Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Fourteen - Breathless

John

John's mom came in and sat on the bed when John woke up, and he mumbled, "I dunno why you're here."

Her eyebrows raised. "Ya sure?"

John sat up and slid his feet over the mattress sleepily and said, "Well. Yeah, I do, and I don't wanna fucking talk about it."

"Don't you curse at me, young man." Her voice was eerily stern; her neck dotted with purple black bruises that John yearned to poke. Maybe if he punctured the skin, the blood stored in the hickey would spill out and cleanse itself.

"No, I just - no. It isn't like that. It never was like that, Mum, he's just my science partner."

Mum grimaced angrily: "No, John. That look on your face when you hear his name is dangerous, and the prospect of you being gay-"

"Bisexual," John corrected-

"Will make Pickard so angry-"

"It isn't fucking like that," John snarled. "And he won't come back. I swear, I'll tell 'im, and-"

"John..." Emma swept her mousy hair to one side before sighing. "I don't want you to be like Harry."

John's jaw dropped, and he looked on in angry shock. "Like Harry? You talk about her like she's an alien species, or a damn freak!"

"No, I-"

"And you're exactly like her, too. I see the fucking pills in your purse. I'm not dysfunctional. Harry isn't dysfunctional. She's following your example. Because maybe you don't hit her but you may as well have." There was a tense silence interrupted by John's harsh growl; "Why did you marry that slimy bastard?"

"Don't speak about your father that way!" Emma yelled.

"HE ISN'T MY GODDAMNED FATHER AND NEVER WILL BE," John roared. He was so angry; there was a haze clouding his vision when he lashed out, and he nearly ran into Pickard's room to peel the skin off his rotted bones.

He restrained himself, barely, as he gathered his backpack and his jacket, which smelled less of vanilla than it did of mint.

And then he ran.

He ran to the bus stop and then ran to the place Sherlock took fencing lessons and then back. And he ran in place. And he did push ups. Sit ups. Pull ups on a branch that was hanging haphazardly from a tree; and then sit ups with his legs swung over the branch. He calmed down. He jumped out of the tree. And it was only six-forty.

John wondered if Pickard had heard what he'd said and beaten his mum for it. Hit her over and over and over and over until there were clumps of her formerly luscious blonde hair on the floor. And maybe he hit Harry too, or maybe he waited until Mum was incapacitated to lock Harry inside her room with him and-

"URGH!" John yelled, taking a rock and throwing at the nearest tree. "FUCK!" John breathed in slightly, and exhaled; "Fuck." And suddenly he was cold.

John didn't notice the beautiful fog roll in like a blanket over his sufferings, he was screaming so loudly. He didn't notice the chill outlining his skin and making him feel awake. He was too distracted by an uncanny anger; an uncanny need to punch someone, anyone.

And the thing was... out of all of it, John couldn't think of anything besides the fact that what John had said to his mum about Sherlock was true; It wasn't like that. And John knew it wouldn't be, it couldn't be, because of all that damn shit that Sherlock and he had to plow through. Yeah, Sherlock was eccentric, but was he a homosexual fag? No. John was the faggot. He was the mistake. And Sherlock had nice suits and he smelled like mint all the time and his name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I mean, he was rich and brilliant and gorgeous.

So no. It wasn't like that. And out of everything (like, really, of all things, that?), the fact that Sherlock, a cute boy who just happened to make John feel real again, didn't like him like that, made him feel the worst. Like, fuck, John, suck it up.

And it made him so angry, too, because Sherlock was the best thing that'd ever happened and he was sad. And his life fucking sucked, but again, he was just angry that Sherlock didn't like him like that. Like, like-like him. Sherlock didn't like-like him like that.

When the bus came, it erupted through the fog like a beacon of hope. It was rather a grandiose affair. "The Arrival of the Bus: The Precursor to All Things," and John slung his backpack over his shoulders with a radical disdain. Now he felt shit. His hands still itched with an intense need to pummel someone into the ground.

Well. John frowned. Alas. He was on the bus. And that made him happy again, unfortunately. Like he wanted to be angry all day, but that feeling quickly abated at the sight of him, chocolate brown curls framing perfection. His blue eyes were alight with inquiry as he watched the fog swallow them whole, darkening the bus. It was quiet, even. Every voice was a breath. No one wanted to disturb the serenity of the hills rolling past them. And when John sat down next to Sherlock...

