Nothing Like Love and Everything Like a Phoenix

Chapter One

Quick definitions:
Soc- basically the opposite of a Greaser 

Paper-shaker- Cheerleader

Ankle-biters- Kids

Square- someone who's boring, plain.

Nowheresville- Place where boring people live. Nothing going on.

If there's any definitions I missed, please tell me.

(Cover by @.dontjustlivefly on twitter <3)

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1958

Girls fell at Sherlock's feet, there was no denying it. In spite of this, Sherlock never really seemed interested. He could have anyone in (or outside of) the school, but was never the type to go out. Never the kind to 'do' relationships.

Sherlock would never be shot down. He didn't go out much sure, but he did like to tease. He played the game as much as anyone. Even how he dressed: dark leather jacket, plain shirt a size too big on his tall, thin body, tucked into black jeans. All of it was meant only to attract, and even though he never went steady, he would still be found petting on girls while a movie flickered in the background, found the next day with fading marks on his neck to accompany the broken skin on his lip.

John first saw him like that. All dark leather, wild hair, and blood. A goddamn match ready to be set alight.

When Sherlock spotted him, cigarette dangling from his mouth, motorcycle behind him, his eyes watching John like a wolf on hunting grounds, it twisted something inside him. Maybe it was just because he was the biggest contradiction to blonde, glasses wearing, sweater-vest clad John Watson. Little square from nowheresville, who would never be that tall, and never look that cool under any circumstances.

"You see him?" Molly tilted her head up at Sherlock, now taking a drag from his cigarette. John nodded and kept his lips tight as they walked into school. Molly wouldn't stop talking about him, never stopped talking about him, but John didn't listen to a word. If anything he avoided Sherlock like the Plague, but no matter how hard he tried, John couldn't get Sherlock's eyes out of his head. Burning a bright blue. The way he looked over everyone like he had seen this play a thousand times before. Like he had fucking wrote it. His gaze led to high, sharp cheekbones, befitting royal blood. Then, slightly parted, wet lips hinting at a twisted smirk, like he knew John, like he was an old friend, like he could be everything.

It made John furious. He wished he could wipe that goddamn smirk off his face without getting his own bashed in in the process.

The whole thing was Molly's idea. She thought it would be just the most if John led him along. In the middle of the damn year too, when Sherlock had already stared John down plenty of times.

"Just see what he likes. Maybe that's why he doesn't go with girls." She said with scandal in her breath, "It'll just be for kicks."

"From what you told me, he does go with girls. He goes with everyone."

"He doesn't stay with girls, and don't be so dramatic, not everyone. Please? It'll wipe that look off his face, if anything."

Her eyes were wide and pleading. John couldn't find it in his heart to say no, and he couldn't help but think the idea of getting one up on Sherlock was tempting.

He groaned, "Fine. Alright. Just for kicks, but I'm getting out as soon as I can."

She smiled.

John spent the next couple days thinking of the ways he could approach Sherlock, without much result. The only reason he even kept this a possibility was Molly's incessant talk about it. She constantly asked John what he was gonna do, if he was ever gonna do it, until it turned out he didn't have to.

Molly tapped him on the shoulder, squeals passing her lips, "John! John!" she said in an urgent whisper. Blue and ash was all John saw at first, stomping towards him with all the grace of a charging bull, all rock and roll and...something John couldn't place.

Sherlock looked him up and down.

Flash paper.

He licked his lips.

The feeling when you miss a step on the stairs...

Smoke fell out of his mouth.

Pure thrill.

John was sure his heart stopped along with the rest of the school. People would have a goddamn field day with this.

Sherlock towered over him, words heavy in the air and intended only for John's ears. It was too bad everyone else heard them.

"Wanna go for a ride?" Sherlock asked, letting his arm fall to this side, dragging his cigarette down with it.

John's mouth fell open, but his throat didn't let the words out. What was he supposed to say? He had class and plans after. He had a life that Sherlock seemed sure to drag into the light and set aflame.

John couldn't help but let his eyes notice every detail of Sherlock's face now that he was this close, taking note of how pale he truly was. Everything about him was contrast, black hair, white skin, black jacket, white shirt, black shoes, white socks. He was a living checkerboard.

"Well...?" Sherlock was still looking down at him, ego the size of his messy hair and as dark as his jacket.

John was sure everyone was looking at them. Oh, how people would talk the day after. Boring, good boy John Watson running off with Sherlock Holmes. Story of the ages.

John swallowed and nodded, "Yeah." He said, a bit more shakily than he would've liked.

Sherlock's smile was of the devil, twisted and torn, but oh-so tempting. John couldn't help but give in, breaking like weak clay at that smile.

Sherlock was certainly of the devil, and oh, how John wanted a taste of hell.