Sherlock Oneshots (Mystrade/Johnlock/Mormor)

Highschool Pt 1 - Johnlock

Sherlock's P.O.V

When John and I met, we couldn't have been more different. I was bullied and shunted by most people, but he was strong and stood up for himself. He was, at the same time, the rugby captain who could barely get through one conversation with a girl without saying something embarrassing or borderline insane.

Despite having no game, John never changed himself for people who didn't like him. He's my hero for a reason.  What he did was maybe a bit risky, but it worked. People began realising that John didn't rightly care whatsoever what those people thought of him. They didn't need to take up space in his brain. 'They shouldn't take up space in the brain hotel', as he always phrased it.

***

16 was an interesting age for me. I was trying to focus on school, whilst singlehandedly taking care of the most stubborn parents on Earth, as well as desperately trying to improve my abysmal social life. 

John never had to worry about things like that. He had always enjoyed being by himself. He always said that his own thoughts were more exciting than most people's. And I had to agree with him. He was so creative and interesting. He didn't need anyone else to fuel his imagination; he could do that himself.

Our first few conversations were insanely awkward – my fault, not John's – and I didn't really know how to talk to him. I had to remind myself that hot boys are also people, and they aren't difficult to talk to if you act like a normal human being in contrast. It took a few weeks, but eventually, he invited me to have lunch with him in the art room. I asked why specifically the art rooms, and he said he'd tell me later. I did as I was told and went to the art rooms during lunch. I was half-expecting John not to show up. I was scared that he somehow knew I liked him even before I knew, and that he was planning to humiliate me.

Obviously, I didn't know him very well at all yet.

I looked at the doorframe of the art room, the centrepiece of the otherwise colourless hallway. It was covered in apple stickers and dried clumps of Blu Tack and colourful gum that were never coming off. The frame itself had been painted over so many times by students of various years that the new layers barely stuck. If you sliced through the paint all the way down to the wood, the cut would look like the layers of a technicolour stromboli. A sticker or two had been stuck there by me and my art friends from year 7 and 8. I could still point them out, even after all those years. They weren't especially unique apple stickers, but I knew exactly where they were. It's funny how childhood memories stay with you. They stick to you like honey, seeping into you and staying there until old age. I hope they never leave me.

***

He was sitting at the table that I was always sat in during art class; the one in the back corner with only two chairs. No boys ever sat in the other chair, and the girls would fight to sit there. I would've preferred sitting alone. He was sitting in the chair girls fought over, and my chair was free.

"You're actually here." I mumbled awkwardly. I slid into my seat, putting my bag on the ground beside me.

"Why wouldn't I be...?" He asked, clearly confused. He had a perplexed smile on his face, which told me he wasn't offended.

"I don't... I don't know." I sighed. "I just don't have many friends and so I suppose I wasn't sure if you'd actually want to be my friend."

"I've not got many friends either. Sure you knew that though." He was surprisingly shy, considering how he normally was. John was always so confident and proud of who he was, so it was strange to see him seemingly unsure of what to say. "My mum has encouraged me to make more friends. She doesn't really know how hard that actually is."

"I think it may have been easier for our parents. They were probably more outgoing than us."

"People were nicer, Sherlock." He said matter-of-factly. "They judged less because there was less to judge. They didn't care."

I thought about what he'd said. He never hid how he was. I always thought he was proud of it, and he was, but there was still a form of internalised hatred that he kept deep down in the darkest part of his heart. It was tragic, but beautiful. It was as if the first impression of him was what you got, but there was so much more. He was always open and hated liars. He wasn't lying about what he'd been through; he was simply careful of who he told. And I felt honoured to be among the select few that saw that side of him. I knew not many got the chance.

We hadn't spoke much before Sixth Form, and I was constantly trying to figure out if he could realistically like me. I would've taken something as small as a friendly nod every now and again. 

I got much more than that.