Sherlock
It was the same today. The blonde sat with him. He wore the same clothes as the day before. Sherlock deduced that he slept on the stairs of the school, huddled in the blanket he brought, just in case this occurrence actually happened.
Sherlock hated the way his eyes itched up his spine, capturing every detail. Sherlock felt the boy see him. And that made him feel worthless.
John
John looked on as the brown haired boy recited a poem in a snarling voice. He sounded magical. Angrily magical.
The teacher, Mr. Lecter, smiled lightly, watching the boy's lips move. The teacher had a grandiose air; probably was a psychopath who hid bodies in his basement. That's why Mr. Lecter loved the boy so much. They could relate to each other.
His name was William. The freak.
John knew why they called him that. He recited poems like he was bored of their crypticism, yet he brought them to life. William breathed literature. And that was weird.
"There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind."
William breathed life.
"Excellent recitation," Mr. Lecter praised in a strange accent. "Perhaps you should sign up for our poetry club, Sherlock."
Sherlock? That was so... exotic. His name was Will. Billy. Not something as complicated as Sherlock. It suited him immensely. Bloody strangely.
At the compliment, Sherlock scoffed. "It was Shel Silverstien, not Hemingway."
"Shel Silverstien is an amazing poet. He put the thought process of gods into the poems of children."
"And that's why I think he's an idiot."
"Hmm?" Mr. Lecter answered.
"Why would you hide something so grandiose inside a nursery rhyme?"
Mr. Lecter thought. Then he replied, "Sometimes you need to be a child to understand the gods."
The bell rang. Wow.
English was now his favorite subject; to hell with gym.
Sherlock
Sherlock found his seat again, almost angry at himself for letting the boy sit there. I mean, it was his seat. The boy had no business sitting there. He didn't like the boy. They called him hobo, and the technicolored mistake. He wore jeans and a sweater, everyday, and a thin jacket that smelled like alcohol. It smelled like a familiarly abusive father.
The boy that sat with him was neither. He was nothingly everything. He had no defining factor, like the others.
Sally: Smart bitch. Enemy.
Phillip: Dumb arse. Tormentor.
Greg: Nice. Follower.
Mycroft: Idiotically ingenious. Brother.
Molly: Romantically interested. Not interested.
John: ??? Blonde. Soft. Hard. Had a tendency to stare at him. Unsettlingly.
What was he, though? What was his relationship to the boy that was clambering into his seat? Sherlock decided on the word...
"Bus... person." Sherlock smiled, not realizing that he said it aloud. John smiled as well.
A/N: THE SHIFT IS HAPPENING YAY Please leave a comment or vote telling me what you think thank you thank you thank you ILY bai xx
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Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)
Fanfiction"I'm stupid," John says. "Why?" "Because I fell in love with you." "Yeah," Sherlock responds, "Definitely stupid." Set over the course of one school year in 2009, this is the story of two star-crossed misfits - Sherlock and John - smart enough to kn...