Sherlock spoke. He broke it all with a whisper. "I apologize about last night. It was improper of me to come to your house uninvited, and I hope you don't want to... stop. This."

John turned. "What?" His whisper was lower than a breath. And suddenly, he felt like confiding in Sherlock. Even though he'd just scraped all the Pickard out of the Sherlock part of his brain, he needed to tell Sherlock... something. Coat the Pickard part of his mind with Sherlock. So John said, "That was Pickard. At the door. He's my..."

"What?"

"My problem, I s'pose."

"He hits your mom," Sherlock said, as gently put as he could possibly put it.

John's eyes narrowed. "I... yes," he answered measuredly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I didn't want to get you in trouble last night." Sherlock tugged on John's jacket, which smelled like vanilla ice-cream. Philly. Chocolate sprinkles with a butterscotch topping.

"You didn't get me in trouble," John whispered. "I got myself in trouble."

"I'm entirely certain the fault was mine," Sherlock commented. And Sherlock shook his head. "Never mind. I made a copy of the composition so you could listen-"

"Hey. Sherlock." John's eyes were pained. "Don't... don't feel an obligation to make me feel better. Okay?"

"Hey, John," Sherlock murmured.

John breathed, "Yes."

"Don't be afraid," Sherlock countered with a sly grin, that curled up in the most important manner. As if his lips defined him.

"You were made... to..." A flicker of a smile lit up his face. "Go out and get him..."

Sherlock's fingers were still idly rubbing John's leather jacket as he spoke. "Sheepskin inseam, with an extra layer of insulation meant for those cold days when you're riding to school on the bus. 25% cotton; the rest is a biodegradable polymer that makes the jacket stretch-" Sherlock slowly pulled on the corner. And John slowly looked down. "-for any possible shrinkage after drying..."

"I..." John started. Say it. Say it. Before he can look up, because, goddamn, if Sherlock looked up now, he'd read John like an open book. He'd know; John felt his skin blotch and turn warm with a new feeling as Sherlock just intimately felt John's jacket, and right then - only right then - John noticed his palm, centimeters away. John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's hand in all its intricate perfection... radiating.

"...And it's good for when you're in the fog; the waterproof sealant protects you, it arms you... it makes you a superhero."

John didn't need to say anything. He felt Sherlock's thumb slide into the dip of his palm.

And John disintegrated.

Sherlock

When Sherlock held John's hand... it felt as if he was holding an entity. A singular being, with a heartbeat, and a soul. Sherlock was acutely aware of the soft skin pulsing under his fingertips as he froze John with his touch.

Sherlock had held people's hands, before. He'd held Molly's, back when he wasn't a freak and she liked him. That was when he was eight or so, and Anderson had no quarrel with him and they were all just children. Molly's hand - he remembered this intricately - had a soft touch, nervous and quivering against his chubby fingers. She had the smile of an angel back then. Now she was skinny. And boring. And her hand felt like glass.

And he'd held hands with Mycroft before Redbeard died. Before Dad began to drink. They played pirates on the swings in the playground and they'd carve jack-o-lanterns in the quiet of their home. They would hold hands by the fire before falling asleep. "Myc?" Sherlock had used to say, "Are you awake?"

"Yes, brother dear."

Their relationship ended sooner than Sherlock anticipated. He had hoped Redbeard's passing would make Mycroft somehow closer. Until the age of eleven, Mycroft was a distant member of the family. And then Father began to drink. And, once again, Mycroft held Sherlock's hand.

And he used to hold his father's hand. It felt so conservative - Sherlock's hand, back then, could fit round Siger's thumb. But it was always disconnected.

He'd kissed Molly, too. Just a peck on the cheek. A warm reminder of a love not shared (by Sherlock, of course). She blushed and kissed him back. Right on the left cheek, at the corner of his mouth. But he'd known, at that point, at merely eight, that the sexual appeal was completely lacking and libido was nonexistent. He was an... "Ay-sek-shoo-ell," he said to Mycroft one day, "The lack of attraction to any gender," and Mycroft sighed out his nose.

"Go play," Mycroft'd said.

