with all the social events that were required. He did it all without ever uttering one word of complaint, without being told to, without being asked how he felt. He did it because he was supposed to. Because he had nothing else to do. 

While he kept up this top notch perfectly fine persona, in reality he was just sort of drifting through life without really feeling it. Physically he was there for everyone to see, but he wasn't there, not really. He couldn't feel it, couldn't grasp it. It was all covered by a veil. 

Grey dull skies gleam down at John as he looks up. The air is cool, so cold it leaves hazes of white fog wherever it lingers and it feels like ice as it caresses his cheeks. It's one of those days. The ones where everything is wet and cold and grey but in a cozy comfortable way. 

John liked those days. Mostly because everyone seemed to be trapped in a slow mental state and days run by smoothly. But also because everything physically transformed into black and white. 

It was like he was in a movie; a movie where the world was nothing more but scripts and scenes in black and white. Nothing was really real. It was surreal and slow. 

John took a step into the campus, his eyes darting from the brick building to the thin frail trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Today was different. Today the stiff grey wasn't as comforting as usual. It was just another reminder of how grey and dead he had become. 

"John! Where are you going?" A voice calls out. John stops walking and looks to his left. One of his team mates; the team captain, stands slightly behind him, half his body swerving towards his next class, the other half towards John. Like he was stuck in momentum or something. 

"Hello Lestrade." John says in his fake cheery tone. 

He rearranges his face to look good natured and pleased. He knows it worked when Lestrade jogs up to him with a grin and starts walking beside him. Maybe he should've sulked, made him walk away. John wasn't really in the mood to talk. He never was in the mood to talk. Not since that night.

The captain talks about the big game coming up, about something in one of his classes being difficult and maybe even mentions something about catching up with a friend-John isn't sure, he wasn't reallly listening. Until he hears the word Holmes come out. 

John feels something cold gush down his blood stream and spine. His insides twist sharply and heat rises to his cheeks, burning his skin like a wild fire. Just the mention of the name -that name- had made his heart race increase rapidly with a sense of dread and anticipation to rising in him. 

Since their last encounter John hadn't seen Sherlock at all. He'd heard lots about him though. The rumours of Sherlock's sexual promiscuity with both sexes, along with many other student's rumors, reached John. He also heard about Sherlock getting punched at some party, apparently he was being the dick he always was. There was also a drug scandal and an art competition he won. They said the painting was extraordinary, but John still hadn't gone to look at it. 

He didn't like to think of Sherlock much, even though everything was a constant reminder. The fact that he seemed to remember Sherlock in everything, but there was a lack of communication  between him and Sherlock or even awareness of John's existence on Sherlock's side, drove John insane. Especially since John couldn't really remember what had happened between him and Sherlock. His brain decided to go all repressed memories on him and now all he really remembered were the emotions he'd felt and deep blue eyes that made him drown. 

He felt as if he had dreamed it all and now that he is awake all he remembers is how he felt. But there was a part of him that told him it was real. Except that he had no way of confirming it for he had no one to ask if it really happened. And Sherlock didn't even seem to acknowledge him. 

"Holmes, you said Holmes..." John says softly. 

"And I went up to him and I says- what?" Lestrade stops telling his story abruptly and frowns down at John. 

"You said something about a Holmes..." 

"Oh, right, yeah. My friend Mycroft. I'm supposed' to go see him, I could bring you along if you want, the other one will be there and Myc says he doesn't have many friends." 

John pondered about it for a minute. His  thoughts wandered back to three weeks ago, when he woke in Sherlock's flat. There had been a moment; right before he left, when he stopped to look at his reflection in the mirror. Little photographs, adorned the edges of the mirror. There was tons, each one as fascinating as the other but there had been one that John took special fancy in. 

The Holmes Brothers.

"You gonna join or not?" Lestrade asks. 

John lips start to say a 'yes' but then he stops. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't go. It had been three months. He hasn't seen him in three months and if he saw him now, the whole getting Sherlock out of his system plan would be a waste. Besides he and Sherlock weren't exactly mates anymore. They never had been. He didn't even know what they were, just that John had started to fall in love with him, even though he strictly wasn't into blokes, and Sherlock stomped on his heart. 

But it couldn't possibly be a fluke that Greg Lestrade; the lacrosse team captain was going to see some Mycroft Holmes that was the brother of Sherlock Holmes; the genius art freak that John had tried to kiss. It couldn't be a coincidence he had been invited to go. It had to be meant to be or some sort of main event that needed to happen, so a chain of cause and effects could follow. 

"I'll think about it, I might be busy" John half lies. 

"If you decide to go it's this Saturday. I hope you can make it, Myc would really appreciate it, says Sherlock gets lonely."

John almost snorts. Lestrade obviously didn't know Sherlock if he thought that was true. Sherlock was greedy, impetuous, pretentious and a dick. He didn't care for anyone or anything, just his spoiled self. It was all an illusion to him, emotions and relationships. He didn't need anyone. 

"Well see ya later, John. I'm late for class" Lestrade grins at him, pats his shoulder and runs off in the other direction, yelling "I'll see at practice or Saturday!"

After classes is usually when it's worse. Though it took up effort, the only thing that really kept John going was his routine. The seeing people all day and faking amusement and pleasant conversation. The working in class, giving all the answers to questions, highlighting in books, theorising. The clubs where he was expected to do a great job and inspire others. The practices of lacrosse. All those things were things to do, they filled up the void in his head, they gave him something to occupy himself with. When those things were not an option he didn't really know what to do with himself.

He doesn't really remember when he started smoking. He just does it after school, right before reaching home. He wasn't a chain smoker, not even a smoker really. He had this friend -dealer was more fit- from the hippie side that would bring him what he needed and news on Sherlock. The dealer friend just gave him what he requested and never asked questions. Botch and simple. 

John inhaled the smoke lightly, letting it flow in, destroying whatever it touched in his path and filling his lungs. This joint had a minty taste to it, he heard it was called White Russian or something like that, he wasn't sure and didn't really care. As long as it got him high and made him feel blank and bluntly happy. 

He usually stayed there at the bus stop just down the school side walk, smoking one joint until the bus came then he would go home and deal with life there. Today though, he found himself shuffling up from the bench and walking back towards the school. He didn't question himself or even worry. He was just going to walk back into the school and see something. 

He needed to see it. The paintingSherlock had won first place in. He'd been itching to see it since the day he heard Sherlock had submitted it but his pride was high and he wasn't going to go see it. But then Sherlock won and John's curiosity grew each day. But he never went. It wasn't his life, he shouldn't mix with it. 

Today though, the White Russian must have fogged his senses for he didn't even feel guilty when he entered the hallway where the painting was temporarily being displayed. He'd been missing that hallway like the plague, but today it felt only natural to walk in and perch in front of the painting the genius-dick created himself. 

The painting really was as breath catching as everyone claimed. Definitely the work of a skilled artist with extraordinary talent. The whole thing seemed to radiate a hypnotising glow that made you feel a rush of indescribable emotions. You could just stare at it all day, awed by the sheer beauty of it. 

Of all things though, that wasn't what intrigued John the most. It was that even though the person in the painting was meant to be unrecognisable from the way it was almost abstractly painted and the beads of glowing light that blurred over him, to John and most likely John alone,  it was painfully obvious that it was him. Where else would Sherlock have gotten the small roundish features and the khaki cable knit jumper?

Upon his discovery John nearly laughed at the irony of it all, if it even was ironic. But then his eyes fell to the painting's tittle and suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore. 

The light by S. Holmes.

The tittle didn't make any sense at all. The painting was John, but since when did Sherlock perceive John as light? John had figured that Sherlock had been in a painting mood one day, and you know how artists had that thing; the artists vision. Where they weren't seeing things in a ordinary way but in an artistic way, where all matter was beauty. He figured Sherlock was having one of those vision moments and he drew John because he found appeal in it. Not that he was the light.

A little turmoil started in his head; Sherlock. He was supposed to join Lestrade on Saturday. They were going to visit the Holmes brothers. But why would John go to that? It wasn't like he was going to kiss and make up with Sherlock. There wasn't even anything to make up. 

What do you think you're doing? You actually thought I liked you or something? Your date was pathetic, John. Ordinary and puerile. Just like you, like all you idiots!

John sighs and looks away from the painting. He really didn't know what he was doing. One minute everything is crystal clear, then he takes one step and he's falling off the edge. He'd never meant for things to turn into a black hole. He'd never even meant to consider Sherlock a friend, much less start to fall in love with him. All he wanted to do was get him to shut up, and prove him wrong. And even though Sherlock had lost their stupid bet by abandoning the date, it was really John who had lost it all. 

He turns to look at the painting, the light, and grimaces. He really wasn't the light.  Especially not the way Sherlock had painted it. So glowing, so bright and pretty and warm. No, that wasn't John. Not in the last three months. He was turned off, dark. Didn't have any colour or light. 

It took three seconds for John's drug induced mind to register that Sherlock was mocking him, mocking his gloom, mocking how he had blown in and turned John's life upside down. It was probably all funny to him; his pain, his pathetic surviving each day, his newfound need to smoke once a day, his broken heart. It was all a joke to him. No one was ever worthy enough for him. No one ever mattered to him, because everyone was too ordinary, too stupid. Didn't he know what he did to people? How he ruined them? How he just walked in and had this way of making you think that you might just be special because this genius, this extraordinary person was talking to you, listening to you. To then knock you down with a few words. 

 Stupid, stupid, stupid, life ruining, pretentious wanker arsehole genius dick! 

The painting was clenched up in John's fist before he even knew what he had done. He looks down, sees the wreckage in his hands in horror, drops the painting and flees. 

He doesn't go on Saturday. He doesn't go because he doesn't want to. He doesn't need Sherlock. He was finally done with it. He would no longer think of the hippie. 

He doesn't go because he gets in trouble. 

Apparently punching the idiot that called John a prick loving faggot that was missing his dick slut, because John wasn't doing well in practice, was breaking the rules. Also, his mother found the joints in his stuff and wouldn't stop nagging at him. Which was a complete utter bullshit thing to do, because it's not like Harry doesn't come home almost every night reeking of cigarets and wasted. Except no one gives her shit. She's allowed to go knee deep in drugs, who cares if she comes home looking like a dried up drunk pop star, but John who rationally does drugs, gets in trouble. 

When his mom starts telling him that in these past three months she doesn't know who he is or what he's done with himself, that he's a train wreck running his own future,  John has finally had enough. 

Apparently telling his mother to piss off lands him standing at the bus stop in the dark with his things piled around him. He's cold, he's wet, he's alone and he feels stupid. Stupid and wrong. Everything had gone wrong. It was all his fault- no it was Sherlock's fault. He'd left him stranded, floating in the unknown, lost and confused as to where he was to go. He made him go mad and ruin his life by himself. 

Sherlock had to fix it for him. 

When he knocks on the flat door, he feels scared. When he hears footsteps creak as they near the door, he feels dread pool his insides and when the door finally opens, everything just sort of stops. The world, the air, the universe, themselves. It all stops, leaving one thing thundering away in John's chest. 

"John." Says Sherlock simply, after what felt like a million years. 

"Sh-Sherlock." John whispers. 

Sherlock's eyes land on John's stuff and his eyes fill with understanding. 

"I'm guessing you need somewhere to reside." 

John fiddles with his shirt and doesn't look up. He feels tired and used up and so so alone. He just needed to sit down for a minute, clear things up and just rest. His whole chest was constricting and if he didnt hide soon, Sherlock would see the tears that were threatening to burst out. 

"Come in." Sherlock moves away from the door, allowing John in. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

This time when John wakes, wrapped up in white salty sea water smelling sheets he doesn't confuse Sherlock's couch for the bed of his house. It's probably because of the tell-tale smell of nag champa that lingers in the air, or it's just that he doesn't sleep on a couch or that he knows the flat by now and wasn't drunk the night before.

He wishes he had got wasted and makes a mental note to keep that in mind for tonight.

John doesn't get out of the warm bundle of sheets and Native American print quilts until his phone vibrates on the glass counter, and although he doesn't really need to get up, because he doesn't need to compete for time with his sister and make the morning meal, he still does it out of custom. Besides he was far from home in a place he wasn't exactly comfortable in, and still doesn't know why the fuck he came here, so he might as well do what he was used to and was closest to home.

He doesn't shower because he still doesn't know where Sherlock has everything and can't really tell shit from shit from the way Sherlock has kept the place like a total hell hole. But maybe not showering was a good idea, because after tidying up the place he'd most likely be sweating a bit. Yes, yes, he knew he shouldn't be doing any helping Sherlock after the prick wrecked him but if he was going to survive a minute longer he really needed to at lest have the floor clear.

It wasn't like he was going to vacuum clean it. He just made sure to pick everything up from the floor and place it in what seemed like it's respective place. He would have stopped there but washing the mountain of dishes, wiping off counters, clearing off any piling up of objects, dusting the surfaces and getting rid of the damned rotten animal parts near the chemistry set, seemed to be a really good idea. Especially when it really payed off, getting rid of the moldy smell and leaving the scent of whatever herbs Sherlock seemed to smother the place in.

He stands, feeling satisfied and extremely hungry, by the kitchen counter. He really should wait for

Sherlock. It was only the polite thing to do. It was Sherlock's flat after all. But if Sherlock could ignore all social norms and be a prat to whomever he pleased, so could John.

He scans through Sherlock's cabinets and fridge, finding the most disappointing thing. Apparently Sherlock was a vegetarian. The lack of meat wasn't something John was all too pleased about. And food options get worse when he realizes that Sherlock doesn't really have food, more like hippie natural munchies. Seriously he ate stuff like pollen, oats, kale and god knows what the unpromising herbs he has were.

Not even the tea was descent. Ginger tea or yerba mate tea. It wasn't even store bought packaged but like tea made from the actual ginger. And by the looks of it Sherlock had no sugar or salt in the kitchen. Or milk.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Arrangements had to be made in the kitchen. There was no way he was going to chew on walnuts and chutney. He needed food. Real food soon. But since school was in the way he would have to survive on something from here for now.

Spotting some bread- whole wheat, of course- and spicy cream cheese-Jesus, how even- he makes himself a quick bite to eat. He makes one for Sherlock too just for good measure.

He's halfway through eating when the door to Sherlock's room opens and the pale white skin git struts out looking grumpy and wrapped up in nothing but a white sheet. He stops, scans the room; his eyes flying around to scrutinise every now clean surface.

"Hmph." Is all he says. No thank you nice work good job. Just hmph. Typical Sherlock. Someone cleans his flat and he acts as if it was their duty or something.

"Morning," says John. He swallows down the rest of his bread really wishing it didn't have so many nuts and seeds. He reaches for his glass- he drinks just water this morning. He wasn't going near any of that tea. Even if he would have to stop to buy a coffee to survive.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock snaps.

"Um eating...? Look I made you some." John gestures at the plate near the rear end of the table. Sherlock takes a look at it and scrunches up his face.

"I don't eat that for breakfast," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He then proceeds to go over to the shelves and pulls out a jar of pollen and honey.

"Right, honey and pollen. I was supposed to know this."

Sherlock stops in mid spooning and stares at John carefully.

"You are upse.t"

"Well I only cleaned your flat and made you breakfast, but forget it. It doesn't matter, right?" He snaps. He shouldn't be upset. He was the one who decided to come here in first place. It wasn't like he expected Sherlock to be all kissey huggey with him. But it couldn't hurt to at least be polite.

It wasn't like he treated me like a little shit that night.

"John I-

"No, no, forget it," says John dismissively. He picks his plate and glass off the table and dumps them lightly in the sink. He had no intention of washing them though. Sherlock could take care of these. John had already rid the whole mountain of them.

He wipes his hands on one of the patterned dish towels and turns to Sherlock, who surprisingly was nibbling on the bread with a reluctant look on his face.

"Oh um..."

"Thank you... For that stuff you did," Sherlock says stiffly and John smiles because he's pretty sure this is some sort of breakthrough.

"You should be, and where's the shower or you're one of those that doesn't shower?"

"It's that way."

When Sherlock gestures toward the bathroom door, John is relieved. He really wasn't into to not showering. His body needed the nice bubbling soap scrubs and softening shampoo for his hair. Or else he'd end up looking like a street walker and have all kinds dead cells clogging up his pores. And that wasn't really the image his scholarship was into.

The bathroom, smells strongly of incense. It's a pretty bathroom, different from stark white simple ones John was used to. Instead of anchor wall paper and clean shiny surfaces this one has ceramic tiles, an open window where plants grow and an alter with a Buddha statue, incense and crystals. There's hanging bead curtains and some paintings on the wall. John is instantly captivated by them and admires them appreciatively. One's a Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club, two are nature scenes of vast fields in the summer and there's a multicolored peace sign.

Hippie, much?

