Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Eleven - To Make It Better

John

"Sherlock?" John called, "Is that you?" He was tentative as he stepped forward, asking the empty voice, "Where are you?"

"In a locker. It says 'freak' all over it in permanent sharpie - it's not that hard to spot."

It wasn't. It was emboldened, italicized, disturbing pitch black words, screaming at John. "You aren't a freak," John murmured softly as he approached the locker. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. But he said it all the same, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he needed to defend himself, or depreciate himself, but he said something that wasn't entirely one or the other.

"You didn't say that when we first met," Sherlock commented, as John made his way to the locker. "I suppose I didn't expect you to. They're all idiots. Every last one of them. They smell like stupidity looks."

John laughed quietly, but Sherlock did not join him. Instead, he snapped, "Well, are you going to open it, or not?"

"How?" John questioned, looking through the small slits in the locker.

"With a key," Sherlock scoffed, as if it was entirely obvious (it was, but John liked to imagine it wasn't). "Unless you want to use an ax."

"I'm alright with that," John huffed frustratedly. Twat. "Where's the key?"

"In the toilet. Fetch it."

"What?"

"I said for you to get the damned key so I can get out of here. Honestly, John. Listen."

"No!" John yelled, "It's at the way bottom, next to a piece of shit. No."

"I'll pay you a hundred dollars," Sherlock said, absently picking at his cuticles, "God knows you need it, for your sister's tuition... for your tuition, in fact."

"Are you trying to bribe me?" John's hands itched, almost involuntarily reaching for the key. He did need the money, immensely. Harry had used her savings all on cigarettes and mini skirts, and John needed a hundred dollars, so, so much.

"I'm not trying to bribe you," Sherlock said with a smirk. Awh, fuck it, thought John, and his hand darted inside the toilet and back out before Sherlock could blink. Then he clicked it into the keyhole, and Sherlock fell out, muscles refusing to help him stand. John snorted as he helped Sherlock up, fingers slick with toilet water. Sherlock didn't say anything about it.

"Mm," Sherlock moaned briefly; John had a feeling that was the closest he ever got to admitting he was in pain. He seemed to observe John as he stumbled up. "Mrs. Adler kept you after again?" he asked. "Oh, it's obvious, the red lipstick on the collar of your shirt. Ever notice she wipes her lipstick around with her right hand?"

"No," John said, awed. He turned on a faucet and ran some cold water over his hands.

"And then there's the chalk. You look like a dissatisfied ghost, with only the creases in your face not covered by it, like you'd been frowning the entire time. You must not like her."

"I do," John started.

"No, you don't."

"Alright. I don't. Got me. She wanted me to dust her erasers, and I couldn't get home so I decided to sleep here."

"Did you want to sleep here?" Sherlock's face feigned curiosity as John lied. John said, no, no, he didn't. 

"Well then. I suppose I'll just call my parents and-"

"Why would you bloody call your parents? This is cool. The lights are off... The world is small... It's cold at home..."

"No," Sherlock said, "No, I really must be going-"