And Sherlock knew that he'd never love anyone besides Redbeard, and Mummy. So he didn't worry until he was eleven. Where people thought, Wasn't it a bit strange the Holmes boy didn't like anyone?

He had always been sure that nothing could bring out the dopamine in his system. It was locked in there, right besides his vast intellect. He figured that if he ever was roused by curiosity, it would be strictly scientific. Sherlock Holmes was always sure John Watson could not affect him.

How wrong he was.

John

Disintegrated.

Like he'd exploded into a million suns, his particles bouncing off the walls, and yet still in one singular point that echoed Sherlock's strokes. Sherlock was painting him a picture with his thumb, inducing an epileptic seizure of the most massive proportions.

John'd kissed girls before. Every single one was great, but this... this was fucking explosive. He felt like he was being burned alive by a single nerve. Burned to the core. He was shaking. Trembling.

Maybe Sherlock was a superhero. The Knight in White. The Blue Eyed Fencer. The Elegant Swordsman. The Destroyer.

Because, fuck, John felt destroyed.

That was so bloody brilliant.

Sherlock

When Sherlock let go (which of course was when the bus stopped because how the hell could he let go), he realized that John was blushing. His lips were tight, and his smile nonexistent. And Sherlock was only human, so he blushed as well, and brushed his hair into his eyes - like his hair would help.

Sherlock wondered if people saw.

If people saw his finger dipping into John's skin...

And the pull of his satin pink lips when he realized what he'd done. And the blue eyed stare.

Sherlock wondered - really, he couldn't stop thinking - what if they saw Sherlock's index finger go into the skin between John's fingers? What if Anderson saw Sherlock's thumb slide in to feel the veins drawn across John's pulsing wrist? What if... what if he wasn't as emotionally impartial as he'd first believed?

And what if John didn't reciprocate?

Sherlock stood up behind John in the aisle. He was shorter; much shorter, and his tanned skin was turning a shade of pink that Sherlock had never known to be possible to make. Maybe Sherlock was still blushing. He didn't know. Their heads were held high, and it seemed like John was indifferent, but... his skin. Like sunrise in Spring.

Sherlock walked with John until they reached his locker. There was nothing in there. There was never anything in there. But John unlocked it. Sherlock said, "Six, four, three," and John replied, "You know my locker combo?"

"Obvio-" Sherlock stopped. Rethought that sentence. "Yes," and then, "John, I'm so-"

"Don't... don't apologize, Sherlock." John's face was plain.

"Okay." Sherlock smirked weakly.

"See you in English?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay, Sherlock."

"Okay, peasant."

"Okay," John said, and then walked away.

God, Sherlock thought. I'm so... sentimental.

John

John rubbed his hand to see if the nerves would reappear. He could still feel his palm burn with Sherlock, and that was fine, sure. But he was frustrated, too, because why didn't his hands always feel like that?

Science made no sense. Why he wanted to be a doctor... John couldn't figure.

Sherlock

Sherlock tried not to care.

He really tried.

He tried when John ignored him in English and History, and when he went to John's locker after school and he wasn't there.

When he got on the bus, sopping wet from the rain, John was there first - except by the window. His eyes seemed gray in the light, and his lips were raw and pink. Sherlock didn't wonder why he noticed this; he knew why he noticed this.

Sherlock sat down, and said, "I'm the window seat," and John moved right, and nodded.

Sherlock then clasped his fingers, tightly, as not to let John touch him... and John touched him anyway. Tentatively. His fingers pried both of Sherlock's hands open, and John slid inside silently, letting his thumb echo Sherlock's earlier movements. Sherlock inhaled, ready to let out a slew of deductions in order to calm himself down.

He didn't notice John trembling beneath him. Well, he noticed. He just didn't process.

"Hey, John-"

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Yes," was John's cryptic response.

"Okay," was Sherlock's quiet answer.

They both stared at their hands. Then back up.

And at last, Sherlock saw John's smile. Breathless.

A/N: HOOOOWWWW FUCKING CUTE IS THAT JUST SHOWER THEM WITH LOVE THEY ARE GETTING MARRIED GOD UGH CUTE UGH CUTEE please lllleavve a vote because i like them and comments even more so ily all so mach