While he showers he has to use Sherlock's patchouli smelling soap and coconut vanilla shampoo, because he didn't have time to pack his own or buy any yet. The act of using Sherlock's scents felt a lot more intimate than it should have and the idea that he would be smelling like Sherlock all day kinda excited him.

When he's done and dry, he runs his hands through his hair to comb it. He never used a real comb, it made him look like a slicked up prat. And brought back memories of eight grade when he still let his mom comb his hair and he got made fun of for having loser hair.

He dresses in his usual attire and steps out of the shower so Sherlock can take his turn but finds him already dressed. He wears jeans-rolled up at the ankles, a big loose green sweater and a multicolour scarf that contrasted brightly against his pale skin and raven hair. Which is messy as always.

"I don't shower in the mornings," Sherlock says simply.

"Oh. Okay"

"Ready?"

"Yeah, yeah." John grabs his back pack.

"Okay."

Sherlock grabs a satchel that has all sorts of things stitched onto it and a pair of sun glasses, which he slips on. The things are round framed and bug eye reflective. On anyone else they would have looked ridiculous but on Sherlock they were actually sort of attractive. Not that John was looking or anything.

Sherlock's car isn't anything impressive, as expected. A small Honda Civic that smelled old and like a mix of Indonesian tea leaves, pot, sex and old books. With a hint of mold. The whole vehicle is tacky and on its way to falling apart in about two more years. Or less if Sherlock doesn't clean it. Something John doesn't see happening.

"Um nice ride," John comments when the drive is too silent.

His attempt to conversation is useless when Sherlock recognizes his comment is small talk which he knew because John most certainly didn't think it was a nice ride. The grimace on his face being proof. And Sherlock proceeds to turning on the ipod he had somehow conected to the car's sound system.

None of the music is recognizeable or close to the music John listens to. And it wasn't like John was a big music listener. But Sherlock's stuff was unheard off and so indie. Mostly folk stuff or psychedelic rock.

The soft flow of the music makes John feel dreamy. Not in a sleepy way. Just dreamy. He abandons his attempts of conversation and allows himself to do something he hadn't done in a long time; let go. He let go of most of all the little strings that restrained him from just relaxing. He held onto a few, there was still things he needed to be on top of. But for the first time in a long time he was able to just gaze out the window and remain in a slow thoughtful haze.

In his tranquilly his head slips into the memory of that night. Of the night. The night when they had both laid in the grass, John wanting Sherlock to kiss him and when he finally did it was like the world had stopped. But then Sherlock had shattered it and now they were two strangers again.

John sighs and looks away from the window. He feels someone's gaze on him and on instinct turns to look. It's Sherlock's blue gaze, obviously. But Sherlock is looking at him in a way that wasn't the usual Sherlock scowl but something else. Something soft. And it's like he can read John's mind, he knows what he was thinking about.

John thanks whatever bid him momentary good luck that they reached the college parking lot, because he felt foolish and stupid just thinking about it. And Sherlock knew he was thinking of it. He must be thinking how much of an idiot John was to still be caught up with that memory.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He wasn't supposed to think about that. Not now, not ever.

"Catch you later," Sherlock says slowly. He doesn't bother waving or anything and heads in the direction of his side of campus.

"Yeah later..." John whispers faintly even though Sherlock is gone.

He sighs and begins to walk towards the medical practice classrooms. But then he catches a glimpse of red and white. Dread pools up slightly in his stomach. He couldn't really see where the colour was coming from, a gang of goths had clashed with him and he was momentarily being smothered by them, which of course they didn't notice because of his size.

He was pretty sure and hoped that his sure assumptions were incorect, that those colours had come from someone wearing a lacrosse team jersey. If it was someone on the team he was screwed. They would have seen him get out of the car with Sherlock and surely, with Sherlock's open sexuality they would begin to assume things.

* * * * *

The whole day goes smoothly. The usual university jazz. He talks to his friends, puts all effort in classes and jokes around a bit in his free time. Everyone seems a tad bit surprised that John just suddenly broke out of the dead depressive attitude and went back to being the usual bright John. He even gets a few 'welcome backs.'

But he's not really back though is he? He doesn't have a home, doesn't have his family.

John is thankful that Harry is still in high school. He had entered an alternate state of reality with his current family dilemma. The more he pretended it was just a small holiday away from home, the more he believed it. But if he saw any of the two of them he would fall right back in that grey haze he had been in for three weeks.

It may sound like a little but John never experienced things like those. He was cool, he was popular and he knew what he was doing. Until he meet Sherlock and it all sort of turned around. So yeah, being severely depressed for three weeks was like three years to John. And if he just managed staying in the illusion haze he would be fine. But he needed lots of alcohol tonight if he wanted that haze to stat accurate. Because night time was dangerous. When he was sleepy, thoughts tended to penetrate.

"I saw you with one of the hippies today," someone sneers behind John.

John sighs. So he had been seen. Perfect. And by the last person he wanted it to be.

He puts his jersey gently in his locker, treating it like a treasure. Which it was. It meant he was on the team. And being on the team meant having a scholarship and being here.

"What do you want Anderson?" Says John turning to look at him with a glare to let him know he didn't have time for his crap. John was co-captain after all. And he'd been the one to score them into championship.

"Oh nothing, just saw you getting out of the car with one of the freaks." Anderson says smirking. At the word freaks Stamford and Anderson's girlfriend Sally snicker.
"So?" John really doesn't want to deal with this right now.

"You two shagging? Is he your little cockslut-"

Before Anderson could finish his sentence, John had grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him against the lockers. Something that used to be done to him a lot in middle school but now with all the body strength he gained with lacrosse he was able to do. Except that John wasn't like the dicks who went around knocking kids around and shoving them in lockers. He only used it when little shits like Anderson tried to push buttons.

"Cool off Watson, it's not like you can hit me again. We don't want another trip to the dean's office now do we?"

John seethes but Anderson is right. Anderson had been the one that John punched a few days ago and landed him with an ultimatum. If he layed a hand on someone again, especially in such a short lapse of time, he could kiss his scholarship goodbye. That was something he really didn't want happening.

"Piss off!" He hisses letting go of the prat.

"You'd like that now wouldn't you? Now that you've became a fag. Shame though, you were good on the team," Anderson says sauntering away, a sneer plastered on his seedy face. The phrase sounded like simple hate but John understood the real meaning. It was a threat. Anderson would tell the rest of the team and they weren't the biggest LGBT supporters.

However John didn't like blokes. He was straight. And he wasn't about to turn gay, especially not for Sherlock. He was worried. He couldn't have the team thinking that about him. He wasn't gay for fuck's sake. It was Sherlock who had done it, bewitched him or something so that three weeks ago he had been kinda gay with him. It wasn't real. He was just stressed. He wanted to win the bet. That was all.

He really couldn't have everyone thinking false things. In fact today he would go get wasted and have a shag.

Getting into Sherlock's car had to be more inconspicuous this time. Luckily Sherlock would be lagging behind, after school hours for some classical violin playing. This gave John an opportunity to stay far from the car while the med students all flooded the parking lot to get in their cars. Once they were gone he calmly walked over to the old thing and leaned against it, pulled out a pack of gum and popped one of the bubblegum chewy things into his mouth.

It didn't take too long for Sherlock to arrive. When John looks up to see a slender figure walking towards him, his stomach does a little back flip thing but it was nothing. He was surprised that was all.

"Oh," Sherlock says when he sees John. There's a look of surprise on his face. "You're still here"

The comment hurts more than it should but John shrugs it off. He doesn't say anything to Sherlock either. He just gets in the car when it's unlocked and remains silent.

Sherlock has to put his violin case in the trunk so it takes him a while to get in. When he does, he doesn't just drive off. He slips his sunglasses back on, as ridiculous as they were, and fumbles for something in his pocket. He pulls out what appears to be a freshly made joint, and places it in between his lips.

At that point John should've looked away, but there was something fascinating about how Sherlock looked. The fading sun, deep and yellow, falling on his creamy white skin, but not managing to cover all because of the shadows from the car, so it ends up looking like he has this golden glow hovering at his skin. His brows are gently furrowed in concentration as he tries to light the joint with a crappy lighter. His curls are tousled and falling gently into his face, the white skin of his neck exposed like a tainting preview of what else is to come if the rest of his clothes are peeled off.

"I'm definitely going out tonight," John says more to himself than Sherlock in a matter of factly tone. He was going out, he was getting drunk and he was going to shag a girl.

* * * * * * *

John arranges to go out with some of the guys from the team. They go to their usual club. One called Glow. The place is dark as always, with shattered white and blue lights that scatter across the room in abstract patterns. Everyone is dancing tightly together, hot air spices the atmosphere, drinks of all sorts are passed around.

Some of his teammates have already gone onto the dance floor or have girls in a more private spot. If John wanted to prove he was straight he should be up to the same thing. That's why he came here, to get Sherlock completely out of his system and show the team he was straight before Anderson fucked it up. Besides he was straight he should do it, for his own enjoyment.

As soon as he joins the tightly moving knot of dancing young adults, he finds some girls that show interest in him. It wasn't even that hard. All he had to do was damce with them. John didn´t go out much anymore, but from what he remembered there was usually more chatting up involved.

He pays closer attention to the girls he dances with. Which is more attractive? Which looks like she'll be best in bed? Which has nicer tits?

He finds one that's particularly attractive. The girl has long dark hair and bright blue eyes. She wears a nice black dress that shows off her slender body. Interest blooms and soon John takes her, walking past his team mates, to a darker room.

Everything is going fine; she's straddling him, her nicely shaped breasts spill out of her dress and right into his hands and her hair, it's soft and silky at the touch. But then she leans in for a kiss and John opens his eyes to look into her own. Which are intent and a shade away from being baby blue. Then it's not the girl- Chloe, was it?- who's kissing him and touching him. It's not her feeble hands that are running under his shirt or her lips that suck at his neck.

It's Sherlock's.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

It takes a week for John to really get incorporated into living with Sherlock. The first half of the week, he's in denial and he continues to sleep on the couch. He also keeps his things unpacked. But by the middle of it, he slowly moves his stuff from the boxes to the spare bedroom. Then he moves himself there too. And by the end of the week he's agreed to pay half of the rent, and it's official that he's moved in.

They didn't see each other much. Sherlock was always busy with stuff; whether it was yoga or painting or violin or hippie groups or jewellery selling, there was always something he had to do. John was busy too; lacrosse season was in and they had to train hard if they wanted to make it to this year's championship. He also was expected to go to all sorts of social events. And all the electives he'd chosen were pains in the arse as well.

They were nearing midterm vacations and it was like professors felt obligated to fill the students agendas and to do lists to the maximum before it was vacation and they were free. The promise of vacation was really the only thing that kept the students from going insane in these times. If they could just make it through those last days everything would be fine.

John never really had cracked under the pressure. He was used to balancing weights. He was good at handling situations, keeping up with responsabilities and charming his way through social obligations. He would be fine. Plus he didn't really have any plans for the summer. His only anticipations were sleeping and eating and not moving. And to John those weren't all that exciting. He liked having something to do.

"Hey John!" A voice says cheerfully behind him as he walks down the open corridor to his next class. John stops walking and turns to see Molly hurrying over to catch up with him. The familiar face is comforting and John smiles brightly when she reaches him.

Molly looks different though, happier, more confident.

She wears her long hair in a braid, the feathers poking out of the folds. She's dressed in flower print pants and a blue tshirt that says Gaia, whatever that means. Her wrists have a lot of bead and string bracelets on them. Probably made by her. Or one of the other hippies.

"Hey Molly,¨ John says. He's happy to see her, with everything going on he hadn't bumped into her much.

"Hi! Oh my gosh. Gee! It's been so long! How's everything, with Sherlock and all?" Molly lowers her voice a bit in the last part and keeps a concerned stare on him.

John doesn't really know how to answer. He's been living with Sherlock for a week, and they hadn't really seen each other much. When they did it was awkward stares that lasted seconds and lingering words unsaid. They only talked a bit in the car rides, but it was usually just John feeling like he was being suffocated and trying to deny the tension that tightened the air.

"Oh fine you know," He says nonchalantly.

"Good! Because you are both invited to spend time with us this summer, we're going to do a small sort of road trip thing!" Molly says beaming excitedly.

"Road trip?" John asks confused.

"It'll just be a couple of friends and a few days, but we'll drive around a bit and stop along the way. It'll be loads of fun!"

The idea sounds nice, he supposes. He's probably going to feel left out and all. But it wasn't like he could join his family for their usual summer activities. And he doesn't really want to do the whole party drunk and sleep with lots of girls, that his friends would be doing. So why not?

"Hello, Molly." A court voice says suddenly. John is caught off guard when Sherlock seems to materialise out of nowhere beside him.

"Sherlock!" Molly says happily. "So you two will be going right? I can save your seats?"

"Of course you can, what time are we meeting up?" Sherlock asks.

John just sort of blinks at Sherlock. Sherlock was being normal. He was talking to her like one would with any other person. No obnoxious remarks or anything. And Sherlock seemed genuinely interested. Even if he did have to spend the whole road trip thing with John.

"Pretty early, to get a head start and all. I'd say at around nine o'clock," Molly says. She twists slightly, reaching to grab her patchwork bag. She fumbles through it for a while then pulls out a piece of paper which she hands to Sherlock.

John had expected Sherlock to crumple it up and discretely, or not discretely, and toss it. But to his surprise Sherlock actually puts it in the pocket of his pants.

"That's the details, but you know where to find us right? The usual spot."

Sherlock smiles. "Yes, I know the place."

"Okay, well I'll see you two there this weekend," Molly says cheerfully. She waves at them both, winking at John then gesturing at Sherlock when he wasn't looking, which was weird. She then skips off towards a skinny pale bloke dressed in a grey shirt and trousers that hung low showing the brim of green briefs.

When John looks over to where Sherlock had once been standing, he's gone.

* * * * * * *

After classes John has at least five assignments to hand in by the end of the week before vacation starts. It's mostly information that can only be required from medical textbooks, and he has to take a trip to the library.

He takes the shortcut through the art freak's campus again. He doesn't look for Sherlock though. Well actually, he does. But only when they pass the painting studios.

He squints and tilts his head to the side to peak and see if he can find Sherlock. But it's only to see if he's going to be staying late or not, not because he was genuinely curious or anything. He was just making sure. They were flat mates, he could check on Sherlock without it being gay. Right?

He doesn't exactly see Sherlock. Which was strangely disappointing but the lights were on and he could see lots of people in there. Which meant that Sherlock ought to be there too.

John continues to take the path that would lead him to the library, in a sort of surreal state in which he's there but he feels dreamy and lost in his head. He doesn't really pay much attention to what's going on around him, though there really wasn't anything to pay attention to. Just trees being blown by the wind and leaves scattering across the concrete pathway.

He kicks a few leaves aside when they accidentally latch onto the laces of his shoes and enters the library. This time he knows where to find the textbooks and heads straight for them.

John was quick to find the books and quick to walk out of the library. He hurries down the sidewalk, really hoping he hadn't missed the bus. He wasn't going to go back to the flat with Sherlock this time, he didn't have time to wait for him to finish painting and he wanted to go to Starbucks and get some coffee and study there.

The bus is there when he reaches the stop and he has to half run to catch it. The ride is dull. They drive past identical looking houses and lampposts, and his legs hurt from the weight of the textbooks. But it doesn't last long for the bus to arrive town.

By the time it does the sun has already gone down and the sky was a mix of indigo and blue. All the town's lights have been turned on and it's like he's trapped in a velvet blue bubble that sparkles with golden beams of light. There's lots of people, all wearing coats and scarfs and talking excitedly. Most were couples, all walking in hand and hand, looking like they were having the time of their life even though it was just a walk.

And John for some ridiculous seconds thinks of the night he had taken Sherlock to his spot in the city and how badly he'd wanted to interlace his fingers with the silky long white ones that belonged to Sherlock. But he quickly shakes it off.

As he makes his way to Starbucks, which wasn't far off. He looks over his shoulder. It's nothing. Just a simple look. He did it on impulse, he wasn't even looking for anything in particular.

But as he looks, in the three or so seconds he sees something from the corner of his eyes that he recognizes. It starts with the colours. A mix of pink and purple. And as he does a double take it turns into a shirt- a jumper actually.

He knows that jumper. Pink with a purple H on it. It was Harry's sweater. Gran had made it for her, she always made sweaters for them. She'd specially made that one with the H because Harry happens to love Harry Potter- well actually the mischievous twins in it and apparently they wore sweaters like that.

John turns completely so he's facing that direction. He can see her, Harry. She walks in his direction, a phone held to the side of her head, a bag around her wrist. She has her head tilt back as she laughs at something someone on the other end of the line says.

John's heart picks up. It's Harry. It's really her.

"Harry! Harry!" He begins to call out. At first she doesn't hear him. She's busy talking. She laughs some more and begins to turn in the other direction. John picks up his pace and hurries over.

