Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Sixteen - At Least Today

Sherlock

Mondays were definitely better.

Better than Sunday. On Sunday, John had walked Sherlock home at five in the morning - before anyone had woken up, and they saw the sun rise above the rural hills. They never said a word; the silence was absolutely fine. Sherlock wished that things were quieter sometimes. He was tired of excitement (which made no sense because he was Sherlock, for god's sake) and getting hit. Sherlock just yearned for quiet. And John understood that, it seemed, because he hadn't asked about the black eye, or the split lip. He hadn't said shit about anything, ever, that morning.

Sherlock thought that was superb.

When Sherlock got home, his mum was crying, and Siger was shushing her, trying to coax her into quietness. Mycroft was tight-lipped and frowning at Siger's pretense. He knew what had happened. He noticed the blood in Siger's fingernails.

When Violet saw Sherlock, she embraced him; "Oh, my poor, poor baby, what happened, are you okay, who did this to you-"

She never noticed that Sherlock smelled like vanilla, or that Siger had stalked up the stairs while she'd been fawning all over him.

"I was mugged," Sherlock had said.

It was all Sherlock could do to think of what had happened the night before - which was nothing, at all. He'd slept. In John's bed. It hit Sherlock; he'd slept in John's bed, where he sat and lay and slept and ate and cried and... "wanked," as John would say. The thought made him...

Sherlock didn't know how he felt about that. Maybe he was happy. Or surprised at himself; what had possessed him?

He'd stayed home that day, as his mum cleaned his eye, bandaged his lips, unaware of Siger watching.

But now, it was Monday. And it was brilliant.

John

Mondays were bloody brilliant.

When John'd gotten on the bus, Sherlock grinned at him, even though his face was all fucked up. Anderson was yelling about how ugly Sally looked with that weird hat on, completely disregarding Sherlock's existence, and that was great, that was jolly.

John didn't want to smile, lest the entire school figure out that he was enamored with this miracle, but he couldn't not smile. His lips refused to cooperate with his brain, so he stared at his feet, grinning like there was nothing on earth more amazing than his shoes.

When John sat down, by the window, he quickly took Sherlock's hand in his and kissed it. He kissed Sherlock like he would've kissed a butterfly, or a heartbeat; tender, and slow.

Sherlock blinked, once, twice, and then he slowly lit up like the sky at dawn.

"I missed you," John said, and he let his face fall against Sherlock's minty black woolen trenchcoat.

"How much?" Sherlock whispered, taking John's hand in his and squeezing. John looked up for the shortest moment to capture how Sherlock's eyes looked in the darkness.

"Enough," John replied, and nestled his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

They said nothing else on the way to school.

When the bus stopped, they walked together until they reached Sherlock's locker, and John tugged on a curl that was slightly displaced on his head with one tanned finger; "Back to missing you," he said, and then he gathered his stuff and he walked away.

He was late to homeroom, and didn't hear the teacher yell at him that he'd gotten a pass to guidance.

"Watson! Wake up!"

He hated that teacher. He was a total arse. As John went to the office, he hummed the song Sherlock had made. It was a dum dududuh dum dududuh, and when John got to the office he was so fucking ecstatic he smiled at Mr. Barrymore.

"You're looking..." The Major's nose crinkled. "...radiant."

"Yeah," John said, "Why did you-"

"Your dad called. Said he didn't have your number."

"Can I speak to him?"

"Go on ahead." The Major pointed to the phone, hooked up to the brick wall adjacent to them.

John walked over to it and punched in a few numbers. He let the phone ring a bit, and then, "Dad?"

"Hi, Johnny," his dad said, "how are you?" His voice was thick with an overenthusiasm that John wanted to put into a jar and open whenever he was feeling shitty. "How is your Mum?"

"Oh. Pickard. You know," John murmured.

"Yeah?" John's dad's voice died a bit. "I'm sorry about that. Really. Um, Harry?"

"She's fine," John lied.

"You never call."

There was no point in explaining their financial situation or the fact that John's phone had been cut off when he couldn't pay for it or the fact that the family had lost power more than twice because they couldn't afford electricity. "Sorry, dad, I just don't have the time. Really. I'll call."

