Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Six - The Locker Rooms

John

They'd shortened his name from the technicolor mistake to soon just Technicolor Mistake and then, simply, Mistake.

Anderson pushed him on the way to gym, where John tried very hard not to fail. He wasn't smart, but he was fast, and he was one of the best boxers at his old school. He threw punches like earthquakes came in waves; hard, fast, decisive and without hesitation. He knew that if he got attacked, it'd be easy to beat the shit out of them at any time. They didn't have any physical skill. Then again, Sebastian was muscular, and so was Gregory. Not like he wanted to fight anyone, but sometimes his skin itched.

He went inside the locker room, stripped quickly, and people stared at the bare ass of the boy who'd been in the school for about a week. Everyone was strangely excitable, pointing and laughing at him. Fuck, John thought, don't turn around, just pull up your trousers and walk.

He did so, and then walked away, not realizing the note that was taped to his back.

After gym, he looked in a mirror. His trainers were too small, and his jacket was much too big; it cascaded over his palms. Maybe his step-dad would change his mind about never buying him anything again, and instead, get a fucking job. Harry was the lone earner, working at some bar that was an hour away and had disgusting old men. John was more scared for Harriet than he was scared of Pickard. He couldn't even get a job - the sole car was Harry's, and he couldn't drive. His mom was off teaching in some really poor part of London, but she'd be back in two days, after collecting a whopping bonus from benefactors running the district. Pickard said that she'd never have an excuse not to make him a sandwich again, or something idiotic like that. If only John could strangle him.

Then he heard laughter behind him. It was Anderson, laughing with his stupid buddies.

"Faggot," he said, echoing Pickard's words. A boy threw a water bottle at John's head, which promptly hit him in the face, splashing water all over his homework. John just glared before shaking water out of his hair, and picking up his sopping wet books. He could tell that this was going to suck.

"Oh, and Mistake," one of the boys called, "You better stop talking to that freak Sherlock."

John frowned slightly and walked out of the empty locker rooms while the boys laughed at everything that he was. It wasn't his fault he liked flannels. He wasn't gay; who made that assumption? Who even assumed that he liked Sherlock, of all things? Sherlock was an annoying, pompous ass who could read poetry, that was all. He wasn't a friend, and he'd never ever be a lover. John wasn't gay.

But as he walked through the hall, he felt someone peel tape off his back. It was Molly, frowning slightly, face contorted. "H-hi," she stuttered. "I'm Molly." She was pretty, in a plain way.

"Oh. John."

"They taped this to your back," she said, kindly, "Here."

John turned over the piece of paper. It said, "john looks @ the boys in the locker rooms beacause hes a fag." John frowned before tearing up the paper and throwing it on the floor. "They're all fucking arses," John said angrily. Molly looked taken aback, like she'd never heard someone curse before.

"Sorry," John mumbled, "My step-dad curses a whole lot." There was an awkward pause as Molly chuckled lightly. "What's your next class?"

"Science," she said nervously with a timid smile, "It's on the left, fourteen doors down. It's my favorite subject."

"Oh, cool. I have science next, too. Different teacher, I think..." John trailed off.

"Mrs. Adler?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, her."

"She scares me," Molly said, scratching her thigh and adjusting her long hair, "A lot."

John chuckled slightly before offering to walk with her every day; be her protectorate from the big, bad Mrs. Adler. Partners in crime; the first new friend. He liked the sound of Molly and John.

Sherlock

Sherlock bent over as a boy walked past him, trying to hide himself. He was so skinny, and to a degree he felt a certain self-hatred. It seemed endless, like waves, pounding into him constantly. He didn't want to move, or think, really. He wanted to stay huddled in the corner, trying to ignore the thudding of the boys walking past. They'd thrown his clothes in the toilet again, and now all he had on was a too big gym suit that made him seem small and broken.

He could see all the bones in his hands. They scattered up in down, less of a pattern and more of a displaced anatomy, sketelon hard and hatefully pointed. Where his mother had curves, he had sharp angles.

He wasn't gay, at least; that'd get the bullies really riled up. Ooh, Sherlock likes boys, oh, so gay, oh, wow, fag!

He felt like an outcast but maybe that was because he pissed people off by being a know-it-all all the time and he played ten different instruments and spoke fourteen different languages and knew how to do pre-calc by the age of seven and had only kissed someone once. It was his mother. That usually counted as freakish behavior.

He wondered if he was going to have to spend all day inside the locker rooms, and then maybe, when he got home, his father would understand why he had no friends. Maybe his dad would even accept him as the lonely virgin of the household, and say that he was proud he had risen a child prodigy.

Maybe he'd take out a photo album from 1979 and say, "That was your mum and I. We were so in love, like school children," but when Sherlock came home, cheeks soaked with tears, still wearing only a gym suit, Siger yelled at him and smacked him hard, telling him to go upstairs. That he did, holding his tongue and deciding to leave everyone well alone.

His mom came back from work three hours later and made him some pie, which he ate two cherries gingerly before falling asleep at merely five o'clock.

A/N: Sherlock bby no :(