"Harry! Harriet!" He calls as she almost turns in the other direction. But she hears her name being called, she stops, she looks around and her eyes go wide when they land on John.

"John?" She drops the hand with the phone from her ear and squints at him, as if making sure it was real.

"Harry!" John says smiling. They are about a meter away and he stalks over, shoes crunching on the bits of rocks on the sidewalk. He doesn't care that she didn't defend him when his mother kicked him out, that she didn't bother to call. He was too happy to finally see something that was familiar and not unexpected or baffling as life with Sherlock appeared to be.

"Harry! So good to see you! God, I've missed you." John says pulling her into a hug despite everything. At first Harry stiffens but she then relaxes and hugs him back.

"I thought you'd hate me," She says softly with a chuckle when they let go.

"No! Why would I?"

"After everything that happened I didn't call you to even make sure you were alright." She looks down at her feet guiltily as she says this.

"It doesn't matter. Besides, I know you asked around if I was sleeping on the streets or not. If I was you would have smuggled me back."

Harry laughs at his attempt to be funny but her eyes show that what he had said was absolutely true. He and Harry had always got along well. From when they were children running around in the winter snow, red scarfs trailing behind as they ran from the snow balls they threw at each other, to the teenage years when he helped her buy blue hair dye even though he knew they'd both be dead when mother saw her hair, to now.

"So where are you staying?" Harry asks. She readjusts her bag and shifts from feet to feet. A sign that she was tired of standing.

"Oh, um.." John blushes just the tiniest bit and looks away from Harry. He feels ridiculous. Ridiculous because he can't say it aloud and ridiculous because he was feeling ridiculous about it.

"You know..." He says slowly.

Harry's eyes widen and she smirks. "Is it that girl? The one that you had been going out on all those dates with?"

John quickly looks up from his shoes. He'd forgotten Harry still thought that all those times he'd been going on bet 'dates' with Sherlock, he was on a date with some girl he fancied. That could get awkward when he has to explain it. He isn't sure if he wants to laugh or die.

"Sort of," He says not wanting to really go deep into it yet.

"Sort of? What would you mean by-?" Harry begins to ask but her cellphone goes off and it's mum asking why she's late and threatening to not let her go to some high school dance if she doesn't make it back in thirty minutes. So John has to say goodbye and gets her to promise to call as many times as she can.

Once Harry is lost to the crowd of Londoners, John heads to Starbucks

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine 

It's Friday night. The fist Friday of midterms and John sits lazily on the couch staring idly into space and sighing, while all his friends were probably out somewhere getting drunk and vandalizing a club. He doesn't really mind it though. He might've before. But now it was all pretty trivial to him. He didn't exactly see the point in going out and getting drunk until rainbows blurred before your eyes. 

He was alone in the flat. Sherlock had long gone off with a few of his friends to some art gallery opening. It happened just as John had returned to the flat from school feeling tired and deflated. He was going to come home and collapse on the couch the minute he entered but instead he found Sherlock brewing drinks in his chemistry set and singing some nonsense with his hipster friends. John had merely said a polite 'Hello' that was ignored by everyone and shut himself in his room until the flat was suddenly too quiet. When he came out Sherlock and artists were gone, only a mess of chemistry set items and spilled liquids left behind. 

Which John of course cleaned up. He felt kind of hurt though. But only a little bit. Sherlock could've at least greeted him or told him he was going out. 

But it didn't matter anyway. It wasn't necessary. 

John picks up his empty tea cup, the china feeling soft and desolate in his fingers and places it softly in the sink. He doesn't wash it, he already did enough of that cleaning up Sherlock's mess. He goes over to the window that faces the city streets and leans against it. His forehead and the tip of his nose press to the clammy transparent glass and his skin instantly cools. Feeling a curiosity for touch, he brings his palm up to the glass and presses his fingertips. Once they become cold he pulls them away and examines the swirling orbs they leave behind. 

When he moves his focus from the  fingerprints and to the show of lights behind them he immediately sees white and blue. The white is the constant flow of headlights. All flashy and bright like a spotlight. But the blue is from the aquamarine pool in their neighbors yard. He is instantly intrigued by it and his eyes glue to water. He watches it lapse against the ceramic in shimmery small waves. And the little streaks of green light that shiver and wiggle in its depths. 

The blue reminds him of Sherlock's eyes. Of the baby blues that had been the first thing to capture his attention when he'd met Sherlock. Those eyes, those blue unforgiving pools of deep intensity were always the source of John's problems. They were always there in his head. 

"Aren't you going out with your friends? It's Friday night after all." A voice says behind him. 

John detaches himself from the window and turns to face the source. And even though he knew that voice, he was still sort of surprised to see Sherlock. 

Sherlock just stands there; dressed in slightly ripped jeans, a grey t-shirt and blue button down, watching John carefully. His blue eyes are fogged by the barrier that keeps John from guessing what hides in them. 

"I just decided to stay home. I was tired." John says sighing. He yawns and rubs his eyes for effect. 

Sherlock though, doesn't seem to buy it. He smirks and walks over to the counter near the window where John stands. He bends down pulls out a bottle of liquor and two cups. 

John looks at the cup and liquor decisively. He wasn't stupid. He knew what liquor could do to you. And he knew how he ended up last time he and Sherlock got drunk. 

The problem was, should he swallow the poisonous silvery liquid and risk it all? Or say no and flee while he can?

"Drink?" Sherlock asks holding out a cup. 

John squints at it. His stomach fluttering and mind twisting. He was back on that edge. The edge he had been on the day he was about to shake Sherlock's hand to start the bet. And just like last time the thrill of falling tempts him into agreeing. 

"Yeah sure." 

The glass lands in his hands and he swallows. He downs it all in one go and blinks when the liquor burns his throat with a minty after taste. 

"I didn't know you enjoyed Vodka, aren't you more the beer type?" Sherlock asks. He holds his glass in his hand, the cup still half full. Or half empty. Depending on what philosophy you choose. 

"I've had my moments." John admits with the memories of his partying times afresh in his head. He cringes and vows never to go out with the team like that again unless they've won something. 

"Well that's good, because we've got to empty this bottle." 

John looks at the bottle in Sherlock's hands and sort of curses himself because he really doesn't want to end up like last time; doing something stupid that will only leave him broken. 

"Oh brilliant I can't wait." 

              
They end up dancing in the middle of the kitchen to the blues that come on at midnight on the radio. The song sounds like something you'd hear in a movie. One of those classic-like songs that the minute you hear it you know you've heard it before. Romantic almost melancholic lyrics spill out of the speakers, accompanied by the chords of a guitar, as John and Sherlock gaze up at each other with sheepish grins and flushed cheeks. 

You and me,
You and me,
Nobody baby but you and me. (Hey, hey, hey)
You and me, (My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my)
You and me,
Nobody baby but you and me

They sway slowly together, fingers laced together and John's head falling to lean gently on Sherlock's chest. It's warm and firm and he can hear the consistent beat of his heart tapping away. 

If you love a soul more than fame and gold, and that soul feels the same about you,
It’s a natural fact, there’s no turning back, and here’s some advice to you
You’ve got to say it’s; 
you and me'

 For some reason, he'd expected there to be nothing. Just a warm chest and an empty hollow sound. But hearing the increasing pitter-patter thumping of Sherlock's heart was comforting. It meant Sherlock was real. That he was only human too. 

When love is real 
you don't have to show it 
When it is true 
Then everyone will know 
Cause there’ll be no one but you and me

The music begins to slow until it finally comes to an end, but the two remain joined together, just sort of standing there, looking like a pair of lovers. 

It should've felt uncomfortable and very weird. Sherlock was a guy after all and this wasn't really how guys hung out. And not to mention that John couldn't stand Sherlock.  But John finds himself wishing for the song to come on again, so they could start all over and do it again. 

"It's really lonely without the music." Sherlock whispers right into his ear, sending little sparks under his skin.

"I know, I could sing if you like?" John whispers back with a yawn. His body feels tired and limp, like he might collapse any second. He grips onto Sherlock harder and snuggles up against him. It was nice and warm and smelled strongly of patchouli. He could just go to sleep right there. 

"I'd love to hear it one day, but not tonight. You should really get some sleep." Sherlock's fingers find John's waist. He places them right onto his hip bones and tries to get John to stand properly on his own. John only groans in protest and snuggles back into the warm patchouli. 

"Come on, John." 

"Mph! Only if you carry me..." 

Sherlock sighs but netherless he listens. He wraps his arms securely around John's little body and lifts him up. It takes a bit of shuffling and rearranging before Sherlock can actually carry him, but he manages and soon John is being carefully tucked in. Slender fingers pull a fuzzy blanket up on him and fuss around with covering all the right spots but then they disappear and the heavy spot on the bed is gone. 

John's eye lids feel extremely heavy but he lifts them anyway and turns his head towards the doorway. 

John has to admit that Sherlock looks extremely attractive just standing there in the semi lit doorway. The light from the window behind him casting that golden glow that hovers just above his skin making him look like something from another world or dimension. His face is veiled by the dark shadows that cut across his skin. And even though he looks like a painting or a portrait with the way white and black dominate over his features, John can still see the glow of baby blue that comes from his eyes. But this time they are different. They aren't cold or masked by a wall but warm and just a little bit sad. 

"Stay?" John asks softly. 

"Get some sleep John." Sherlock replies. 

"Only if you stay." He insists. 

"No, John. Go to sleep."

"Please...?" His hand slips out from beneath the covers. He angles it towards Sherlock, his palm and fingers spread open as if he were trying to grab him. 

Sherlock slumps away from the doorframe. For a second it looks as if he were about to leave, but he walks across the room and hesitantly to the bed. He stands there, looking down at John, his eyes asking for permission. Which John grants by scooting over and pulling down the covers. 

The two lay side by side, arms brushing, looking up towards the ceiling. John's eyes closed, but he's not really asleep yet. Sherlock's wide and open. They don't speak, not because it's awkward but because silence is everything. 

Even in his sleepy haze John's system is on red alert. The world which once had felt so big and vast, now ceased to exist in his head. He felt as if the two of them were desolate, the only two things left in the entire universe. The only thing that seemed to matter was that their fingers had found each others and had laced together. Spreading warmth and starting up circuits of electricity all through John's body. 

"John..?"  Sherlock says sounding much closer than John had expected him to be. When he opens his eyes he finds Sherlock staring fixedly at him with wide questioning eyes. 

"Mmm?" John asks sleepily.

"I shouldn't have walked away" 

On Saturday, John, Sherlock, Molly, her boyfriend Jim; a worker from IT, Henry; an architect major and Shanti; a model friend of theirs, all sit cramped up in vibrantly coloured Volkswagen bus, complaining about the heat and lack of room. 

All windows were open, the tie dye curtains parted, but it didn't do much good in cooling, for the wind was summery hot. It was one of those days when you're out in the country roads and the sun just decides to shine down potently with light and heat.  And there was nothing more that made people cranky than heat. Especially when you were trapped in a small old Volkswagen that was already filled with crates and bags. 

"Why do you get the biggest seat?" Shanti whines with an unhappy pout on her pretty face. 

"Because," Says Jim lazily. "This is my bus" 

"But it's not fair! We should at least take turns." 

"It is fair." 

"It's not." 

"It is." 

The two go on like that most of the ride. Bickering and nagging at each other until it drove Sherlock insane and he threatened to poison them. 

John spends the drive looking out the window. He watches the grayish roads fly by until they start to turn into a one way dirt road and the surroundings go from the bustling city to farmland fields of endless knee high yellow grass and mountains of vibrant green. The skies above are clear and bright blue with a few wispy clouds that looked kind of like cotton candy when you rip it off the stick and are about to stuff the sugary softness in your mouth. They pass a few organic farm stands that earn apreciative comments, long stretching white fences and cows that chew slowly and watch them with dull eyes. 

John had never seen anything like it and was immediately fascinated. He'd spent all his life living in the city, never have been exposed to the beauty of any nature and now that he saw the green growth, the streaks of sunlight peeking out between the grass blades, the open air of the ocean blue skies and the slim tall trees that held soft petals of lilac and pink and leathery green leaves, he understood why artists had to stop and capture the beauty. It was like having gold glittering before you and in your hands you held a glass jar to suck it all in and latch it closed, keeping the treasure and beauty to yourself. 

He does something like that but instead of a jar he uses a camera. He makes sure Sherlock is sound asleep and gingerly grabs the camera on his lap. He presses the small square thing close to his face and snaps away, capturing as much as he could. He wanted to remember that place one day when he's stuck in the dark city and he can't stand his own head anymore. 

John is about to turn and place the camera back where he found it but Sherlock starts moving. Panic strikes him and he freezes. But instead of getting a pissed off awake Sherlock, he feels something curly and warm fall onto his shoulder and when he turns his head his chin bumps lightly with the raven locks of the top of Sherlock's head. 

A shiver runs down his spine and his stomach flutters.

John wonders if he's supposed to move Sherlock away or maybe move his own head. But come to think of it, the position he was in was actually quite comfortable. 

It was a lot more close and feely than he normally would've been comfortable with with any other guy but something about the way their shoulders and arms touched, the silky hair brushed against his chin and neck and their legs just slightly bumping together, sent a comfortable warm feeling to the pit of his stomach. 

So he relaxed and closed his eyes, slowly drifting off into peaceful sleep. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten 

It's dusk when they arrive their first stop. The bus comes to a halt with a trembling rumble that shakes both John and Sherlock and the others from their quiet slumber, right at the entrance of some forest. When John blinks open his eyes, he finds himself still huddled gingerly with Sherlock who is staring right at him, baby blues calculating and wide, with a peculiar look on his face. John doesn't know what to do or say so he just smiles gingerly up at him. And to his surprise Sherlock returns it. 

"All right you love birds, get up from your nest." Molly says with a grin as she scrambles past them. She hops out of the bus and sighs in relief, stretching her arms and wiggling her toes. John notices a silver snake shaped toe ring and smiles. 

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asks. He starts to pull away from John but only rearranges himself so they aren't sprawled uncomfortably. 

"Starving." John admits. His stomach was roaring and clenching up painfully.  He begins to wonder what they will be having for dinner. He doesn't have any high hopes though. Not with what he's seen Sherlock eat. 

"I suppose I should get up so we can go in." Sherlock says slowly and gestures at his head leaning on John's shoulder. 

John looks down, realization to how close they had been hitting him, and blushes. He becomes very aware of the way skin brushes against skin but pretends to be unaffected by it. 

"Right, yes. You do that." 

When Sherlock's body separates from his own he feels cold. And empty. He almost wants to feel the tickling curls and soft skin against his own again. But they don't cuddle back up together. Sherlock shuffles his things around and steps out, John following close behind. 

They are at some forest. Apparently not so many people went camping there, which made John worry that there might be things in there. Poisonous plants and ferocious animals type things. Shanti assures him that she'd stayed there many times on her backpacking trips with her parents and that big foot wasn't hidding in the bushes.

"Can you feel the energy?" Molly says. She walks ahead, hand in hand with Jim. Her free hand is spread out behind her like a wing and her head is thrown back. 

"It's so beautiful." Jim agrees. He too has his head thrown back and arm spread out. 

John didn't exactly see what energy they were talking about. He did see the richness of the forest; here the trees grew much thicker and greener than anywhere he'd ever seen. The barks were brittle and deep brown, the branches slender but sturdy. Everywhere there was small flowers and grasses growing, along with mushrooms and tons of moss. But it wasn't all that eye captivating.  

"You think it's ordinary." Sherlock whispers. He shakes John out of his observing thoughts and gives him a look that meant he agreed that forests were just forests that could have possible health hazards. 

"I mean, it's nice but I don't understand what they mean by all this positive energy blabber." He admits, gesturing to Molly and Shanti who were excitedly talking about the energy levels and what not. To his surprise Sherlock smiles. 

"Sometimes I don't know what they mean either." He admits. 

John is slightly shocked by this. How could Sherlock not know what they meant? He was one of them. This was his lifestyle. 

John has to admit that he kind of liked that Sherlock didn't know what they meant. It made him feel less like an outsider. And it gave him the hope that maybe everyone really wasn't not ever good enough for Sherlock.

Their conversation reaches and end but it feels like they've reached some agreement of some sort. It isn't like before, where he felt self conscious and itching with tension. It was comfortable. Calm. He liked it this way. 

They keep walking through the forest. Until the skies go from the quicksilver of dusk, to the indigo of the night. And the almost full moon rises, casting a dainty white glow on the leathery leaves making it appear as though they walked through a forest of silver. 

"It's beautiful now." John whispers leaning into Sherlock. The smell of patchouli and warmth greet him, tempting him to lean in and snuggle against him as they walk. 