"Okay," his dad said. "Anyway. I was wondering if you possibly wanted to make an easy twenty pounds...?" He probably felt guilty about this, thus the obvious nervousness in his voice.

"Yeah, I could use some."

"Okay, Amy - you know her, my fianceé..." His voice was slathered with obvious guilt. "I'm taking her to dinner on Friday night and I need a babysitter. So I was thinking that you could watch over Melody..."

That kid his dad and Amy had produced... it gave John this strangely jealous feeling, like, how come you got to get my dad and I didn't? "Yeah!" John replied as he pushed the thought out, "'Course. Do you know where I live?"

"Yeah, I believe so. You go to Baskerville High School, correct?"

"Yeah. I get out at three; pick me up there." John smiled to himself.

His dad sounded like a sales clerk, or someone who never went outside to socialize. He had a voice that was thick with nervousness, and dark blue eyes, with rich blonde hair. He didn't have John's nose. That was their only difference, besides his personality. He was flimsy, fragile, and a bad male role model - his skinny frame and mousy looks gave him the undesired effect of seeming like he worked in a cubicle - and God, he was so much better than Pickard could ever be.

"Okay, Johnny. I will see you..." There was a pause as he felt his dad smile. "Friday. Love you."

"See you."

John hung up and exited the office to walk down the hall.

Everyone is fine. Everything is great.

John pressed his lips to the back of his hand, just to check how it felt.

Sherlock

Sherlock had been rubbing the back of his hand for a long time now. Maybe the entire day. Right in between his first and second knuckles, where John had kissed him. Sherlock had unsuccessfully been trying to replicate the feeling John gave him by repeatedly pressing his lips to his skin. It wasn't working. This was stupid.

Sherlock was puzzled with himself; why did, all of a sudden, he liked how vanilla smelled? He began to buy sugar cookies at lunch, and unfortunately, John had his lunchtime changed, which was now when he had French. Sherlock didn't take French; he was fluent in it (along with German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Afrikaans, Dutch, Polish, Russian, and Chinese). I mean, someone with that vast an intellect couldn't spend his time admiring roses and vanilla ice-cream and teddy bears. Soon, Sherlock would be watching - god forbid - crap telly.

And then the thought crossed his mind... he wouldn't truly have an objection if John ever asked him to do any of the above. Sherlock was completely and utterly captivated by John, and the feeling of his lips against his knuckles was surprisingly earth shattering. Completely surreal.

Did that make him gay?

No. Johnsexual.

John would say that that was a bit bloody good.

That wasn't to say his day hadn't been awful. Moriarty and Sebastian had cornered him and "made him pay" for embarrassing them, but Sherlock had developed inhuman strength overnight and had knocked them both out cold in a minute flat. He didn't care when Anderson said he was a gay freak. That feeling John gave him on the bus - that Sherlock was safe, protected - he could summon it now, like a force field. Like he was the Green Lantern.

And Graham asked him where he got the black eye and the bruises and the split lip. Sherlock's immediate answer was Jim; Graham proceeded to crush his water bottle with one muscled hand. "I hate 'em," he said, "I bloody hate 'em."

Sherlock had been right, for once; Graham liked Mycroft. Drooled over him, despite going out with the Cheer Captain, a girl named Vikki, who happened to have an enormous crush on Jim Moriarty. Molly obviously didn't like Tom much, her boyfriend, and Mycroft was as unattached as always. He did, however, have an eye for a girl in the Mathletes Club. Her name was Eleanor or something. And she had red hair. Bright red. Like a clown. But she had a crush on this boy named Park...

Oh, Sherlock was turning into such a big baby.

But no matter. Nothing could bring Sherlock down, because John missed him. He liked him.

God knows what John missed him for. His strangeness? His arrogance? His tendency to point out his problems and touch his bruises?

How could John ever like him? How could John kiss his hands and make him feel... so full? So safe?

How could he like him?

But he did.

Sherlock was sure of it. At least today.

A/N: the KISS THOUGH GOD uguifghifdhkdsfhk ppplllllease leave a vote and spammmm me with comments (srsly i posted a chapter yesterday and it has fifty FUCKING comments (i love it))