Like a Fairytale

Running Along Side Cinderella

"You're early." Sherlock pointed out, making John jump and the football land softly on the browning grass.
"Practice let out early." John shrugged, retrieving the ball and carrying it easily under one arm.
"I thought you'd be practicing more, isn't there a game coming up?" Sherlock asked. Immediately he thought it wasn't a very good idea to mention anything to do with football games, considering what a catastrophe the last one had proved to be.
"Yes, but it was a conditioning work out. The bears aren't nearly as good, last game was the toughest competition of the season." John shrugged. "You will be coming right?"
"That wouldn't be a very good idea." Sherlock mumbled, his face turning so red he turned away to avoid being seen.
"Oh stop with that, you think I care what happened last time?" John laughed.
"Yes." Sherlock muttered, not going to mention that it had haunted his days.
"Well I don't, like I said, I get that all of the time." John shrugged. Sherlock didn't want to point out that there were no other gay boys in the school, or at least ones that he knew about, and even so they wouldn't be able to match John. This was more than a girl slipping her number on a napkin; this was a lot more deadly.
"I doubt you do." Sherlock muttered, but thankfully John was too busy throwing the football to him to listen. Sherlock caught the ball with shock, but held it protectively to his chest as if John would yell at him for dropping it.
"Just relax Sherlock, you let things hang over your head to much!" John insisted. He hiked over to their bench, which was free of any yoga prunes, and sat down, throwing his bag down on the wood and sinking into the chair.
"So, work?" he asked with a smile.
"Don't look too happy." Sherlock muttered, still practically glowing with embarrassment, but sat stiffly on the other side of the bench, not wanting to look at John once again. "I assume you got the hang of the problems in class today?"
"A bit, but I don't think I could pass a test on it." John admitted.
"Well that's totally fine, I don't expect the weaker minded to be able to." Sherlock shrugged. John's happy go lucky expression turned a bit offended, smiling dangerously and crossing his arms.
"The what now?" he asked sharply.
"Not like, a bad thing, just, you know, my IQ is..."
"160 and rising, yes you've told me." John pointed out.
"Well it's a very important fact." Sherlock defended.
"To you maybe." John agreed, rolling his eyes.
"Don't be like that." Sherlock defended, wanting to laugh or something to break the tension between them. He wasn't even sure what he was taking offence to, there was nothing wrongly stated, it was only the facts. But at that moment something buzzed near Sherlock's ear, sending that startled chill down his spine and making him jump back. A wasp, the size of a walnut, was hovering right near his ear, making Sherlock almost jump back in fear.
"What is it?" John asked, a smile returned to his face.
"Wasp." Sherlock muttered.
"Just like on your helmet!" John laughed.
"No, this is a wasp." Sherlock muttered, staying stone still as the insect buzzed innocently around his head. But he knew what this thing was, it was evil, wasps were put on this planet to make sure humans expected that they might be the largest and most powerful, but even tiny things can terrify them out of their minds.
"Just swat it." John pointed out.
"No, it'll sting me!" Sherlock pointed out.
"Oh my god you're such a baby." John sighed, getting up out of his chair and going to walk around the table.
"No, John, please don't make it mad, it'll go after me!" Sherlock pointed out, feeling himself shake with fear. He really didn't like wasps or any stinging creature, when he was little he was playing in the yard and fell into a yellow jacket nest in the bushes. Let's just say it took numerous bandages, a trip to the doctors, and endless hours of crying.
"Not if I kill it." John pointed out, very discreetly picking up a text book from the table and getting ready to strike it out of the air.
"Okay, when I say duck, duck." John decided, prepping to strike.
"Why don't we just let it fly away?" Sherlock suggested.
"It probably thinks you're a flower." John pointed out.
"Wasps don't pollenate, they're just alive to scare things." Sherlock defended.
"Ya whatever, three, two, one, duck!" John shrieked. Sherlock dove off of the chair and John swatted madly through the air, but, as if he had turned on a switch, a whole swarm of evil black insects came spiraling out of a nest. It was probably under the picnic table, but it didn't really matter to Sherlock at the moment, he scrambled to his feet and ran for his life. John was, for once, behind him, the black cloud of death close on their heels, buzzing like a living thing.
"What did I tell you?!" Sherlock screamed as he ran, almost tripping over a tree root in the process.
"What do we do!?" John asked, which seemed like the more logical question, but of course Sherlock was more in the mood for an I told you so.
"They hate water!" Sherlock pointed out.
"Well that's brilliant; I said what do we do?" John growled, gaining on Sherlock now.
"The pond?" Sherlock suggested.
"Absolutely not, how will we explain that?" John debated.