"I came here once on a trip, it was full moon then, sort of like now. But it was prettier, there was so much silvery white." Sherlock tells him. A vague look on his face, like he's remembering it. John, suddenly interested in everything that comes out of the plush lips, listens closely. 

"I had my sketchbook and all my good paints, I went out to this small boulder and began painting. Doing paintings after paintings. I didn't even think, I just let it come to me, because when you think you mess it up. My brother, Mycroft, just wanted to leave, find a motel, but I insisted. I had to paint." Sherlock is smiling at the end. It's a smile John can't read. A secret smile. 

"That's so cool." John says simply, because he really doesn't have any words to answer. Sherlock just told him something personal. Something he thought was special. And John was under the impression that he just may be the first person who this had been done to and he was too giddy with emotion to think. 

They reach a sort of crook in the forest. By crook in the forest he means the part that isn't either a thin trail or thickly intertwined trees and weeds. This crook is a flat circle of green grass. There's footsteps there, an indication that this was the place where the few people that came went camping. 

At the word camping a light bulb that wasn't there a minute ago, seems to turn on in John's head. They didn't have any bloody tents. And the car was way at the other end of the wood. Unless they planned on singing all night to the moon, they had nowhere to sleep. Unless of course, they were going to sleep on the grass. 

Panic is the first emotion he experiences. Then dread. They were going to sleep on the grass. No tent, no bed, no pillows. No protection. Nothing. They were basically nude and sacrificing themselves to the night life of the forest.  

That would not do. That would not do at all. 

"Sherlock?" John pipes up. He taps on Sherlock's back to get his attention because he was busy passing around twigs.

"Yes, John?" 

"Out of mere curiosity, where are we sleeping?" 

Sherlock tosses a few more twigs at Henry, which now with close attention John realises they weren't twigs at all but pretty long sticks. He vaguely makes a mental note to figure out what those are for and continues to concentrate on the problem at hand. 

"Right there." Sherlock says simply. He picks up a crate that seems to have sheets and sarongs in it and carries it over to Molly who is sticking the sticks in the ground with Shanti. The two poke and shove each other playfully before jamming the sticks into the earth. 

"H-here? Like on the grass?" John is beginning to get preoccupied. There was all sorts of little bugs in the grass that had a bad bite and could give him allegies. 

Sherlock stops moving things around for a second and turns to look at John with an admiring smile on his face that clashes with his whole arsehole hippie attitude. The look was certainly not what John had expected and he temporarily forgets about the grass issue for a minute. 

"No, stupid." Sherlock says. Somehow the stupid sounds more like a pet name than an insult. 

"We sleep under this." He lifts a long white sheet from the crate and puts it on the sticks they had stuck. They had managed to put some laying across the ones in the earth so it looked like they made the framing of the outside of a house. Once all the blankets and sarongs had been placed it looked like a little fort. 

It looked cozy. John wanted to go in. But he had to wait for Shanti to finish placing matts and small, satin multifabric pillows and the food crates and their bags in. 

"Oh!" John says once realisation that they would be sleeping in their own little fort reached him. He was delighted about it. He really really wanted to go in. He's always enjoyed forts as a kid and now to go in one again would be quite brilliant. 

"Anyone want to help me with the candles?" Jim asks walking around to the entrance. He holds a little box with small round candles of every colour. 

John is first to jump up and offer himself. When no one else seems particularly eager to go, Jim waves him over and the two crawl in from the open space. Once inside he gets a good look at what they would be sleeping in. After seeing all little mats, blankets and pillows he decides that maybe a tent wasn't so good after all. 

But then something else hit him. 

"Won't we be cold at night?" 

Jim lights a pink candle and places it in one of the special corners for flammable objects. "That's what the campfire is for." 

"Right, campfire." Maybe he should stop underestimating the hipsters.   

 
His previous sentiments on dinner had been correct. It wasn't anything to look forward to. Instead of enjoying nicely fire roasted meat and sugary melted marshmallows, they had ridiculous things like lightly roasted apples, goat cheese on whole wheat bread, cranberries and ginger tea. All of which he only ate due to the mere fact that there was no nearby civilisation and he'd skipped lunch due to sleep. 

Although the food had been a disappointment -even with his low expectations- sitting around the fire with all the hippies turned out to be quite enjoyable. Listening to them talk about the movement of the planets and stars affecting people's behaviours was actually quite soothing. 

After eating they all dumped their rest overs in a corner of the forest, thanking mother earth for her gifts and then they all went back to fire. But this time sprawled down on the grass to watch the stars. 

Molly, was laying on Jim's chest, playing her guitar lightly while he whispered the lyrics gently. Shanti and Henry were near the fire, smoking a joint and laughing at something about Henry's hound getting stuck in a door. And Sherlock. He was just a little ways off, sitting cross legged, staring up at the moon. 

John was going to just sit by the fire. Maybe join in Shanti and Henry's conversation, or just listen. But he saw this as an opportunity. So he heaves himself up, dusts off his shins and knees, and walks over to the semi glowing lean figure. 

When he reaches to stand beside him, Sherlock is already looking at him, a friendly smile playing on his lips. Again, this was odd. Not very Sherlock-like at all. But it was good, it encouraged him to do what he was about to do. 

"Hey." John says, bitting his lip lightly. He suddenly feels extremely nervous and he doesn't even know why. 

"Hey." Sherlock replies just as timidly. 

John opens his mouth to say it. To ask that one little question that he's been itching to know the answer to ever since the night they had slept together in his bed and Sherlock had said just the right thing to leave him pondering what he meant all night. 

But he doesn't dare. It suddenly seemed stupid. 

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asks. 

John curses himself for not having an unreadable face. He'd forgotten that Sherlock can somehow read your deepest thoughts just by looking at your shirt and now he was forced to do it, to ask the haunting question. 

Now Sherlock knew. And anytime soon he would calling John and idiot for asking and would walk away. 

"Um..." John begins. He isn't really sure what to say or do. His whole body feels cold and constricted. And the blue fixated gaze of death that Sherlock was giving him was making his brains go absent. 

"I was um..wondering..." What had you meant by I shouldn't have walked away'?  "If I could go into the fort now?" 

Sherlock's eyes which had been narrowed down to concentration and scruntiny, widen. He looks surprised and maybe just the slightest bit dissapointed. John wasn't really sure, you could never tell with him. He wasn't able to examine some more for in seconds the eyes were flat and empty. 

"Yes. If you'd like to." He says turning away from John and looking up at the sky. 

"Alright then. Goodnight Sherlock." John feels empty. Detached. He stands there, still facing where Sherlock's face had once been. Waiting for something to happen. 

"Goodnight, John." 

He waits. Maybe Sherlock will turn around. Shake the truth out of him. Or just plain tell him what he'd meant. 

But there's only the cold rustle of the wind. And with those final words John heads towards the white little fort, no longer really excited to get in. He should've felt relieved but he felt disappointed and sad. 

"John" Sherlock's voice calling out his name, pierces the veil of silence and raises a small hope. 

John quickly turns around. Eyes flying right to Sherlock. His breath stopping. Was this it? Was Sherlock going to say it? 

"Is that really what you'd wanted to ask me?" 

John might've said yes. In a different time. When he was still his old self. The self that would've never seen beauty in a field of cows or the self that hated anyone or anything that wasn't 'normal'. But now he was something else. And he wanted to be honest. He wanted to be honest so badly. But he was scared. He didn't want to end up alone and lost like last time. 

So he smiles and winks. Leaving Sherlock a mystery to solve on his own. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Sunday morning is another long trip on the road. They wake up at six and the vibrantly painted bus pulls out onto the highway. They keep going straight, pale almost blue skies and grainy gray road etching forever on, following a little yellow line.They pass a lot more than hills and cattle. This time there's a gas stop, fields of crop, small chains of squared simple houses with pastel shutters, orchards of skinny tall trees, signs that indicate different towns. All these blur past in a indie-film-filter-like style, until the sun rises up from its nest in the earth and up to the righteous blue skies were it belongs.

The whole while in the car is a mix of them all huddled up sleeping, nonstop complaining, laughter, singing and even crying when they accidentally hit a small bird.They stop two times. Once so the women could go to the bathroom while the guys all kicked around sticks and stones. Another so they could walk around in the fields and find somewhere to have a picnic by the river. While venturing towards the river they chase and push each other through the fields. Henry had started it all by running up to Jim and smacking him with a proud chorus of "tag! You're it!" After that it all becomes a wild goose chase filled with laughter and the wind blowing by your ears until you can hardly hear anything. John was tagged twice. Once by Shanti the other by Sherlock.

Intending to get revenge; John uses all the strength he got from lacrosse and rushes after the git, catching momentum and speeding off. Everyone else runs away from him like scattering hens but it doesn't matter if they are near him or not. He has his goal set on Sherlock and Sherlock he runs after. Sherlock starts to tire. He wasn't as strong as John. And soon he starts to fumble and slow. John doesn't really notice, being used to all his team mates having a strong stamina. When Sherlock suddenly stops, John slams into him, both falling for the ground. Somewhere in the back of his head he remembers Sherlock's bony slender body. He twists and does his best in shoving Sherlock to the other direction. John falls first, being used to heavy muscular guys crushing down on him, and Sherlock topples over on top of him.

The position they fall in was in no way modest. Their foreheads pressed together, lips almost brushing slightly and bodies molding closely together. He can feel the warmth of Sherlock's firm abdomen against his own, the raven curls tickling his cheeks and their groins-

"Um.. I.. Uh.. Maybe we should..." John stammers, feeling his face flush with heat.

"Right..." Sherlock says looking just as embarrassed.

With groans, that only made John blush even more, he lifts himself up.

"Oh look, the river is just right there!" Molly says pointing to the left and steering all the snickering faces from the brightly red John.

After having eaten and hanging around a while more the drive continues. They drive until dusk. Not stopping until they reach a small sea town.

This time it's Sherlock's turn to drive, so John sits with Henry. He learns a few things about him. Like how he used to have mental problems, and was put into therapy for years. But apparently he chose to leave that life and healed himself with inner discovery. Besides his odd talking of self-healing, he was quite nice. He liked dogs, especially his hound and went skiing every winter.

The sea town is quite small. All rows of almost identical brick houses. A few postage stores, a supermarket, pubs and kiosks selling things like ginger bear and manuscripts, here and there. Even in its simplicity it was still sort of pretty. The hippies certainly seemed to agree, they had taken their cameras out and had divided themselves around the town. Even Sherlock had. John was left all alone.

He didn't possess a camera or anything that could be of use at all, so he walks around looking for some sort of entertainment. He drifts past a few kiosks, observing all the little objects for sale. He buys a couple of things; seashell earrings for Harry, a blue stone that caught his attention and a drawing of the sea for the flat back in London. He pays and leaves the last kiosk. Heading towards the silver blue waters at the beach, he spots a sea wall. It reminds him of the one back home, the one at his spot. He goes over to it and heaves himself up.

John sits at the edge of the sea wall, his feet dipping into the freezing waters. He keeps his eyes cast low, hypnotized by the way the waters ripple and the paleness of his legs against the deep blue sea. Or maybe it's just the blue. The way it's not just one shade, but a bunch of different pigments of blue that seem to form one whole. A deep blue that goes down endlessly, catching everything in its way. Even John. He was tangled up in blue.

Tangled up in Sherlock's blue.

"Funny isn't it? We meet again at a seawall." A voice behind him says.

John turns to find Sherlock standing just behind him, hands in his faux wool black coat, his face serious in a way that suggested there really wasn't anything funny about it. At least not now. Maybe if they met again in the future sometime.

"May I join you?" Sherlock asks.

Before John can answer Sherlock is already scrambling up and perching himself beside John. Their elbows and shoulders brush lightly. Sherlock is sitting much closer than one normally would with someone. John's head begins to fill with water, slowing down his perception and reasoning, leaving him in a state where he probably wouldn't be able to name the colour of the sky.

They just sit there. Not uttering a word. The water rippled and sloshed, making little sounds that resemble the light playing of the softest piano keys. The sky is all quicksilver. Somewhere in the distance, the outlines of black birds take flight. Everything looks calm and slow on the outside.

But John's insides feel like they've been squished tightly together and he might soon explode. The silence was awkward and uncomfortable. He didn't like it. He wished Sherlock would say something. Anything. Even his snarky remarks. Just something to get him talking.

Sherlock looks impassive and lost in his own head. The probabilities of him uttering words seemed rather small. John could say something, start a conversation. But he was a loss for words. Unless...

Plucking up the last bits of courage that he had left, he swallows and turns to Sherlock slowly. His insides freezing up in the process.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

John almost doesn't say anything.

"What had you meant that night? About not having walked away?"

Sherlock's hand stops taping his knee. His whole figure seems to stop in time and space altogether.

"You don't have to answer that if you-

"John," Sherlock is looking at him now. Baby blue, streetlight bright eyes fixed on him like anchors. The gaze is too intent and John blinks down in embarrassment. He keeps looking back up to find them still there. "I...um.." It's Sherlock's turn to look embarrassed. His skin gets pink and he looks flustered. John now keeps his eyes glued to the blue ones. His ears alert and heart pounding as he waits.

"I said that because, it's true I shouldn't have walked away. I should've stayed, you were right. Everything you'd said, but I was... I couldn't do it.. I-I was.." He's visibly shaking now and the eyes; the blue cold things John could never read finally held a form of emotion. They were wide and afraid and alone and vulnerable. But most of all they were John's. He could see the message in the eyes;  It's you, it's you. It's all for you.

He doesn't remember who started it. Their faces are pressed closely together before he could snap out of the haze and reason. At first it's all shy and slow. Their lips don't actually touch, just brush against each other in a rather slow and almost reluctant way. Yet still, just having Sherlock's face right there. In a position that was most famously known for kissing, made his head dizzy and stomach flutter.

Their lips seem to find themselves on their own. And it's all fireworks. The air and everything around them is on fire, sizzling with electricity. But it's not just sparks and heat. Softer than satin were his lips, cold and creamy was his skin and when they scoot closer into each others arms, waves of affection and something that felt like being whole, spread within him.

They pull away gasping. Eyes still locked on each other and lips curved into small smiles. Then Sherlock starts chuckling. It gets louder and louder until he is laughing. He looks happy. Really happy. John has seen him look bright. But never really happy.

He feels it too. At first it's small. Tingling sensations crawling up in his insides. They get stronger and stronger until they reach his heart. That's where it's strongest. And soon he's laughing along with him, because come to think of it, it was kind of funny. He just wishes he had asked Sherlock sooner.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Laughter and giggles fill the air. Trees sway in the light wind. The sun sparkles and twinkles through the cracks in the branches. Gravel crunches below the soles of shoes. It's a lovely day, but they are too busy with each other to notice.

John feels something push him away. The hand that shoves him tickled his sides and he giggles while stumbling. Regaining his balance, he trots back over to Sherlock and shoves him back. Sherlock's eyes widen momentarily as he staggers sideways. Soon he's grinning and reaching out to grab John's arm. John bats his hand away and struggles against the grip, laughing as he does so. Sherlock only persists, pulling him close as John tries to wiggle away. He nearly succeeds but Sherlock pulls him towards himself and John ends up pressed snugly in his chest.

"Gotcha." Sherlock says grinning down at him.

"Not fair!" John complains. He wiggles a bit but Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around his waist.

"I'll always catch you, John." Sherlock says smiling smugly. John chuckles, but then his smile goes slack and his eyes widen slightly.

"And I'll always fall into your arms."

He reaches to grab hold of Sherlock's face. His fingers hover gingerly above the white creamy skin. He can already feel the buildup of sparks beneath his fingertips. His eyes search Sherlock's, looking for the answers to infinite questions. When the blue ones gaze back, wide and accepting; he leans up and kisses him.

Their lips melt together, silky skin against skin. John's eyes flutter shut, butterfly wings lashes tickling the skin below his eyes. Sherlock feels warm and secure against John's small frame. Their bodies; so different in structure and size, once together mold into the perfect fit.

The sound of footsteps and chatter arise in the near distance. John's still lingering pride and fear activates and in seconds he tears himself away from Sherlock, breaking the little wires and bonds and strings that had tied together between them. He runs his hands down his jacket, fixes his hair and makes enough space between him and Sherlock.

He's safe.

A couple teenagers; two girls, one boy, walk around the corner right where they stand. The laugh and talk, all grabbing sweets from the bag the boy holds. John's heart speeds as they near. They're looking at him. They know. They saw. And now they're probably thinking; that faggot. That gay fucking faggot was kissing another man. How disgusting. Gross!

Once the kids are at a safe distance away, he turns to Sherlock. But Sherlock isn't looking at him anymore. He has his bottom lip between his teeth, brows creased in a funny way and his eyes glued to his feet as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Sherlock?" John questions softly. His stomach squeezes up in a way that wasn't good.

"We should probably get back. We're soon going back home." Sherlock replies, his voice void of any emotion that might clue John as to how he felt.

