Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty Three - Toilet Clothes

A/N: hai again hello dear readers this is sorta sad but it won't pull out your heart and stomp on it so OH AND I HIT 32k LIKE WAAHHHHHHTTTTTTT IT'S ALLLLLL B/C OF YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU I WANT YOU TO FEEEL MY LOOOOOOOOVE ILL MAKE YOU FEEL MY LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE Sherlock and John is now the best fic ever LOLZ

John

Sherlock wanted John to start checking his books after gym class. He said, "If it's Steve, I'll know."

"How?"

"The hand he uses, the formulaic way he moves..." He shrugged like he did this daily. "I'll know," he repeated.

"I can't really tell anyone." John had his arm around Sherlock for the first time since the CDs, and it felt just as good as he'd expected it to. It was on his hip, which was a bit sharp, but John liked the way it felt anyway.

"Why?"

"Who'd be there to tell?" John sighed.

"You could tell The Major," Sherlock said gruffly.

"Why would I? He'll say, 'What proof do you have to support this claim?' And then when I have nothing, he'll be even more skeptical than you were, except without the complicated history."

"There is no complicated history," Sherlock said gruffly.

"Did you do drugs with him?" Fuck, John thought. He'd not meant to say that aloud. It just came out. He shouldn't have brought it up.

"The Major? No."

"You know what I mean, twat - have you ever..."

John was sure of it. In fact, he was sure they'd done a lot of other things, too. Steve was so fucked up, they probably had tea parties and discussed their fuckedupness. They probably sang Hey Jude together. But no, Sherlock wouldn't do that, ever. That was their song.

"I don't want to discuss this," Sherlock said.

"Because you did?"

"It doesn't matter, John."

"How often do you?"

"Not often."

"How often?"

"It does not matter." The most loud and honest voices in John's mind were yelling "Stop!" but John had held in the questions far too long. "How, even? He's so..."

"Such a freak?" Sherlock smirked. "I am comfortable with my own kind."

John pushed Sherlock with the arm around his waist, getting full, complete contact with his side. "You aren't a freak, okay?" John kissed his cheek, so there was no space in between them.

"Okay," Sherlock scoffed. "Okay, I get it. Why do you even care?"

"Because... because I care, okay? I care."

"But before, I-"

"There is no before, Sherlock. There was never a before," John said. His forehead pressed to Sherlock's, and he was vaguely aware of his hands locking on Sherlock's waist. He didn't know where to look other than Sherlock's eyes, didn't know where to put his hands other than on his body. "And,"John added, "I won't - I can't imagine an after."

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't talk about after."

"I just meant that I want to be... with you. Always. Afterwards, and longer than that. I want to be the last person who kisses you, and the first to..." John breathed deep. "The first to, um..."

"Have sexual relations with," Sherlock said. His face fell flat, but then was revived by a sudden burst of hysterical laughter.

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose," John chuckled loudly. "But what I'm saying is that you're the one. You're my one. This is it."

"Don't." Sherlock almost tilted his head away, but then John's hand was rubbing the inseam of his thigh, and that felt so new, so good, Sherlock was roused back into John's arms.

"Sherlock..."

"I don't want to think about an after."

"That's what I'm saying, love." John hardly ever called Sherlock love, but when he did, he was excited. "Maybe there won't be one."

"Of course there will," Sherlock almost spat. "Of course. It isn't as if we're going to get married, John!" Sherlock put his hands on John's chest, just in case he had to push him away, if the need arose.

"Not now."

"Stop." Sherlock looked away, and he felt John rest his head on his shoulder.

"I'm not proposing," John said. Whenever he opened his mouth to speak, it felt like he was digging his chin into Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm just saying, someday. Someday, I'll do it. And... I love you. I can't imagine stopping. At all."

"Romeo, oh, sweet Romeo," Sherlock said, ready to quote the entire play.

"It isn't - no. You know that, you..." Sherlock was shaking his head. "Listen. Okay?"

"God," Sherlock moaned.

"There's no reason to think we'll stop loving each other, and plenty of reason to think that we won't, okay, so listen to me." All the playfulness in John's voice had disappeared. It was gone; vaporized.