"We'll dry eventually, what doesn't come out are wasp stingers!" Sherlock called. A couple of people gave the fast parade a wide berth, shielding their children and steering their dogs in the other direction.
"So we jump?" John asked, approaching the pond with another burst of speed. The wasps still hadn't lost interest, the pack was after blood by now.
"I guess so!" Sherlock called, now slowing down majorly, losing his breath just as quickly. They clambered onto the docks, both taking deep breaths and jumping into the murky depths. Sherlock didn't dare open his eyes for fear of the mud and bacteria floating around, but the temperature dropped about twenty degrease. His perfect hair, ruined. But that was the least of his worries, there was a strong hand on his shoulder, holding him down, as if to say it was still unsafe to go up. But Sherlock's lungs were losing air fast, soon he would have to resurface. Finally, when it felt like he had inhaled fire, the hand released, and they both kicked powerfully to the surface. Sherlock's head broke into the air, gasping for breath and very happy to see the swarm heading off, not daring to go near the pond. John popped out as well, right next to Sherlock, his hair weighted down and sticking to his head. But there was a large, goofy smile on his face, as if that had been the best adventure he had ever had.
"That was something wasn't it?" he laughed. Sherlock nodded, floating the best he could with his trench coat weighing him down. He has washed it many times and it has been soaked with rain, so it was perfectly fine, it was more the money and papers in his pocket he was most worried about. He hadn't bothered to keep his phone on him either, so the only precious thing on him was his hair, which he had even added a little bit of product to before he left. John pulled himself onto the wooden docks, now bringing a lot of attention to them as he jumped around, trying to shake the water off of himself like a dog after a bath. Sherlock got out as well, but not so gracefully, he slid onto the docks and collapsed like a fish out of water, shivering and laying in the warm sun for a little while. IT was certainly not warm enough to take random dives in the park pond. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, walking in small puddles of water as his shoes had become filled, and now it felt like he had weights on his shoulders with all the wet clothing.
"Do you think they went back to the nest?" John asked. "Because our stiff is there."
"I don't want to get the papers all wet anyway, but let's wait it out." Sherlock decided, shaking out his hair as well and trying to get the lose water droplets free.
"Certainly not something you do every day." John decided as they trudged along to a small grove of trees, secluded from the pavement so the people wouldn't be glaring at them. But, as they walked, they were certainly getting attention, although not positive. Old ladies frowned with disapproval undoubtingly going to tell their grandchildren about kids these days, mothers glared, even a jogger swerved to avoid them.
"Popular crowd I guess." John muttered, peeling off his sports jacket and setting it on the grass to dry. Sherlock, feeling a bit shy, shed his trench coat as well, which was so heavy it felt like a hundred pounds.
"That was quite..." Sherlock's words were cut off when John pulled his wet tee shirt off and lay it into the grass next to his jacket, making Sherlock's throat close and turn away immediately. John didn't seem to notice Sherlock had said anything to begin with, and he certainly didn't notice Sherlock's legs almost collapse over themselves. Why did John refuse to make not loving him so hard? His hair was soaking and a mess, he had a goofy, daring smile on his face, and his shirt was lying in the grass, very much removed. Sherlock made himself look up, not even at John, just up in general. What beautiful clouds today huh? Totally not as beautiful as what was now leaning on a tree, trying to catch as many sun rays as he could. Sherlock's stomach twisted nervously, he had been planning on letting his jacket dry, but on second thought he would stay as covered up as possible.
"So now what just sit here and dry out?" John asked Sherlock, who was still gazing towards the other end of the park, twirling his hands nervously in his pockets.
"What, yes, I guess, lovely day." Sherlock muttered. He didn't not know what to say or do, was this a call from John, did he want him to look, no of course not, he was drying out, he wasn't showing off, would he run if Sherlock did look, that would be awful for all of them.
"I suppose it is, yes." John agreed from out of Sherlock's sights. Even so, Sherlock could only imagine him, longing there with a six pack the size of the moon, how unfair was life? "You can sit you know?" Sherlock nodded, almost stumbling over his feet as he went to walk over to the tree on which John was sitting, casting one nervous look over to him. It was like he had imagined of course, but for some reason John looked more pure, the light shining on his wet hair, the hazel in his eyes looking like tree bark, he was like a forest god or something. Natural beauty beyond compare. Sherlock sat down next to him, keeping a wide berth of course, not daring to be anywhere near elbow collision range just in case he lost it completely. There was no way his clothes would dry by the time he got home, but that was now the least of his worries. His entire body was numb with fear, nervousness, it was a terrible beauty, but he was sure he'd die of embarrassment sooner or later.