Without any other answer, Sherlock stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away. John watches him, unable to move, his insides just sort of crumbling because he was really really stupid. And now he just might even lose what he'd been holding onto for such a long time.

His eyes begin to water. He doesn't let them flow. It was weak. John wasn't weak. He wasn't going to cry, because crying meant he was admitting that he'd done the wrong thing. And he hadn't. It wasn't his fault. He was just scared. This wasn't what he was used to. Why should he be to be blame?

"Sherlock." John calls out to the zombie-like walking figure. His voice pleading. Just listen. He needs Sherlock to just listen. He wants to tell him why he pulled away.

"What, John?" Sherlock swerves around quickly, catching John by surprise. His voice is sharp. His blue eyes lost of all softness and affection, now filled with hurt and disappointment. The look itself makes John feel ten times smaller.

I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so so sorry. I'm an idiot.

"I-I..."

"Are you ashamed to be with me?" He asks coldly.

John fiddles with his shirt. He doesn't know how to answer. It wasn't Sherlock, it really wasn't. It was him. He wasn't ready. He was stupid.

"How do you expect to always fall into my arms, when you can't even kiss me in front of strangers?"

John opens and closes his mouth. Sherlock was right. But then he wasn't. He and Sherlock; it was a delicate matter. Something John had never done before. He had every right to want to hide it. At least for a little while, until he acclimates or at least figures out what the hell was going on. Because this was in no way normal. This wasn't like his girlfriends where he drifted in and out with them. This was him wanting someone for probably the rest of his life if he could manage it. It was scary. And he could be scared if he wanted.

"Sherlock, please don't walk away from me again." Even though he'd promised not to let himself cry, just seeing Sherlock already walking away, made his bottom lip tremble and droplets fall from the safety of his eyes.

"Please," His voice is barely above a whisper. He's begging now. He can't have him leave again. "I'll try Sherlock, I'll really try but I can't just walk out into the open about it so fast. You know that. You know what it would do."

Sherlock stops walking. His head is twisted towards the front but half of it is slightly swerved towards John. It was like he was undecided. Lost between some sort of decision.

Sherlock turns around and walks back towards John. He moves so quickly John can barely see him, but he feels him. Strong arms wrapped around him securely and tightly. Their hearts beat together against each others chests. Curls scratching his cheeks, his neck. Lips crashing and dancing against each other. Hands on the small of his back, the smell of patchouli everywhere he breathed.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you.." He breathes out between kisses. He wraps his own arms around Sherlock's thin waist, holding on as tight as he can. He presses their bodies as close as he can, trying to make them form one. He never wants to let go. Never ever ever ever.

"John... John...." Sherlock says between sobs.

He was safe. Sherlock was with him. It was okay.

The wind blows in softly from the open window, ruffling the raven curls that fall around Sherlock's face. He doesn't notice. Too busy sleeping-or thinking-because Sherlock wasn't really asleep. He looks like a little angel, eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. His skin glows in the blue-white moonlight, shadows of his lashes and high cheekbones scatter across his face. He's beautiful, John muses. He doesn't look anything like the pretentious dick he usually tended to be. This was something else, this was John's Sherlock. The Sherlock he couldn't help but fall in love with.

Was he really falling in love with him?

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks, his eyes still closed, when John tenses up.

John shakes his head. He loosens up, snuggles up closer, burying his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He keeps his eyes on him, his palms curled up in that silky hair. He decides not to think about it. He'll just go with what happens. If he falls in love with Sherlock, then he does. It really didn't matter.

"Come here." He whispers, pulling Sherlock closer so their bodies curl around each other. They both lie in Sherlock's bed, John's bedroom long gone forgotten since the night they arrived the flat.

"Why should I?" Sherlock challenges. He puts his elbows between them, a sly smirk plays on his lips.

John licks his lips. "Because..." He dips his head low, brushing their lips together. "We can do things." He nibbles lightly on Sherlock's bottom lip, emitting a slight moan from him.

Sherlock's pupils dilate. "You sure?"

John nods.

Sherlock's blocking elbows don't last long; within seconds they were pressed against each other. Sherlock's leg between John's, while his hands run up beneath his shirt. John gasping against his neck.

"Move." Sherlock orders. He flips them over so he's pinning John beneath him. He pulls John's shirt off, not hesitating or wasting time to be shy, he runs his tongue along the thin trail of hairs that lead to his already interested cock. When Sherlock reaches the rim of his pants he quickly undoes the zipper and pulls them off.

It isn't until they were both stark naked, skin luminous in the pale moonlight that they join again. Sherlock wrapping his arms around John's neck, fingers pulling at the hair at the bottom of his head. He pulls John close, their skin flushed and hot against each other. The feeling is a bit odd, John doesn't feel so comfortable. He tenses.

"John, are you sure?" Sherlock stops, presses their foreheads together and watches John with concerned eyes. But John only nods. He wanted it too. He wasn't going to stop now.

Sherlock sighs and leans in; their noses bump and foreheads brush. They don't kiss, more like pant against each others lips as their bodies rub against each other. Sending hot chills and shivers of pleasure all the way down to the tips of his toes.

John could barely keep track of what was happening. Sherlock kept sucking along his neck and whispering sweet things in his ear that didn't really make sense, but felt like heaven when the hot air from his mouth whisked across his skin. He liked the way Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse and gruff, and he unconsciously leans into it, pushing Sherlock further, who now let's a hand snake down his abdomen and in between his legs.

Sherlock's warm hand against him feels so good and John lets out a needing cry that he wasn't supposed to. He quickly freezes up. Sherlock chuckles, before moving onto kissing along his chin and and climbing on top of him. He looks at John again; his eyes asking permission and pupils blown with lust.

John swallows. He knows what he's asking. It's going to happen. They were going to finally make love after so many days of observing each other and wondering.

Wondering what it felt like to be touched, to be fucked...

He lets out a shaky yes. He's nervous. So fucking nervous. But he also really wants Sherlock. So when Sherlock promises to be slow and gentle he only nods and closes his eyes. Their hands join, legs wrap around each other and their bodies push and shove and twist, making him feel good in so many ways. When their cries harmonize and their bodies become one moving in sync, he reaches his orgasm.

It makes him think of underwater. Of that point where you're just under the surface. Of that time when you've ran out of oxygen but not quite, and you're surrounded by bubbles of your creation and the deep aquamarine that stretches endlessly above, behind, below and around you. And for a few seconds you find yourself not really existing at all. You don't live, you don't think. You just float in the immense chalky blue.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

All summer break is their little world. They don't leave the house; just spend every day, all day huddled up inside. They only go out for some grocery shopping, but even that wasn't that often. John mostly got Chinese and Sherlock tended not to eat for days, only to stuff himself up some random day. Filling the refrigerator wasn't very necessary.

The phone rings and rings, but goes ignored. The weeks pass, some days rain or shine. But its all the same. Sometimes they wake up in the evening, sometimes in the morning. Some days they kiss all day in bed and make love all night, others they fight and fight and one of them sleeps outside the bedroom door.

Sherlock paints and paints when he isn't busy with John. He always has a joint between his lips, his hair sticks out in every direction, his eyes seem to glow and his fingers turn red from so much smearing. He looks tired and worn but he looks passionate and vigorous. He wouldn't let John see them until he finished but he let John watch him paint. Sometimes or most of the time John was his model. Half of the time he didn't know, until it was midnight and Sherlock had finished. They were always beautiful, always so perfect. Sherlock always thought the opposite.

"It's shit." Sherlock had insisted one night.

"No, Sherlock. Don't ever say that." John held the painting of himself sleeping on the couch, closely to his chest.

Sherlock ignored him. He tossed his burnt blunt and kept his back to John. He was disappointed.

"Throw it away John, it's horrible."

John wouldn't have any of it.

"I hate it." Sherlock insisted.

"I love you."

Sherlock turns to look at him.

"I love you too."

Their hands intertwined in each others hair, their lips crash against each other and their bodies twisted together creating pleasures.

On days when Sherlock was depressed he liked to shut himself up in his room. Sometimes it lasted days. John hated it. It tormented him. He could always hear Sherlock crying in there. And whenever he spoke to him, Sherlock ignored him. John would scream and shout, bang his fists against the door. He would plead and bed. Cry and weep. Sherlock never let him in.

Then after a few days he would come out; reeking of alcohol and god knows what other drugs. He always looked ugly. All his beauty and personality sucked out of him. Leaving behind a shell. He'd look thin and ill, tired and weak. His skin papery, his eyes lost and swollen, his lips trembling even though he wasn't crying. And his wrists red from scratching.

John always held him close. Told him he loved him over and over, until the message sunk in. Then he'd shower him, feed him and give him some clean clothes. Sometimes he even cut his curls, the locks of raven seeping from his fingertips; falling around his feet.

They watched black and white movies together. Listened to opera and Mozart or ridiculous things like Grateful Dead and Mumford & Sons. On Sunday's they tried to make things, usually sewing or jewellery or paper lanterns. Later they would take those to the lawn downstairs and have picnics.

John became fond of Sherlock's camera. Whatever they did, he photographed it. Just like Sherlock painted him, John took pictures of Sherlock. All without telling him. He liked it when Sherlock wasn't looking. When he was busy concentrating on something else. It was the best way to capture him.

"You like that camera, don't you?" Sherlock asked one day.

John had his head in Sherlock's lap. They both lay on the couch, sipping sun tea. Sherlock was reading something called Alternative England and Wales. John had been taking photos of the cars and people walking by their street.

"Mmm-Hmm."

"Keep it. I can get another."

John stopped clicking. He looked up at Sherlock, an affectionate smile on his face. "Really?"

"Only if you promise not to photograph me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

John snaps a photo of him.

"Hey! Give it here!"

John shoves him away. "No."

"We'll then buy it."

"How much for it?"

Sherlock leans down and presses his lips to John's forehead.

"Your love."

One day Harry came over for dinner. John was nervous. He want ready. He couldn't tell Harry yet. Sherlock agreed that they would just be flat mates.

John went shopping. He bought all the things Harry liked and vegetarian goods for Sherlock. When he went up to the cash register (it wasn't one if those awful, do-it-yourself-ones) he spotted something. A small chocolate heart. It said I love you.

He used his change to buy it.

They made dinner together, listening to Elvis and The Platters. It took them a while. Sherlock had no experience in cooking, much less fancy stuff like they were doing. John's cooking was very limited. But cookbooks were helpful. And soon the dinner was being placed on the table.

While Sherlock placed forks on the table, John stood behind him holding the heart. Sherlock finished, turned around and found John watching him; eyes wide and loving.

Sherlock laughs lightly. He reaches over and grabs the chocolate.

"I love you too."

"More than art and rocket science?"

"Chemistry."

"Same thing."

"More than anything in the world."

John walks over, closing the gap between them and kisses him. His hand travels down from Sherlock's shoulder to his palm and he laces their fingers together.

"Shower?" Sherlock asks as he sticks the chocolate in his mouth.

John kisses him again but to steal a piece of chocolate.

"Yes, you stink."

In the shower they make love. John lay slouched against the cold shower tiles. Sherlock snuggles on his back. His head in the crook of where John's shoulder meets arm. His wet curls stick to John's cheek.

What am I going to do?

At six Harry comes over. John is dressed in the jumper his grandmother had made him. It's navy blue and has a white 'J' on it. Sherlock wears his black skinny jeans and a shirt that says Sex Wars in the Star Wars print. Harry had the same shirt. But she didn't wear it. She wore a comfortable looking black dress and her chunky boots.

She loved Sherlock. The dinner went well. She and Sherlock talked about all the same things. John shared his new love for photography and Harry embarrassed him with stories of his childhood.

After dinner they ate cheesecake. Bought already made, obviously. And drank wine and smoked while watching a movie. It all went fine. John was able to lighten up.

Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder. He snuggled up against John. Harry had questions when he walked her to the door.

"You two are close."

John sighs. "Yes."

"I see the way he looks at you. Hell, I see the way you look at him."

"So?"

Harry looks at him with understanding in her eyes. "I never told you about Clara."

"Who's that?"

Harry grins. "My girlfriend."

John's brows shoot up. "You fancy girls?"

"Sometimes. Mum misses you."

John rolls his eyes. Now really wasn't the moment. He didn't want to think about it. Not in this point of his life.

"Spare me, Harry."

"Really. John she didn't make you leave because she hates you. She was trying to give you the little push you needed to start your own life."

"Goodnight Harry."

"Mum-"

"Goodnight."

Harry rolls her eyes just as he had done so. "Goodnight baby brother."

"I'm not your baby brother."

The last night of summer is the worst. It means the end. They'll have to go back to their lives and face all the things that had been keeping them apart. John didn't want to do it. He wanted to stay as he was forever. Lying naked in the satiny sheets, their arms and legs wrapped around each other, foreheads pressed together, noses bumping, hands laced together.

"Don't cry." Sherlock whispers, wiping a tear gently from his cheek.

John half smiles but he's sad. He knows it. He knows he's going to loose Sherlock. He's going to do something reckless and stupid.

"I love you no matter what, okay?"

John sniffles and nods his head vigorously. But deep down he knows this is it. "More than arts and rocket science?"

"More than anything in the world."

John crumples up in Sherlock's arms, clutching onto him tightly so they don't ever separate.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

John feels the mattress sink beside him. He doesn't open his eyes. He knows it's Sherlock. And he was too tired. Three weeks into the university and he was already a burned out candle.

"How was school?" Sherlock asks. The mattress sinks and creaks when he leans over towards John.

John keeps his eyes closed. For a few seconds he forgets Sherlock was even talking to him at all. He just lets the calmness of sleep take over the reasoning of his brain. It feels nice; being oblivious. He was relaxed and comfortable. But then he has to snap out of it.

"Fine. We did the usual, had to practice a bit. I got blood on my sleeves." John finally responds, his eyes still closed. The mere attempt of opening them was too painful.

"My day was good too," Sherlock says even though John hasn't asked. "Had to do a presentation. Nothing too hard, a simple reading of my writings on my perception of colours in the different stages of the day. I actually enjoyed it, especially the part-"

"Sherlock." John interrupts. He can barely hear him now. All he heard was faint echoes of ghost words. His head had gone utterly blank. There was nothing in it but the tranquillising sounds of waves crashing against the sand. He was so tired. And the next morning he had to be up early for school.

"Sherlock, I can't do this. Not tonight. I'm tired, we can talk tomorrow."

John's eyes are closed but he can sense Sherlock frowning. The blue scrutinizing gaze locked on him. "Goodnight, John."

"'Night, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock remains silent. "Yeah, me too."

John lets go of the little sliver of reality keeping him awake. Just before he falls into infinite bliss and silence, he hears the mattress creak and the warmth that had once been beside him was gone. He's too tired to care. And just as fast as he'd registered it, he forgot it. He slips into the pool of darkness and he's gone.

When he opens his eyes he sees two orbs of crystal blue. The blue is almost liquid with the way the orbs are slightly shaky and watery. They seem to move; swimming and shimmering like the water in a pool at night. But it's not really pool water that makes them so, it's the tears threatening to come out. The person is sad.

Why?

He reaches out to cup his cheek in comfort but the minute his fingers press against skin, it's like touching smoke. It's not solid and warm as bodies are meant to be. It's air and mist. At first John thinks its because the person isn't really real, but soon the lines and colours that made up the face began to slowly fade. One minute he's looking at a face and then there's only white.

Why? Why does he fade?

John slams his hand down on the alarm. He keeps his eyes closed for five seconds. Then he rolls over, expecting to find Sherlock by his side. But all he finds is a smoothed out pillow and Sherlock's side of the bed made. It was strange that Sherlock had awakened before him. Sherlock usually woke five minutes before it was time for them to walk out the door. He never ate, never showered, just put on fresh clothes and left to school. John had insisted many times that he pull himself together in the mornings, but he never listened. Until now apparently.

John showers. It's fast; warm water and lavender soap soak his skin. Nothing fancy. He puts on some clothes; a jumper and jeans. He can't find his shoes though. He looks through his closet, looking for his Chuck Taylor's. He was sure he'd put them back in the closet. He searches through Sherlock's shoes and his own. And then he sees them, not the ones he was looking for but something else. John found the shoes he'd bought himself for his 'fake date' with Sherlock. The hippie shoes that were a cross between dress shoes and classic vans.

It had been a long time since he last saw those. He'd even forgotten about their existence. It all seemed so foolish now, buying himself shoes to impress Sherlock. John chuckles at the memory. He was so scared that night and it wasn't a real date. Yet still, he had been going mad over what to wear, how to act, what to say....

John sets the shoes down and shoves them to the far corner of his closet. He couldn't find the shoes he'd wanted so he just puts on another pair. He leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and steps into the living room. The first thing he notices is the silence. Sherlock was never silent like that. He could be quiet but not silent. There was always some sort of noise; the shuffling of his foot against the floor, the tapping of his finger against the surface of the table, his breathing. There was always something.

