Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Four - Family Mechanism

Sherlock

Sherlock learned the boy's name; well, stole an attendance sheet and narrowed down who the boy was. John. It fit him. He was stout. Strange. Quietly firm. He had eyes like liquid mercury. They weren't icy, like his own. He didn't really like his eyes, though. They were a bit... deep. Too deep. He saw himself hiding in them.

He cringed at himself. He couldn't hide in someone else's eyes. There would be no where to go. He'd be stuck in a pupil, colors confusing, flecking across the edges of the iris. That was stupid. His brother would tell him that it was.

So when John sat down, Sherlock looked away quickly, not daring to set foot into those metal death traps. Instead, he looked into John's lap, where he had a binder and a book. It had all these words on it.

The Beatles, and The Smiths, and The xx, and why not just throw in some nonsense like Radiohead?

Sherlock scoffed gently. The radio had a head, apparently.

"What?" John questioned. Sherlock looked up at the boy beside him.

"What?"

"You snickered," John said gently, but still with a hard undertone. He said it like a challenge.

"Just... you," Sherlock replied; spat, more. It came out harder than he'd meant it to.

"Oh. So you think I'm a technicolor mistake, too? Bloody hell, Will-"

"Sherlock-"

"-iam, I thought you'd be more sensitive about things like that, considering your status on the social scale."

Sherlock looked at him. Maybe he'd deduce him, just to piss him off. It would be fun. They boy was already a bumbling mess. A push would make him squeal like a child lost in a Supercenter.

"I don't have a status on the social scale."

"You do," John argued, and Sherlock held back a growl deep in his throat.

"No," he insisted.

"Yes." John smiled, "You're a freak."

Sherlock could feel Sally and Anderson's hyena grins burn into his back.

"Stop... talking to me." Sherlock put on his headphones as John leaned back into the bus seat. It was quiet in their space for about a minute, and then, slowly, John turned to Sherlock, staring at him. Sherlock kneaded his sweaty palms together. Fuck.

"You aren't listening to anything," John whispered.

After a long silence, Sherlock huffed, "I... know."

When the bus stopped, they parted quickly, embarrassed and slightly heady. Why did John do that? Speak? It was such a better idea to keep his mouth closed, lest someone break his teeth, his eyes shut, just in case he looked at the sun, and his hearing at low volume, so when his parents screamed he couldn't hear. It made more sense than being an open wound, welcome to infection.

Sherlock hated all that John symbolized. Yeah, Sherlock didn't care, but he wasn't an idiot. He didn't start things that he'd regret later. Sherlock shook his head as he walked away from John, the technicolor mistake.

John

John walked home. He hadn't told anyone that instead of going home on the first day, he slept on the stairs of the school.

As soon as he got to his house, he put his books down by his step-dad's couch, ran into his room, and searched through his currently empty cabinets. He found it; his iPod, cracked and covered in dust. He also had a CD player, which he smiled at. It said, "Happiness," in an unreadable scrawl.

He popped it in his player.

It blasted. His dad yelled.

"FUCKING TURN IT DOWN YOU PIECE OF-"

John blocked out the next word mentally, and quietly turned it down. Then he rummaged some more, looking for his CD's. He only had forty albums or so. It was good music, but his sister didn't really like it. She said she was too goth for indie pop. Too gay.

Once, she said it aloud, while Pickard was in the same room.

She really, really shouldn't have.

Sherlock

Sherlock stopped. Stared at the door. It seemed inviting. There was a fault in the middle, a crack that you could stick your pinkie finger into and it would only scrape the surface of your skin. Your epidermis.

Sherlock stepped inside. His father was waiting. His biological father. Mycroft was studying at Greg's house. There was no one to protect him for the man that was about to bustle him in.

He wasn't drunk, or anything. He was simply twisted. And when Sherlock began to step away, Mr. Holmes' eyes scrunched. "What are you doing," he whispered dangerously, "Come inside. You're letting the breeze in."

Sherlock wanted to mewl like a dying kitten. He wanted to just die. Chances were that in five minutes he'd be bent over his father's knee as he took out all his anger. He wasn't even young enough for that to be acceptable anymore, at a whopping sixteen, but his father hit him all the same.

"Come inside," his father said coldly, folding his newspaper, and standing tall. Sherlock was his height but he shrank. His father walked closer, and his stomach flipped. Closer, closer, until Sherlock heard a strangled whisper.

"In."

Sherlock nodded once before the bile rose past the threshold of his throat and he vomited all over the porch, yellow remains of the water he drank at lunchtime coming up. It didn't taste bad at all. Watery.

"You idiot. You're such a freak, you know that?" Siger grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, and he retched again. Shit. SHIT. SHIT SHIT SHIT.

Sherlock's dad didn't even attempt to chastise him before pulling him inside by the collar.

A/N: I hate Siger and Pickard so much legit please leave a vote and/or comment I LOVE YOU GUISE YAY baibai