Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Eight - Comic Book Love

Sherlock

He was reading John's comics.

At first, John thought he was hallucinating (as he often did), but Sherlock would be sitting next to him on the bus, and his gaze would shift slightly, imperceptibly, so that his icy eyes traced the line of John's jacket and stopped at his hands, where either The X-men or Thor was being held. He had a list of band names scrawled into his binder, which he listened to using his busted up headphones, purchased from an Asda two years ago. One headphone was louder than the other, and John had to shift his ear every time to make the noises louder.

Sherlock never leaned in, too prideful to ever let John know that he was reading them - maybe even listening to his music - but occasionally he would thrum his leg, a fluid motion that John took to be a sign for him to turn the page. He believed that Sherlock liked his comics more than he was letting on, because once he heard Sherlock do this long, drawn out snort. It almost seemed like a laugh, but when John looked up, Sherlock wasn't smiling. He was looking directly forward in some stiff, uptight position that John guessed had been beaten into his brain as a child.

John never got a good look at his eyes: Sherlock always was looking out the window, as if he was expecting something to jump out at him. John knew the color, but he didn't recognize the way gold flecked across his iris and what made his pupils dilate inwards, changing the colors that were showing. John didn't know what it looked like when different shades of light hit Sherlock's face because he was always looking out the goddamn window.

Or he was reading John's comics. But John couldn't be exactly sure, still not brave enough to look and see. He did notice, however, the thrumming of Sherlock's fingers, and thus, John turned to the next page.

John

John came home later than usual, entering the house loudly, stepping on a cat. (He had no clue why a cat just appeared out of nowhere. Harry called it Scrooge, because, apparently, it had some resemblance to the fictional character Ebenezer. Harry didn't read. John didn't question the reliability of her references to books.)

So, after the cat clawed him, hissing, he called, "Harriet!"

"John?" It sounded... sounded like Mum.

"Mum?"

"John? John!" She sounded happy. Tired. She popped out of a doorway, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. "Hey, John, baby. Come here," she said, holding out her arms to her son. He took her in, wrapping his arms completely around her. She had this strange skinniness, probably because Pickard always said, "That shit isn't good for you," and sometimes, "You need to tone down on the shit you eat," and occasionally a straight up, "You're a fucking fat ass." She wasn't. She was way too skinny, but John loved his mother any way she looked, even when she looked downright shit. Like now.

Her hair was tied into a limp, mousy bun, which had hairs fraying on each side of her head, and John pulled on a hair. It fell out. John grimaced.

"Where's Harry?" John asked. "Pickard?"

"I'm here," Harry said quietly, voice resounding from the kitchen counter. "We're making some soup."

"Yeah," John's mum said, "Your dad is-"

"Not my dad."

"He's all you got."

John fixed his mother with a patronizing, annoyed stare. "I have Harry. I have you. Don't fuc-" he cut himself off, "Don't let him take advantage of you."

"John..."

"Just make the soup, mum."

She bustled into the kitchen, chopping up onions and peppers. She put them into a bot full of chicken broth, and the room erupted into an awkward quiet before Harry sighed in frustration and John's mum looked up; stern, but also peculiarly guilty. She knew of the pains she put John through, but refused to address them. She was the definition of negligence, and she knew it, but to defend herself and her husband, she found the need to speak.