This silence is strange. It's empty.

And then he sees it; a little note on the refrigerator. John marches right up to it, suddenly feeling anxious and uneasy. He reaches for the paper and reads it.

Had to leave early, something came up. -SH

The paper feels heavy in his hands. It was just paper, an innocent note. But it didn't feel right. Sherlock never left notes. He always called or texted John. And he never woke before John either. Or maybe it was just a note. Maybe he really did just have to go do something. He shouldn't be so negative. Sherlock probably had to get some painting thing done. John crumples it up and places it on the counter. He decides not to eat. He wasn't hungry.

He half expects to find Sherlock standing outside the flat's door. Or at the bottom of the stairway. Or at least on the street. But he's not there. Not even in the school's parking lot. John is tempted to look for him on his side of the campus, but that would have too many implications.

After school he's tired and worn out and sad for some reason. He wants to go home, curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Doctor Who. That of course, is not possible. He's got practice after school. Everyone else is excited about it. John doesn't even want to stand a minute longer.

On the field he's rubbish. He kept tripping on his own and couldn't even catch the ball. Lestrade benches him and gives him concerned questioning looks. Anderson and the rest of his mates snicker and laugh. John could care less. He folds his legs up, so they touch and perches his chin on his knees. He watches the game with a blank look.

In the changing rooms they give him shit for it. John just doesn't respond and ignores them. It was all pointless.

"John!" Lestrade calls out, just as he leaves the changing rooms. John considers just walking and pretending he didn't hear him, but Lestrade had always been good to him, so he doesn't.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asks when he catches up to him. His cheeks are flushed and he breathes heavily.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Lestrade's eyes narrow down a bit. He analyses John carefully, looking for any signs, any distinctions. John just blinks back.

"John, it'll be fine mate."

John is confused. Lestrade seems to know something. His eyes are wide and significant. They're telling him something. In them is a mix of pity and worry and the chorus of I know. I know. I know. But there's something else too. Something hidden. Something he knows but doesn't want John to know.

"Yeah, I guess it will." Ignoring whatever it meant, whatever Lestrade had to tell, he walks off in the direction of the bus stop.

Sherlock isn't at the flat when he gets back. It's empty and silent and cold. The usual spark and warmth that Sherlock emitted was gone. And John was left worried and alone. He tried calling him, Sherlock didn't answer. He called Sherlock's friends, most were busy or hadn't seen him. There was no one else he could call. He'd never know if Sherlock was alright or not.

John gives up looking for him. Instead he follows his usual routine to have something to do. In the bathroom he strips; jumper first, jeans after. His skin looks pale from the lack of sunlight exposure during the summer. He's almost as white as Sherlock but not quite as creamy and pearly. On Sherlock paleness was exotic and intriguing, on John it made him look sick. Especially with the goosebumps rising.

Against the ice cold skin of his fingers the warm water almost sizzles. For some reason bathrooms were always cold. It was curious because you're always naked and exposed in bathrooms. It's when you need the warmth most.

John cools the water a bit so it doesn't burn his skin. He looks over at the sink, a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes travel from the mirror to the foucet. There's something there, a white pill. John reaches for it and rolls it around in his fingers.

He recognizes it; Citalopram. An antidepressant. It wasn't his, he never took those. It was Sherlock's. He took them to stay happy or something. The thought that Sherlock had something inside him that kept him from being fully at peace, hurt John. He wanted Sherlock to always be happy.

John tosses the pill in the trash and steps into the shower. Warm droplets beat down on his cold skin, making him shiver. Gradually he gets used to it and he yearns for more warmth. He leans in closer, making sure all his skin was being pelted by water.

John remembers being with Sherlock in the shower. He remembers the way they would just stand there, with arms wrapped around each other, and their eyes gazing intently at each other. Then they'd kiss in the blue light, make love and Sherlock would whisper that he loved him, making John feel warm and complete inside.

Where was Sherlock anyway? Why had he left?

John knew why. He'd done it. He'd ruined what he had with Sherlock. School got in the way. John was always busy, always tired. He came home, ate scraps and collapsed in the bed. At school, their schedules kept them busy and free at different times. And then there was practice.

Sherlock had tried. He tried to fix it, to make some time for each other. John was too tired to cooperate; always falling asleep in their night conversations and never trying to squeeze in some time. For three weeks he basically ignored Sherlock. Sherlock was like a family pet, he needed to be reassured that he was loved, he needed attention, he needed someone to keep him happy. For three weeks John wasn't there and Sherlock had given up.

"Come back/" John whispers. "Please, just come back."

Unable to stand it anymore, John gets out of the shower, pulls on a robe and grabs his mobile. He searches through his contacts until he finds Lestrade.

Lestrade answers after three rings.

" 'Ello?" His voice is husky when he answers. John can hear the crinkling of the mattress and another voice in the background.

"Have you got a girl over?" John asks. The voice he'd heard sounded funny, not like the usual high pitched ones from the girls at school or the pub, where they usually picked up ladies. It was a lot more hoarse and deep. Almost like a man's but John wasn't quite sure.

"Uhh, no. It's a-It's a friend..." Lestrade responds too quickly. John smiles a bit but it doesn't last. He got along we'll with Lestrade and normally he would have inquired more but there was much bigger priorities.

"Right, a friend in your bed."

Lestrade chuckles. "I'm sure you didn't call to know who's in my bed, what is it? You don't sound right."

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

John sighs. "Sherlock."

Lestrade is silent for a moment. The friend in his bed asks something. Lestrade replies something about Sherlock. "John he's alright."

"No he's not, he wouldn't just leave me and the flat. He needs me, where is he?"

Lestrade sighs. "He went over to Mycroft's."

Relief fills John. In his head he had a hundred scenarios as to where Sherlock could be and most resulted in Sherlock in a hospital bed. "When can I see him?"

"John, have you thought that maybe he doesn't want to see you?"

"He wants to see me. I know it."

"How can you be so sure?"

John bites his lip. The words are there, on the tip of his tongue. Should he say it? Should he not?

"Because I love him."

He can hear Lestrade take an intake of breath. He chuckles and says something to the friend in his bed. "That serious are you two? Fine, I'll have Mycroft give him a call."

"Why would Mycroft call him? He's in Mycroft's house."

"Well," Says Lestrade in a smug tone. John can practically hear the smirk forming on his lips. "Mycroft Holmes might just be in my bed."

Oh.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

John stands in front of a smooth white door. The outside air is cool and fresh against his exposed skin. A bit of wind blows, rising light goosebumps at his neck. He rolls his collar up and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He sucks in air slowly, lets it meddle in his mouth until his chest constrains and a light sort of itching feeling develops on the back of his throat. The air comes out, warm and used, only to be replaced by new oxygen.

He reaches out, his arm uncurling from his side slowly until his fist is hovering inches from the wood. His knuckles should have crashed down, alerting the people of the home, of his presence. But his hand just sort of freezes up a little because his blood suddenly felt too cold and the acid in his stomach was making him sick. It had been occurring for week now; that horrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It made his insides feel tangled up and uneasy. Even his mouth and throat had been affected; at times they became dry and tasted like led.

It had started the night Lestrade asked Mycroft to have Sherlock at least talk to John. Sherlock had refused to even acknowledge his existence, claiming he knew no one of the name John Watson and that he had to visit a friend that night in the city. John had pretended he was alright with claims of; "It's fine, it's all fine." But he could tell from his own shaky hands and the pitying way that Lestrade had smiled halfheartedly at him, that it wasn't fine at all.

He kept himself sane for a few days, pretending that Sherlock was merely out for a stroll or painting or reading at the library. But that only worked during the day. While John slept he would have dreams where he was sinking to the bottom of some deep blue sea and Sherlock instead of coming down to save him would scornfully swim away up into the light, while John slowly lost his life to the water entering his lungs. Or sometimes there was dull grey fog, an aching in his chest and Sherlock's bloody body on the pavement. He'd stay up all night, not daring to sleep until the sun was faintly coming up.

Food and people no longer seemed to have an appeal. He'd rarely eat, never went out. People called, he said he was busy. Being alone comforted him. Being alone was all he had. Harry had visited plenty of times. But they didn't talk much.

And now driven mad with longing and desperation he stood behind the white door of Sherlock's new flat, ready to change, to apologise, to start again or maybe even pick up where they left off before. He was going to do it. He was ready.

But then his eyes land on a little crack in the wood of the the door. John's hand instantly falls limp to his side. The crack; the tiny trivial crack people probably didn't even take note of, seemed to have an even deeper, more important meaning. He could tell that the crack had been painted over several times to hide from existence on the door. That made John all the more upset.

He couldn't help but note that he was that same crack. He was that horrible thing that was so desperately not wanted seen. And Sherlock leaving, not returning days later, was the paint. He was trying to erase, to delete, John. He'd covered him with white and now wanted a clean new life.

John smiles bitterly at his feet, his eyes studying the embroidery of the mahogany coloured laces of the hipster shoes. He'd worn them around so much that the colour had faded and soles were starting to unstick. They were absolutely horrid but they had comforted him.

Now though, now that he knew he was nothing more than a stupid crack on the wall that wasted Sherlock's brain cells, the shoes and memories they held seemed ridiculous. And it angered John. It angered him that while he'd been holding on, wishing, longing, crying, begging, praying, doing anything he thought might bring Sherlock closer to him, the heartless bastard had busied himself painting him over.

John tears the soles from the shoes, then continues to rip as much as he could. He swears, he cries, he cuts his skin, but he doesn't stop until he feels the shoes look as distorted and broken as his heart. When they do, the shoes barely even resemble sandals. To anyone else it would look like clumps of rubbish. But John knows Sherlock will recognise them and maybe he'll know how hurt John is and decide to remember him for one damn second.

Fuming but also on the verge of tears, John stalks away for what he hopes isn't for good. Or maybe he does wish it was for good. Maybe he should paint Sherlock out his life too. Maybe it was for the better. Sherlock didn't seem to care anyways, so why should he?

John stops. No, no, no. He could never forget Sherlock. Never in a million years. He loved Sherlock. He loved him more than anything in the whole world. Sherlock drove him mad. He was narcissistic, confusing, frustrating. He was the most compelling, darkest, dangerous thing in the world. He was so everything John had ever wanted. But also so everything he had despised. He was controlling, neurotic and childish. But he was also gentle and soft and loving and his baby blue eyes always looked at John like he was the most important thing in the world.

John couldn't leave that. Not after falling in love with him. He couldn't lose him. John marches back up to the door, bangs his fists on the wood and lets his forehead fall forward against it.

"Sherlock. Sherlock," John cries out. "Sherlock let me in, I know you're there."

John waits. No one comes to the door. But it's okay. Sherlock is just really stubborn.

"Sherlock please?" John lets his knuckles fall against the wood once more. Still no answer. He sighs and closes his eyes.

"Sherlock this isn't easy for me either, okay? I hadn't meant to fall in love with you, we weren't even friends. I don't even like blokes that way. But I did. For you. And that's got to mean something, hasn't it?" Joh waits. Still, only silence. He starts to worry and doubt himself. Maybe Sherlock didn't care for him at all.

"Alright Sherlock, I'm giving you five seconds. I'm only waiting for five seconds, okay? If you don't come out then it doesn't mean anything and I'll... I'll never bother you again, okay?" John presses his ear to the door and waits for the sounds of creaking wood, footsteps and a door nob turning. But it never comes, and five seconds ends a lot faster than he'd anticipated.

John looks back up at the door, at the crack and his shoulders fall. He turns around and walks away. At first he feels nothing, just a dull grey. But then it expands and combusts, the shock and hope wear off, and John can feel each and every little glass piece of his heart shatter, crack off and crumble.

He runs, or maybe walks or drags himself. He can't really tell. He just knows that he's getting away. As fast and far as he can. It's all blurry and confusing from the tears and the expanding black hole consuming his insides. He's not sure if he's on the road, the pavement or even Earth. There's only two things in his head right now; that Sherkock doesn't love him and the way his heart felt punched out of his body.

He had to get away, keep running, keep moving. Just get away.

A blazing horn snaps him out of his head. John turns to look to the right, just in time to see something black speeding towards him. He barely makes out that it's a car, until it sleeks up beside him. A dark window rolls down in the backseat. A pair of cold brown eyes stare right at him.

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" The man asks. John has never seen him before and the familiarity the man had with him seemed strange. He was about to tell him to piss off and walk away, he really wanted to be alone right now, but John recognises the auburn hair from the picture Sherlock had in their mirror back at the flat.

The Holmes boys.

"Mycroft is it?" John asks. He should have known. With the expensive car and delicate looking suits. He'd asked Sherlock about his brother once. Sherlock didn't seem really keen on talking much about him. All he knew was that Mycroft tended to be very exquisite.

"You might want to get in the car now, Watson." Mycroft says.

John blinks, for a second he'd forgotten about his current state of reality. Now that he was back in it, the pain and distress returned, crashing right into his chest. If he could just go home and lie down for a second. Get things sorted and just let it out. He wanted to cry, but not here, not now. Anywhere but here.

Just hold it in a bit longer.

"You think you can postpone it for another day. I'd really like to get home. I have stuff to do." Liquor to drink. Tears to shed. Just leave me alone.

"John, you really need to get in the car." Mycroft tries again. It's different. His voice is softer, more humane. His face went from the blank cool expression to one of empathy, worry and sadness.

John's heart stops. He didn't like that look at all. Especially not on the older Holmes brother's face. It was like seeing a statue suddenly smile. There couldn't be good news from it.

"Alright." He murmurs and without any other word he steps into the car.

He wants to let it out, get rid of some of the tears that where slipping from his eyes. He allows himself to let a few run down his cheeks and once they start he can't seem to stop it. He covers his face, pretends to be asleep and weeps.

God, Sherlock. What have you done to me?

Mycroft stops in front of a hospital. John looks over at him, questions written all over his face. But Mycroft doesn't look back. He just waves his hand and let's out a shaky breath. John doesn't wait for any other explanations, he bursts out of the car, runs across the pavement and into the hospital.

It was big. A lot bigger than he'd imagined even though just from the outside you could tell it was big enough to fit practically all of London. John gets temporarily lost. But then someone stops him, a nurse or something. She asks him what he needs. John is unable to think or speak clearly. He ends up stammering a load of blabber. The nurse though, seems to understand. She gives him a sad look and leads him the right way.

When they near the door of Sherlock's room, John's legs feel all wobbly and his stomach pools up with a cold vile sensation. He feels like he's going to be sick or faint or both. His pulse can't seem to decide whether to speed up or slow down. His hands and feet become ice and his head disconnects.

If he just pretends its not happening. That he's not there, then it won't be real. It'll all be okay. Sherlock is fine.

"He's in here." The nurse says when they reach the door. She places a comforting hand on John's shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

John barely acknowledges it. He's too busy staring at the bed where Sherlock lays looking pale, miserable and shut off. There's tubes poking in all over him, scratches and patches all over his arms and face, and there's machines. Loads of them, everywhere.

John isn't stupid. He's studying medicine. He knows Sherlock isn't going to wake up in a few days and be alright. He knows Sherlock isn't one of the lucky ones that's on the road to recovery any time soon. He knows Sherlock is in a coma and just might not wake up.

"Oh, God. Jesus. Sherlock. Oh, God. Oh my God." John's hand falls to face, he covers his nose and lips. He sucks in oxygen but it doesn't seem to reach his brain. No matter how much he tries to just breathe, he still feels like he's choking.

"Sherlock. Sherlock." My beautiful Sherlock.

"It's alright, it's gonna be alright." The nurse says gently, she tries to squeeze his shoulder again but John shrugs her off.

"No, it's not! It's not alright at all!" John screams, not giving a damn that it was a hospital he was in. "It's not alright." He turns away from the nurse and to Sherlock. Just looking at him; at his delicate, annoying, pretentious, genius, sent a sharp blow of pain to his heart. If he'd been there, if he'd just been there. If he'd stayed up and talked to him, if he'd ignored his exhaustion and concentrated on Sherlock, if he'd hunted him down, if he'd just done something Sherlock would be alright. But he'd been selfish. He'd been stupid. He'd fucked it up. And now the one person that he loved more than anything, the one person that made him feel complete, the one person that could drive him nuts but still make him smile, was in a hospital bed, with a low chance of ever waking up.

John reaches for Sherlock's hand, curling his cold fingers against his own. He lowers himself into the seat right by the bed and places his chin on Sherlock's arm.

He can still smell the patchouli.

"Can we be alone?" John asks.

"Right away. Just one question for the paperwork, are you family or friend...?"

John presses his lips to Sherlock's hand. "His boyfriend. I'm his boyfriend. " John says boldly and this time there's shame. Or even fear. He loved Sherlock and Sherlock was his. There was nothing to hide anymore.