"So, this is definitely math at its finest." John decided with a playful sigh, burrowing deeper into the crook of the tree. Oh god yes.
"I uh, ya I, I guess." Sherlock stammered.
"Why are you all awkward?" John asked, leaning up to see Sherlock, but then realization seemed to cross his mind. "Oh... oh. Course, sorry, I didn't think of that." he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and blushing a little bit. But it was nothing compared to Sherlock, who was practically glowing with humiliation. Well, at least he realized why Sherlock couldn't complete a sentence.
"I'll go get my shirt..." John started.
"No! I mean, no, you don't have to if you don't want to don't make me stop you from, that sounds so creepy, I mean I don't want you to have to do something just because of me, it's not like I like looking at your chest, but I mean, I wasn't actually looking I was making an effort not to, not like I wanted to, it's just oh my god I just..." Sherlock's words were cut off by John, who, to his horror, put a finger to Sherlock's lips, shutting him up permanently, maybe forever. His soft finger, pressing up to his lips, John's playful smile, it was just too much. Sherlock took a deep, rattling breath, and jumped to his feet, grabbing his coat and sprinting away though the park, grabbing his bag from the infested picnic table and running as fast as his legs could carry him. This was too much, his poor little heart couldn't handle it, he was either about to pass out or seriously embarrass himself by trying to kiss John yet again, there were no good situations here. When Sherlock got home he ran to his room, his heart beating way too fast not just because of the running but because John Watson's finger had been on his very own two lips. Sherlock collapsed against his wall, shutting and locking his bedroom door, partially expecting John to show up in only half a tuxedo with a rose in his mouth. He dropped his bag and caught his breath, gasping because his lungs seemed to have dropped off somewhere on Main Street. His legs were jelly, his heart was melting, John Watson was not making not loving him easy at all. Once Sherlock got the necessary living tools down he sank to the floor, his legs crammed up to his chest, closing his eyes and regretting everything he had done. Why did he run, John would think he'd scared of him, why did he run? But if he hadn't he would've made everything so much worse, he was almost convinced he would've pinned John up against that tree and made a complete fool of himself. John didn't like him; it was so obvious, so why was he planting so much doubt in Sherlock's mind? He shouldn't have run, but he shouldn't have stayed, bloody John Watson, bloody attractiveness, bloody life. What was the purpose of that; why not just tell him to be quiet, why did John have to touch his lips? Well, who even cares why, it's the aftermath that matters most. Sherlock had most definitely screwed something up, he looked weak, scared of what he didn't know, as if having a possible relationship with him would make him run away again. He might have messed it up yet again, as said before this was a very delicate situation, and running away was like taking a jack hammer to it. Sherlock didn't cry, he simply wouldn't let himself, but his eyes were burning. He buried his head, still wet with pond water, into his knees and just sat there for a while in a defensive ball. No one could touch him there, he was safe, but he could still hear them, the words that had etched themselves into his brain. Freak swirled around in his head, John calling him freak, laughing, punching him away, Anderson screaming at Sherlock after the kiss in the stadium, how dare he, how dare he... If he could go to anyone in this world about this situation what would they say about it? It would probably depend on who that person was, but it would have to be Mrs. Hudson probably. She'd be thrilled, make him buy John flowers and serenade him outside his bedroom window or something, as if that wouldn't attract far too much attention anyway. Sherlock groaned, pulled himself to his feet with a bit of a struggle, but grabbed fresh pajamas and showed very quickly, feeling a little bit better. At least he was clean now, and not covered in algae and pond water. He wondered what John was doing right now, was he fighting off the wasps to get his bag, was he home as well, pondering what had happened, or was he still under the tree, smiling to himself because he was so good at tricking his pathetic tutor away. Sherlock rubbed the fog off of the large mirror, staring at his reflection with hate. Was it his hair, was it his startling green eyes, was it his sharp cheekbones, what might be making John Watson like him? But of course not, he didn't like him, what was making him a good target for bullies, where was this neon kick me sign? He was a freak, an outcast, a poor, lonely gay boy underserving of anyone's love, especially the amazing John Watson. He could almost see these words floating around the reflection, now filling up with fog once again, choking out what he might have seen, what was hiding behind that pale skin. Sherlock sighed, now staring at lumpy colors in the completely fogged up mirror and grabbed a towel, drying out his hair the best he could and trying to hang his wet clothes over the shower curtain to dry more. Redbeard was on the bed, looking at him curiously as if trying to figure out what was wrong, what was making his master so upset. Well it certainly wasn't Redbeard' fault, he knew that for sure, Redbeard was the only living thing on this planet that didn't make Sherlock run.