I never said I loved you, Sherlock thought. "What," he said.

"Okay. Okay, um..." John grinned. "I called Mrs. Hudson. Landlady. You know, uhm."

"Yes, John, spit it out, you want to run away together to 221B Baker Street, but we can't, then you pretend to kill yourself, but not really, and then from the anguish of it all I actually do kill myse-"

"Sherlock," John laughed. "Do you want to run away with me?"

Sherlock smiled. And he said, "No."

When John kissed him, it tasted differently, and once he was done, Sherlock's hands were still on his chest, poised to push him away.

Sherlock

Sherlock was checking his books after gym for anything suspicious, like creepy writing or misplaced pencils, you know, looking everything over and over again to check. It was strange that the perpetrators hadn't stopped yet with John, and he was pretty sure that Moriarty was leading this, somehow. He'd probably paid people in all his classes to write stuff. Probably thought it was hilarious, their little scramble to figure out the mystery man. He was the composer, and Anderson was the puppet.

Today, in gym, Moriarty ignored him. Even Sebby didn't really get out of hand, despite dodgeball; he almost tossed the ball over to Sherlock.

"I think that they've run out of ways to say I'm a gay freak," Sherlock commented to Lestrade. They'd decided to change together in the relative peace that the lunch bell left them in. He never looked at Sherlock's body when they changed, like he was afraid what he would see there, and Sherlock, thus, wasn't intimidated by him.

"They coulda called you 'Unicorn,' or, I dunno..." Greg pulled on his dress shirt while Sherlock started to unzip his gym suit, looking over some books.

"Please stop," Sherlock drawled.

"Right, mate, uh."

There seemed to be nothing perverted on Sherlock's books, as usual, and he tried to take in the room. He looked Graham over, once. "Mycroft doesn't like you, you know."

"What?"

"He says he finds you to be 'quietly amusing.'" Sherlock picked up his maths textbook and turned it over a few times.

"Oh, bugger, shut up." Lestrade was going to stay for Sherlock, but Sherlock said, absentmindedly, "Don't wait up, I'll be out in a minute. Just..." He looked up. "Thinking. I still have to change, so get me a spot in line."

"You sure?" There was concern on Graham's face.

"Yes. Hurry along, now," Sherlock said with a lopsided smile. "Wouldn't want to miss out on the nachos."

"Okay." Graham gathered his stuff, and then walked out, whistling a song Sherlock had heard Mycroft playing on piano. Ugh. Sherlock put the books down, and opened his locker door. Huh.

Empty.

He opened the one besides. And the one after, and the one after that... Sherlock moved from wall to wall, searching. But then he stopped, and he took a breath. They stole his damn stuff. Moriarty and them stole all of it. His clothes were gone.

Sherlock, not knowing what else to do, opened his mind palace (he hadn't done this in what seemed like forever), and began to think.

Most likely candidates to do this: Moriarty, Moran, Gervasi, Stamph... He ran down the names until he singled it down to two, Moriarty, and Sebastian. Sebastian is stupid, therefore he'd hide it behind something, on something, besides something. But Jim, he'd hide it in something. He'd try to make it disappear, like a magic trick. He'd make my clothes disappear...

Sherlock prayed as he walked into the bathroom. The floors were wet, and a stall was open. Sherlock walked into it, and even though he knew what he was going to see, it still felt like a slap to the face. His slacks were in a dark pile under the toilet seat, jammed in with what seemed to be a mechanical pencil, wet and dirty. His shirt (knitted by his mum) was covered in runny ink, and Sherlock couldn't tell, since the permanent marker was so far gone, but it looked like it had said "FREAK." All over his sopping, toilet-y shirt. His shoes were crammed under the lip, and someone had flushed the toilet. Sherlock watched the water run.

"Hell!" someone said. "Get the clothes the fuck outta the toilet!" It was the gym coach, who had silently approached while Sherlock was standing there.

"I don't want them," Sherlock hissed, tears in his eyes.

"You can't leave 'em in there, damn, just reach in and get them!" He approached, and then said, "Wait," then jogged away, leaving Sherlock to watch it the ink smear down his shirt.