"Right. I'll just leave you two alone."

John murmurs his thanks then let's his head fall limp on Sherlock. He lets it out. All the pain, all the tears. He cries and cries and cries and cries, because maybe if he cries enough tears Sherlock will wake up.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

 It's almost six pm. John hasn't slept since the morning earlier. His jumper is crumpled up and moldy. His hair stingy and messy. He even has a bit of stubble. He hasn't showered or eaten in days. He's just sat there next to Sherlock, holding his hand and wishing for him to wake up. Sherlock's been in there for a week now. Still, he hasn't shown any signs of waking up. He got visitors though. Mycroft came twice a day. Their friends; Molly, Jim, Shanti and Henry came often. A few others too. Mostly classmates of Sherlock's that John didn't know. And to his surprise Lestrade and the whole team came by one day. Well, everyone but Anderson. But he was a prick.

 A lot had happened in such a short span of time. So much that John could hardly keep track of how much was real and how much was imagined. There were so many things he had to concentrate on. Too many to even grasp focus of, so it all just ended up floating around in his head like an ever going stream. It was too much, it should have caused him to break down by now. He was honestly surprised he still hadn't got sucked into that dark place filled with mad desperation and despair. Or maybe it was going to happen. Maybe it was just waiting. Maybe the reason why he had felt so numb and eerily calm was because it was slowly building up inside him, ticking away like an alarm, just waiting to struck the right time and destroy him.

 The thought sends a shiver down his spine. He really couldn't deal with that. He had to stay in place for Sherlock's sake. If he snapped, everyone else would snap and enter a state of panic, because everyone knew how much John loved Sherlock and that he was going to be a doctor. If he lost faith they'd take it as fate and lose their hope for Sherlock.

  "John?" The nurse calls, plucking him out of his thoughts. He doesn't look over, he's too busy keeping his eye on Sherlock. He shrugs a shoulder to let her know he heard her.

 "There's someone who'd like to speak to you." She continues anyway.

  John isn't in the mood. He just wanted to hold Sherlock. Sherlock felt so cold and alone. He may be utterly knocked out but John knows he needs him. He had to stay with him, put his warmth into his cold skin and sing him songs softly into his hear. Sherlock liked that. He always had.

I can sing to you if you like.

I'd love to hear it one day, but not tonight. You should really get some sleep.

 "Tell Harry, I'm still sleeping." He murmurs.

 "It's not Harry."  John stops rubbing his thumb on Sherlock's cheek.

  "My mother?"

  "She hasn't arrived yet, she's still at your sister's art opening. They're both there, remember?" 

  John nods. "I should go see then." He lets go of Sherlock, gives him one last glance and follows the nurse down the hall. She leads him past endless flickering, bleach smelling, white walls and into a sterilized check up room.

 Someone's in there. He can't tell who it is yet. The person stands with his back facing him and John's eyes aren't used to the dim lit room. All he can make out is the person's tallish figure and brown hair.

  "I'll leave you two." The nurse says. She gives John a supportive small smile and walks away.

  "John." The person says turning around as soon as she leaves. It's Anderson.

  "What?" John snaps. He didn't particularly like Anderson and he didn't have time to waste.

  Anderson sighs. He takes a step closer to John, his arms are slightly spread apart, palms flexed open. John could tell he was going to say something he wasn't going to particularly like. "I know it probably has been difficult for you, with you and Sherlock being...together."

Oh right. Anderson was a homophobic little shit. John had almost forgotten. "Yeah, so?" John says taping his finger on his arm. Anderson wanted to say something, but was going to take his time wiggling it out. Just what John didn't need.

  "I can only imagine what you must be feeling-"

 "No." John cuts in firmly. No he didn't. Anderson had no idea how it felt for him. No one did. Not even the other people who were also on the verge maybe of losing someone they loved, because they weren't losing the same person. They didn't have Sherlock Bloody Holmes clinging on life support. They would never know how he felt. Never, ever.

  Anderson nods. "Okay, right. Maybe I can't but-”

  "Just spit it out already, Anderson. You're not exactly someone I fancy sitting around for a chat. So just say it."

Anderson swallows. John can swear that he looks a little clammy and nervous. That, he found a little strange. It wasn't an everyday thing to see Anderson nervous. It wasn't even a once a month type thing. And upon his discovery John feels a little troubled and a lot more curious.

"Last week, I was with them, some of my mates from the team." Anderson pauses, takes a breath. "We were drinking, you know having a nice time. You know how we get when there's a match coming up. Anyway, it was around the evening I'd say-”

John sighs, rolling his eyes. "Now isn't the moment Anderson. We can have story time another day." John starts to turn to walk away. Anderson swiftly grabs him by his shoulder and spins him around, leaving John dazed and blinking up at him.

"Apologies." Anderson says stiffly. He lets go of John, shoving him away a bit as he does so. "I couldn't let you leave, I have to tell you this. It's important."

John puts a hand on his hip in impatience and stares up at Anderson expectantly. He didn't know why Anderson was making such a fuss about things, whatever he had to say would probably be meaningless.

"How's um.. How's Sherlock?" He asks, licking his bottom lip feverishly. John narrows his eyes, Anderson nods in understanding and fiddles with his shirt. He twists his fingers along the fabric for a few seconds then brings them up to his hair.

"I really don't know how to say this, so I'm going to just say it."

John has lost his patience by now. "Just fucking say it Anderson."

Anderson sighs. "That night; that night I was out with the guys, I lost control of the car and there was this car in front of us, a small thing, barely visible. I tried to swerve back but I just couldn't; the guys were making such a fuss and I could barely see what I was doing and then one thing led to the next and the car, the small, little thing just flipped over."

"What's that got to do with anything?" John asks.

Anderson, who looked like he was on the verge of fainting, frowned down at John with a look of great dismay."Don't you get it, John?" Anderson runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It was Sherlock's car! The car I hit was Sherlock's car!"

 John was about to say something but pauses. He stops, licks his lips and frowns down at the white floor. It was Sherlock's car! The car I hit was Sherlock's car! The words travel in small vibrations, from his ears to his reasoning. Sherlock's car! Sherlock's car! Sherlock's car! What did that mean? The car I hit was Sherlock's car! Anderson had done it. The small car he was talking about; the small little thing he couldn't see, it was Sherlock. He'd hit the car. He made Sherlock like that. He put Sherlock in a coma.

"You bastard." John says just barely above a whisper. Anderson bites his bottom lip and looks at him from between the strands of hair that fall on his face. "What? I didn't hear- "

"You bastard!" John says loudly. He looks up at Anderson and bawls his fists. Anderson's eyes widen.

"John, I know this may be a shock but you need to calm down." He holds up his hands and backs away slightly. "Just calm down alright?"

John ignores him and continues to advance towards him. Just looking at Anderson made him sick. The little shit had been nothing but a arsehole since the beginning. John could tolerate his snide comments and general slippery behavior but when it came down to Sherlock things were different.

Sherlock. His Sherlock. Gone. All because Anderson decided go out and have too many drinks with his mates.

"John." Anderson chokes out. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm so so sorry."

"Your sorry?" John sneers. "Of course you are, now that Sherlock's dying!"

Anderson cowers away from him. "Please John, just calm down. I didn't mean it." He whimpers.

John corners him against the wall and smirks. "Sure you didn't. And now, just because you didn't mean it everything is alright isn't it?"

Anderson swallows. "I-I was hoping so."

John grips the collar of his shirt and jerks him forwards. "We'll it's not! Not for me! You get to leave here, unharmed and alright but not me. I have to sit here every single day and watch Sherlock just look worse and worse. Do you have any idea how that feels?"

Anderson swallows and cringes. "John, I'm sure-"

John lets go of him, flinging him against the wall. "Just go."

"What?"

"I said go!" John snarls at him.

Anderson winces but quickly detaches himself from the wall. He gives John an unsure look and slowly walks past him, inclining his body protectively around himself as he did so, then walked right out of the door and away from John's life.

John runs his fingers through the soft strands of Sherlock's hair. He places his other hand on Sherlock's cheek and skims his thumb over the cold skin. Gingerly and ever so slowly he leans down to press a light kiss on his forehead.

John hovers there for a moment to stare at Sherlock. He watches the dark shadows that part his face, making him look like he was slowly dissolving. The ebony turning from deep navy and blacks, into grey and ash that falls apart and changes into streaks of white until there's nothing but the ghost of a person.

John blinks and hurriedly places his palms firmly onto Sherlock's chest to reassure himself that Sherlock is still there but instead of feeling his usual warmth and steady heartbeat, there's only cold skin and emptiness. Sherlock wasn't there. He was disappearing. Fading away very second that ticked by. John was going to lose him.

He couldn't lose Sherlock. Not now. Not yet. He needed Sherlock alive. He had to keep him alive. John will do anything to keep him living. All Sherlock had to was wake up. Just wake up. Sherlock, please wake up.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Wake up.

Please. For me.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

Two years and a half later.

John pulls on his coat and sets the morning paper on the kitchen counter. He goes over to the fridge and pulls it open; he examines the insides, searches for something decent to eat which he doesn't find and shuts it. Jesus Christ. He was working part-time at a bloody office and he still hasn't done anything about the status of his refrigerator.

Sighing, John walks out of the kitchen and switches off the lights. Why were they on when it was still daylight? He sighs, again, and walks out of the flat. Out in the corridor he jams the key in the doornob and locks his flat. He then heads down the corridor and out of the building.

He waves his hand around at a cab and gets in when it stops. John tells the cabbie where he's headed and then wishes him a good afternoon, which results in small talk about the last thing on the news and the weather. He gets off at a coffee house and pays the driver, letting him keep the change because the man was actually quite nice and understood one of his stupid jokes. He then fixes his jacket and walks in.

The scent of coffee is strong, John breathes it in like it's perfume. God, he'd missed coffee. It had been a total of five weeks since he last had some. He was seeing a girl that hated coffee and advocated strongly on eating healthy. John doesn't know why he changed his eating ways for her when he was only mildly interested. Probably because he didn't want to end up alone. If she left him, it would be what? The fifth one? Or was it six? He wasn't really sure. Maybe he shouldn't go out with anyone anymore. Apparently he wasn't very good at it, as he had been told. Or maybe it was just the women. They could be so bloody demanding at times, always wanting so many things and attention.

John discards the thoughts of his romantic life and focuses on the menu before him. He didn't have much time to enjoy his free time, in less than an hour he had to be back at the flat to prepare for some dinner, or something, that Mary had prepared for the night. It was her birthday and she wanted to have some friends over.

"How can I help you, sir?" Asks a dark girl behind the counter.

John frowns. He was only twenty four, he was hardly a sir. "I'll have..." John flickers his eyes back up to the menu, unsure what to get. The line had passed a lot more quickly than he had pictured and he hadn't had time to actually choose something. "I'll just have coffee."

The girl chuckles and brushes a small strand of black hair behind her ear. "We've got loads of coffee here, sir. You've got to choose one."

John sighs. He didn't have any idea what half the different coffees they served were. "I- umm, surprise me."

The girl, he checks her name tag, Martha, smiles at him softly "The house coffee, how about that?"

John nods. "Yes, that. Thank you."

Martha types something into a computer and looks back over at him. She tells him the total for the coffee and John pays her. "I'll have it ready in a minute, you can have a seat."

"Okay, thanks." John says. He smiles at her lightly and walks over to the rows of tables. He chooses one that's at the far corner, just by the window, and takes a seat. While he waits, he leans comfortably against the wall and watches the outside life go by.

The day was quite nice. The sun was out, not too much, just a few golden strands poking out of the clouds. The ttemperature wasn't too cold either. Lots of people were out to enjoy the pleasant weather, and John watches them walk across the pavement with great interest.

He found it quite alluring to see all the different faces, sizes, shapes and ways of dressing. There were so many different people. He could sit there for a week and he would always see different people passing. He may sometimes see some regular people, but it would always be a constant changing. There would always be that shift.

Martha brings his coffee and asks him if he's alright. John tells her he's fine and thanks her again. He sips his coffee, closing his eyes to savour the flavour of coffee beans, milk, and sweetening. He'd missed this.

He missed the nights were he would stay up until two am watching classic music videos on the telly instead of studying, the days he went to games with the team, going to the cinema with Harry on the weekends, arguing with his mother if they should have chicken or chips... And Sherlock.

John quickly shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. He wasn't going there. He doesn't do that anymore. He's not allowed to think about him. He should know better. The last time he did it, he ended up on the borderline of suicide while walking on the road at midnight with a bottle of whiskey and a photograph of two young boys labeled;The Holmes boys.

John sucks in a breath and looks back out the window to distract himself. He watches a group of girls with long blonde hair laugh and twirl in the streets, then gets bored and searches the endless crowds for something interesting.

When he sees a long, dark, navy blue overcoat, he thinks it's just a trick of the light. But when it doesn't disappear, he starts to wonder. John lifts his chin a bit to get a closer look. The man wearing the coat is tall and slender and his skin is as pale as the moon. He walks with his head high, his shoulders squared like he owns the world and his hair is dark and curly.

John is standing now, his heart beating hard and hands clenching around the napkin he had been holding. His head screams; it can't be. It can't be! But his heart and his whole fucking soul can feel it. It's inevitable. It has to be him.

John waits, he isn't just going to rush into a situation without confirmation, he watches the person walk down the sidewalk and turn to the side, John nearly gasps when he does. It was Sherlock. It was really him. John drops everything and rushes out of the cafe. He hurries down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the street Sherlock had just crossed over to, but then abruptly he stops, fear growing in him.

Was it safe? He wonders. The things that had happened to him when Sherlock left, his whole life had changed. One minute Sherlock had finally woken up and all was happy then he was walking away from him and their life, only to be gone for two years.

Was talking to Sherlock a smart thing? If it was, how would Sherlock incorporate into his life? They couldn't be friends. That just didn't seem right. They didn't match like that. It would be awkward and loose and just wrong

John sighs, runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He looks back up to where Sherlock is waiting to cross the street, his heart speeds up, his breathing becomes strained. John bites his bottom lip, every fiber of his being was telling him to go there, urging him to move forward, but his self contained misery and pride forbade him from taking a step, leaving him in a whirlwind of confusion and impotence.

The light will soon change and any minute Sherlock will be gone forever. This was his last and only chance. He would probably never see Sherlock again, and if he did it would just be shy glimpses in between moments of time. It would be too late, they would have moved on, started new lives and histories. Sherlock would probably find someone new. He didn't have a hard time finding men who were interested in him -or women, all of them were, Sherlock is beautiful. Besides the next person he falls in love with will be a much better match than John. He won't be a disgusting coward who runs away at the slightest contact or mention of loving another man. No, he will integrate himself entirely to Sherlock. He won't be scared.

John will most likely be a doctor who either ends up alone and drinking himself to his own downfall or marries a woman out of his own spite and fear of being left alone. The rest of his family already had, Harry had told him to fuck off on their last encounter and he still hadn't dared return to his mother's. He understood why they hated him though, when Sherlock left he isolated himself and snarled at anyone who tried to comfort him. It only made sense that his only means of human contact on an emotional bonding would disintegrate.

The thought of living the rest of his life in an empty apartment while his liver slowly gives out to the fairly high amounts of poisons he would be inducing to himself, while the rest of the world spined by, not caring for him and continuing the cycle of living makes him take the first step forward. Remembering how Sherlock's soft hands had felt strong and invigorating in his own nimble ones, pushed him to run in Sherlock's direction without second guessing his actions. And seeing Sherlock standing there, alive and real, lead him to reaching out and placing his hand gently on his shoulder.

The contact is electric. John has to snatch his hand away hastily and shove it deep in his pockets to keep himself from exploding. He's not done with his studies but he's pretty sure it's scientifically impossible for someone to feel waves of electrodes just by brushing the surface of someone's body.

Sherlock stiffens, his usual reaction to someone touching him, he turns to look behind him, face already worked up in a rude snarl, mouth perched open widely, ready to snap- he stops. Goes still. His icy blue eyes quiver, widening, the pupils expanding in surprise. His mouth goes flaccid, then opens only to close again, his words lost. Sherlock, speechless!

John smiles, or at least attempts to, he probably looks like he's in pain. His face feels funny; too slow and loose. His head is currently in a state of confusion, he feels as though he were in an oxymoron. Sherlock appears to be solid and real before him, yet John can't seem to grasp that he's actually there. I'm at it again, I've gone mad. John thinks miserably, his face contorting into one of sadness. Any minute he will fade away.

"John." Sherlock says, his face cleared off of any partial shock by now. John frowns, he'd never pictured an imaginary Sherlock actually speaking. Without hesitation he reaches out swiftly and curls his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, making him flinch. He feels a pulse beating away securely. John's eyes widen, he drops Sherlock's wrist. He stares up at him, eyes wide and glassy because he can feel them coming, his goddam tears. Get out of here! Get out of here! His head snarls in warning. John doesn't listen to it.

