Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter One - New Boy

A/N: HELLO TO ANY PEOPLE WHO THINK REPORTING ME IS THE RIGHT IDEA. This has gotten taken down, and it has been put back up. So, like, if you reported me, there would be no point. I will only take this down if RAINBOW ROWELL HERSELF TELLS ME TO. THIS STORY BELONGS TO RAINBOW ROWELL. THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO SHERLOCK. THIS IS NOTHING OTHER THAN WHAT IT CLAIMS TO BE: FANFICTION. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. Here's chapter one. Please vote, or comment. I love you all quite dearly.

Sherlock

Sherlock couldn't think past all that screaming, really. He didn't listen to music on the bus. It slowed down his brain, muffled the intelligence yelling inside his head.

He never found anything but his breathing to be calming, but now, on this bloody god forsaken bus, it was haywire. Loud, raucous.

Anderson and Sally seemed to shout louder than his thoughts did, and right now, his thoughts were yelling, "be quiet," and suddenly, he was screaming too. "Will you shut up? You're lowering my IQ level with your insipid racket!"

And then it was quiet. There was a slight chorus of "freak" from the surrounding seats. Sherlock tried not care.

He took the opportunity to put headphones over his ears, and look out the window. He wasn't really listening to anything. He found it to be serene, the sun rising over the plains, but that didn't mean he minded. It was all sort of materialistic, the idea of snow-capped mountains and amber fields of grain.

Plus, he just wanted to leave the fucking bus. Everyone just irked him. He slipped by easily enough, even if he was the most arrogant arse of them all. They didn't notice his cheekbones, or the way that he stood alone, taller than an oak. Maybe he was just too lonely to be aware of people watching him. Never bothered Sherlock, the boy prodigy.

He didn't like music, but he put headphones on.

He hated smiling, but he moved his cheeks anyway.

He didn't like eating. His mother found it to be necessary, so he did.

He hated coats, and hated exposed skin. He expressed both, depending on the season.

Might as well be Sherlock, the lie.

But when he felt the bus park at a new spot, and it registered that there could possibly be a new kid, and he felt the shudder of the floor as he stepped on, Sherlock knew that the boy wasn't.

He looked so strange. He wore jeans. Jeans, that didn't tighten flatteringly around his calves. He got them from a thrift store, it seemed, and he had an old flannel bunched over his shoulders. Sherlock hated it. So ugly.

The size was too large, and he was a bit stout. Well, stouter than Sherlock. Just regular. Unlike him. He felt his pulse beat against his bones.

Sally and Phillip and Greg and even Mycroft thought the same as well, apparently. They fixed him with a hostile, scrutinizing gaze that seemed to chill John's bones.

His hair was the blondest of blonde, too, like he wanted people to just stare and stare and stare. His lips tightened as he went up the bus aisle, looking absolutely stalwart. Ferocious. The audacity. He looked like a tiger in the midst of poachers.

Everyone looked down as he made his way up, working through the silence. The driver muttered, "Sit," and the boy panicked, slightly, but still stared down any man daring to look up. Sherlock ignored him. Stupid bugger could get his own seat. He didn't need Sherlock's.

"Sit down," the bus driver yelled as the bus began to coast. There were plenty of empty seats. No one wanted to share. Mostly because he looked like a hobo. Why did he have to wear jeans? Why was his flannel so ugly? Didn't he have any sense?

"Sit down!"

"Fuck," the boy stuttered.

"Sit," the busdriver shouted, "bloody down!"

Sherlock moved over angrily, and the boy gave him a look of honest-to-god surprise before seating himself.

There were slight snickers, but Sherlock looked at all of them with a threatening gaze and they all quieted instantly.

Then he waited for the bus to park in front of his lousy school, where jeans were absolutely disturbing and flannels were grotesque. He almost felt bad. But then, Sherlock didn't.