Sherlock couldn't wear them anymore, anyway. Everyone would know these were his toilet clothes.

The coach came back, holding a plastic bag and rolling his eyes. "In," he said. Sherlock held his breath and closed his eyes. The first thing he noticed was how light cotton was underwater. He shoved everything inside the soppy bag, and didn't cry. Siger would hate it if he did that.

"Can't let those arses get to you, yeah? You're encouraging them."

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled. He wrung out his jeans over the toilet, coughing. "Yeah. S'pose."

"Here's a pass."

Sherlock flicked the toilet water off his hands, not even bothering to wipe them, and took the pass, purposely wetting the coach. "Eh," he huffed.

"For where?" Sherlock asked; the pass had nothing on it.

"For guidance. You look pretty... ugh."

"I can't walk down the hall like this."

"Yeah, well," the coach said, "Whaddya want me to do? Hell."

As soon as Sherlock left, his pace quickened and his shagged hair tilted downward as he stared at the floor. He couldn't walk through school like this. In front of all the kids, all the boys, and Jim. Jim did this. He was probably getting people to pay to see this.

It wasn't just that Sherlock's suit was ugly and fucking gross (bright yellow, white stripes, one long zipper down the front) It was also extremely loose.

Sherlock was a walking skeleton. The damn thing was so short it barely cleared Sherlock's boxers, and it was so baggy it looked like Sherlock was going to fall over, he was so frail. A walking stick-figure. Sherlock was a tragedy. A catastrophe in a gym suit.

People were arriving for the next gym class, and they whispered as Sherlock stared at his sneakers. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had gone down a different hallway, clenching his bag like a lifeline. He almost jogged to the door going out to the football field like he did this almost every day - like he was on a soppy clothes/crying mission, and when he let the door click locked he slid to the brown dirt on the ground and stared. He had no more tears. He'd spent them all.

He stood after a few minutes of aimless staring, and then he took the plastic bag and threw it into the trash. He wiped his hands on his gym suit and threw his chin up. Don't cry now, he thought as he stood. That's when the sob came out. But after that, he held the rest in until it could die away, and then he walked back to the garbage can and fished his sweater out. It was dirty and covered with weepy permanent marker, but Sherlock held his breath and took the bag.

Fuck you, Moriarty. Fuck you.

Sherlock walked down the wall, where no one was watching, and when a row of classroom windows came up, Sherlock ducked underneath. He kept on thinking about how that was his mum's sweater. How she made it for him. And how he'd never worn it before; he thought it was ugly and smelled like she did - sage and rose.

Sherlock walked into the front doors. The security guards hadn't even paid him a second glance when they looked him over, letting him through. He was biting his bottom lip and now looking forward and onward. The counselors were on the right, less than fifteen meters away. Don't run, Sherlock told himself. Just a few more doors.

Sherlock should have anticipated John's arrival through one of them. John usually came into his life at the most unexpected moments... the worst ones, and he always made those moments better. Sometimes, Sherlock wanted to send out a prayer of thanks to whoever had set up their broken excuse for serendipity. Usually, Sherlock was thankful.

John came out at the far hall, walking with Molly and a boy named Will, and he was laughing loudly. Jeanette was holding Will's hand, and John was poking Molly's side, until he saw Sherlock. He stopped walking. Sherlock didn't look away as John turned a dark red, followed by his eyes searching Sherlock for anything that resembled health.

Sherlock walked into the guidance office, breathing hard.

The Major drove him home like that was his only job, completely disregarding Sherlock, who was on the verge of tears the entire time. When he got home, he hoped his father wasn't in a bad mood; he prayed. Thankfully, the look Siger gave him was just passive, and Sherlock went upstairs silently, up to the bathroom. He put the clothes in the tub, and washed them out, nose wrinkling.

Sherlock remembered texting, "Don't come over. -SH" even though today was Friday, and Friday meant they'd buy a pizza and watch corny American movies. Because Sherlock couldn't face John.

If he went over, he'd feel like he was still in his gym suit. All he'd see was the look on John's face in the hallway.