"Sherlock." John replies shakily. He blinks a few times and tries to take control of what was happening. Sherlock. Here. In front of me.

Sherlock is speaking to him, John missed what he said so he just nods, when Sherlock looks at him funny, John blurts the first thing that comes to his head. "Care to joining for supper?"

What?

Sherlock's brows furrow. John regrets having speaking at all. Sherlock didn't want to see him.

"I-I mean, you don't have to," John quickly adds. "It's Mary's birthday and she said I could invite some of my friends so I don't get bored of her and her friends." John's face is red, like he's some sort of teenager on his first date.

Sherlock's brows raise and his lips purse out. He doesn't say anything, time passes by, John starts to feel anxious.

"Sure." Sherlock responds, after what felt like minutes but was only a few seconds -a few seconds too long for John.

"Okay." John says letting out the air he had been holding. He feels like fanning himself -don't be such a girl!

"You have a girlfriend." Sherlock states. How did he know?

He always knows everything.

"I-uh," John feels like denying it for some reason, as if Sherlock wouldn't be able to read the lie right off his face. It bothers him that Sherlock knows this price of information. "Yes."

Sherlock's face remains expressionless. "That's nice."

John feels like he needs to do something with his hands. He shoves them in his jacket's pockets. "Yeah."

Why were they talking in monosyllables?

John glances at Sherlock, checking for any kind of reaction, emotion, hint that he was feeling something. He finds none. He can feel the disconnection, whatever initial bond had spurt up the moment they locked eyes, was dissolving. Any moment it would disintegrate and Sherlock would be swallowed away again. John has to do something.

"Are you busy?" He starts. "Right now, I mean."

Sherlock, who was watching the people waking by on the sidewalk behind John, looks over, his baby blues finding John's and making the world stop.

Wow. He thinks as he stares back, feeling so- he doesn't know how, just that it made him feel fulfilled. What did that mean?

"No. Why?" Sherlock prompts. His eyes still directly on John's.

"Care to um, come over to my flat?" John asks timidly. "It's been a while since I've seen you, I didn't know if you wanted to-

Sherlock cuts him off. "That would be nice."

John almost has to do a double take. "Really?"

Sherlock smiles, it looks weird, John isn't used to seeing him smile.

"Lead the way John, or have you lost your sense of direction?"

"Right, yes, flat."

***

The flat is still dirty, too dirty to bring friends over, yet here he was leading Sherlock up the building's creaking staircase and to his door. John considers turning around and apologising for the state it was in, he doesn't though, that would be foolish. He wasn't trying to impress Sherlock, he was merely inviting him over for an early chat and some tea.

Besides, Sherlock doesn't say anything about it's state when he enters. He just looks around, his eyes scanning and calculating then looks over at John blankly. John smiles, he knows that blank look, he'd seen it before. It was meant to look cool and disinterested but John knew what was behind that, Sherlock felt awkward.

"The coat rack is right there." John says pointing at the wall behind Sherlock. Sherlock nods, he reaches out and pulls his coat from his shoulders until it slides off his body and in his hands. Underneath his protective layers Sherlock was wearing a purple dress shirt, nicely fitted slacks and black oxfords. No baggy T-shirts and skinny jeans with hipster shoes, probably the effect of living with Mycroft for two years.

John sort of misses his usual attire, this made Sherlock look more grown up. Come to think of it, now that he was watching him closely, Sherlock looked different. John couldn't quite tap how, or why, but it was there.

"Tea?" John asks heading in the direction of the kitchen, which was a mess too. Where had all the messes come from?

"No, thank you." Sherlock says. He turns away from John and examines some photographs John had put up months ago. It was mostly novelty pictures; him and the team, two summers ago when he went hiking with Harry, his high school graduation, visiting his cousins in Prague...

John sighs and puts on tea for himself. He didn't really want any but he needed something to do with his hands. He felt fidgety, the knowledge that Sherlock was in his flat walking around and looking at his stuff kept him from remaining calm. John lights the stove, sets the water filled kettle on the burner and walks over to the living room where Sherlock awaits. He finds him seated on one of the couches, surrounded by all of John's medical text books, holding something thoughtfully. John peers closer and examines what Sherlock is looking at.

John's cheeks tinge red with embarrassment. It was the scarf. Sherlock's blue scarf, the one he had given John two years ago, on that night when John was supposed to take him on his date and Sherlock had walked away. After all this time he still had it. It was special.

"Is this mine?" Sherlock asks when John comes to stand beside him.

John is quick to deny it. "No."

Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes alight with amusement. He runs his fingers along the scarf's length, his lips curving up into a small smile. John feels uncomfortable, he didn't like Sherlock uncovering his guilty pleasures like that. He hadn't even
known that was out.

"It smells like you now." Sherlock murmurs.

John presses his lips together. "That's because it's mine and always was mine."

Sherlock smirks. "See that," he holds the scarf out for John to see, then flips it over showing the far corner where a set of initials where stitched on. "That stands for Sherlock Holmes."

"Okay, okay," John says feeling cross about the whole issue. "I kept your bloody scarf."

Sherlock sets the scarf aside. "Why?"

John blinks. What did he mean why? Why else? Why not? "Because..." He says loosing his trail of words. He hastily thinks of something to say. Why? Why? Why? There was no proper excuse, only the truth seemed to fit. "Because..."

Sherlock raises a brow. "Because?"

John sucks in air. Goddamn. "Because it reminded me of you." He says softly, his eyes low and watching his shoes.

"Hmm.." Sherlock says looking distant. "I never thought you'd actually keep it."

Now it's John's turn to ask. "Why?"

Sherlock looks away. "I didn't think you cared for me."

"I didn't care you?" John says frowning. How could Sherlock even think that? "Of course I cared for you, I still do and I always will." John says without thinking. Sherlock looks up at him with wide blue eyes and John realises he let too much slip.

Oh God.

John turns away. He can't do this anymore. This talking to each other as if nothing had happened between them, as if they were old school friends coming together after years apart. It was all too complicated; he had to be careful, think things over, make sure he didn't say things. He wasn't used to treating Sherlock like that, not after what he had been thorough.

He had finally accepted that he loved Sherlock and would show it.

"John." Sherlock says sounding much closer than before.

John sighs. He looks over at the window, at the outside buildings, grey pavement, feeble weeds growing in the cracks in the sidewalk, cars passing by. For a second he's not there, he's just sort of trapped in a momentum of time.

"Please just turn around." Sherlock pleads, cutting him out of his temporary relief.

John turns around and finds Sherlock standing before him, eyes teary and filled with emotion, rather than the empty void they usually were. Stop looking at me like that. I can't stand it.

"John." Sherlock says, his voice sounds cracked and needy. Stop, stop.

John remains silent, watching Sherlock, unsure how to feel or what to do. It's quiet, so quiet. It's getting to him. It feels like there isn't enough room, their space is shrinking and shrinking, or maybe they are getting closer and closer, he doesn't even know. The air is tangible, filled with all sorts of sparks and bursts of electricity. John's chest is constricting, Sherlock's face is so close to his now, and his lips are right there.

It can't be sure who makes the first move, their lips are pressed together before either of the two can register what's really happening. So they just decide to let it flow and go with it. The kiss starts out gentle, naturally, lips gingerly pressing against each other and exploring the shape of each other's mouths; each time becoming more and more recognisable until it just becomes automatic and soon Sherlock is parting his lips so John can let his tongue in.

John brings his hands to Sherlock's hair and tugs lightly, god he had always loved that hair, bringing their faces closer together so that their noses are cornered nicely and he can feel Sherlock's warm cheeks and forehead against his own. Sherlock trails his hands along the edge of John's waist and grips his hipbones, casting circular motions along the skin there, right where his abdomen dipped lower leading to under his pants. John groans a bit and pulls away, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and staring up at Sherlock with hazy eyes. "Bedroom?" He asks.

"I'm hoping your sense of direction isn't lost?" Sherlock replies. John chuckles and grabs Sherlock by the collar of his button down, leading him to his bedroom door.

The bedroom is messy as well, there's items distributed all over the floor and furniture. Fortunately the bed is clear and it makes it easy for John to plop down on it, dragging Sherlock down with him and on top of himself. Sherlock positions himself so that he's straddling John and John brings his legs up, wrapping them around Sherlock's waist, pressing their crotch's together.

John whimpers. It had been too fucking long. He bucks his hips up, seeking more friction, more pressure, and moans when Sherlock leans down, bringing his lips to his ear to bite lightly, his hot breath sending shivers down John's spine. Sherlock's dark curls brush his cheek, emitting sparks in his gut, leaving John surprised that such trivial things like that could affect him. He swings his hips up, rubbing against Sherlock's warmth, making them both groan with pleasure and need. Sherlock bites down on his earlobe, making John squirm. Goddamn.

"Do you have..." Sherlock tries to say in between pants, they're still rutting against each other, and Sherlock is red faced, his brows creased profusely. "The necessary implements?"

John breathes heavily, Sherlock had his head in the crease of his neck, his tongue tracing his skin and it was making it hard for him to really pay attention to things that weren't Sherlock's warm mouth. "Uhh... I've got condoms."

Sherlock smirks against him. "I'll have to suck you off then."

John feels heat run down to his groin at Sherlock's words. He brings his lips back to Sherlock's and licks his way inside, loving how warm it was and how Sherlock tasted like cigarets and spices. Sherlock's hand runs down along his body, creating little jolts as it did so, stopping at the button of his pants. Knowing what was coming John angles his hips forwards to make it more accessible and helps by yanking his zipper down.

Sherlock's hands land on his hips, his thumbs resting lightly on the V curves. John bites his bottom lip and stretches his head up to watch in anticipation, his eyes leveling with Sherlock's and finding a cloudy of haze of lust in the intense stare. Sherlock's fingers brush the tips of his briefs teasingly, making John squirm with impatience.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John says feeling a little breathless even though they haven't even started. "Get on with it!"

Sherlock chuckles but complies, his fingers curl around the soft material of John's pants and pull them down, freeing him from the confinement. John doesn't even get time to register the action before Sherlock is leaning down, his hot breath falling on John's crotch area, and baby blues watching him carefully.

Fuck.

Warmth wraps around his cock and John feels like he's going to explode. Jesus Christ. He thinks as Sherlock takes his length in, making John's eyes shut and a groan escape his lips. He hasn't even got it going and you're already seeing stars, it really has been too long. John blushes at his own thoughts but is quick to dismiss it, his thoughts were beginning to scatter with the way Sherlock's tongue was nipping and sucking along his member.

John's head falls back a little, his chest rises and falls in quick motions, his mouth slips open on it's own accord; little 'aah aaah' noises floating out. He probably looks like some virgin geek-boy, the way he was sprawled out on the bed, legs open like a whore, his hands pulling at Sherlock's satin curls, but it felt good dammit.

Sherlock pulls away, John's eyes spring open and he moans in frustration. Sherlock however, smirks and gets up, making John panic for a moment, he thought Sherlock was leaving, but Sherlock only undoes the zipper of his expensive slacks. They fall to the ground with an almost inaudible slump, John wonders if Sherlock is going to fold them, they looked like they were worth his flat's rent, but Sherlock ignores them.

Instead he crawls back on the bed, crouching down near John's lower area, and latching his arms around John's thighs. Oh, John muses, liking the blissful sparks that were forming under his skin.

Sherlock's tongue feels a bit odd at first, it had been ages ago since the last time he had a man do him. And no, the last man he had sex with was not Sherlock. God, it had been two years without Sherlock and although John had a preference in women, actually no, not true, if he had a preference in anything it was Sherlock, there had been a couple of men he met at bars and went home with. But that was sometime last year.

When Sherlock has got two fingers in, John wishes he would get on with it, he was squirming and moaning, looking desperate and feeling severely frustrated. His cock was painfully hard and starting to leak by now.

Wanting to give Sherlock a bit of his own poison, John runs his hand along Sherlock's creamy skin, stopping right at his penis and wrapping his fingers along the heated member. Goddamn. John had forgotten how impressive Sherlock was, just running his fingers along the thick hard cock made John's insides prickle.

"Oh god, John." Sherlock whispers shakily, his body going rigid.

John smirks. "Just fuck me already." John says. Sherlock nods, his face looking a little flustered. He gets up, places his hands again on John's hips and angles his torso towards John.

The moan he lets out is guttural and throaty as Sherlock pushes himself in. John pants a little, squeezing his eyes shut and edging Sherlock in deeper. "Sh-Sherlock."

Sherlock moves in and out slowly, angling his hips around and trying to find the right spot. John flutters his eyes open a bit to see Sherlock's face contorted into deep concentration and self control. What the fuck? John wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist, pushing him in deeper, causing Sherlock's cock to hit his prostate nicely, making him sputter with curses. Getting the hint, Sherlock speeds up, pushing himself inside John more roughly and twirling his hips around as he did so.

John isn't even holding back anymore, he brings his hips up rapidly to meet with Sherlock's and squeezes their bodies as closely as he can. He reaches up, grabbing a fistful of raven hair and tugs Sherlock's head down so their lips crash. He is quick to take control over them, sucking, bitting and licking, completely addicted to the warmth in them and the spicy flavours.

Please, please. He begs desperately, feeling like he is crashing and falling. Or floating; yes floating, that was a lot more accurate. He doesn't even know what he is begging for, just that he really needs it. And Sherlock, Oh god, Sherlock. He felt so good and big inside him, every hit sent a boast of serotonin and pleasures down his spine, along his skin and to the ends of his hair.

"J-John, John," Sherlock whispers harshly against his lips. "I think I'm coming."

Tell me about it.

John squeezes his eyes shut, his whole body going rigid, a warm tingling sensation forming in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock comes forward again, this time with much more force, his cock hitting John's spot so nicely that John can feel his eyes roll to the back of his head. Sherlock leans his head down against John's forehead, his curls brushing John's face and neck, his eyes half open, lips parted and red as gusts of air escape it. John looks away from the swollen lips, prominent cheekbones; his eyes levelling with the baby blue ones, and for a moment, it's not gravity and whatever other physics principals what holds the earth and makes it spin, it's him.

Just that is enough for John; he closes his eyes and leans in to press his lips against Sherlock's, just as shivers, spasms and an essence of pleasure wasp through him, scorching the tips of his soul and being.

• • • •

Running his fingers through the soft strands of Sherlock's hair John watches him sleep. He admires his skin, his cheeks, his lips, the way his lashes brush the skin just below his eyes. John has to bite his lip and hold back a sigh. Sherlock, Sherlock.

John curls closer to him and wraps his arms tightly around him, snuggling his head into the crease of Sherlock's shoulder, the comforting scent of patchouli still there. At least there was still remains of the old Sherlock, John had worried that Mycroft had managed to change every inch of the way Sherlock presented himself. In his sleep Sherlock reaches out, latching his fingers around John's wrist, every few seconds or so brushing his fingers there, as if making sure John was still there, or maybe just to remind John that he was sleeping and not slipping away.

Slipping away.

John snaps out of his sleepy haze and contemplates. This, whatever had just happened with Sherlock, would slip away any minute unless he did something about it. Right now, in their little bubble; their own world which was driven by Sherlock, they could pretend to ignore the world and kiss under sheets, but sooner of later reality would catch up. They only had a little over an hour before Mary would be back to do the cooking for her party.

John pulls away from Sherlock slowly, lifting the covers from his body. He can't be sure, but he was pretty sure Sherlock reached out for him as their bodies split. John doesn't want to get up, but he has to. Laying like that, in the warmth and protection was dangerous. John was a distracted man at times; time seemed to fly by on a dull empty train, there were no moments that counted. But with Sherlock somehow, everything slowed down and every second that passed was worthy of a million.

His feet hit the cold wood floor and blood rushes back to his brain. The foggy mess fades, he blinks and everything is so clear. Reaching for his pants, where his mobile was tucked in, he prepares himself. John wasn't a man that believed in ending relationships through phone calls, but what he had with Mary could hardly qualify as one.

Marilyn was a lovely woman; intelligent and driven. Beautiful too, her crystalline grey eyes and golden locks were quite fanciful. She had an incredible persona and aspiring goals, any man was lucky to have her. But she wasn't it for John. Besides the two had hardly had chemistry, their relationship was crumbling since the day it began, they had only stayed together because in a way they were both to scared to be alone.

John selects her name on the contact list and presses call. The phone rings a few times, she doesn't pick up. Thinking it over John considers hanging up, or he could just...

Nah, better not.

John looks over at Sherlock's sleeping form and smiles lightly. Three years ago he would have never pictured himself with Sherlock like this. He was John, and that was Sherlock. They were both two different, incredibly complex beings. So different, yet dynamic. It was like they were meant to be.