Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Forty Four - Skin

A/N: HAPPY CHAPTER!!!! :DDDD THAT'S LIKE TEN PAGES LONG!!!! :DDDD

John

John went to bed early. No one asked why he wasn't at Greg's, or why he was sleeping at seven thirty. No one ever asked any longer, it seemed.

He'd begun to ignore Pickard, because there was nothing else - nothing better to do.

John lay on his back because he didn't trust his front. He didn't trust his back, either, actually, or his sides, or his hands. Or his brain.

When John saw Sherlock walking down the hall, it hadn't even occurred to him exactly what was wrong with him until an hour later. And then, an hour after that, he still hadn't realized that he should've said something. It was rather disconnected. "Are you okay?" "Hey," he should have said. "What happened?" Instead, John stared like he'd never seen Sherlock before.

He felt like he'd never seen him before.

It wasn't as if John hadn't thought about Sherlock under his clothes. In fact, he'd thought of Sherlock naked a lot. (The degree of inappropriateness involving his naked body depended on John's mood.) But John was never able to fill in any of the details.

The only naked men he'd ever seen was probably his dad, when he was little, himself, and some of the magazines his mum sometimes forgot to lock away. He'd never even thought about men in that way. They never attracted him.

Sherlock... now, he could fill in some of the details. He could picture Sherlock. He couldn't stop. How had he not noticed how short the damn suits were? And how baggy? And why hadn't he expected Sherlock to be so muscled, but yet so frail? He looked like a china doll. The skin on his arms and legs were more clean, more porcelain than the gray of his face. The gray that was slowly turning pinker. And that made him so happy. But it still felt strange, to be able to picture his legs, but not his torso. Like it didn't exist.

John closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock again. Bow shaped lips, and freckles dotting slightly on his nose, like he was shy to let his blemishes show. Birthmarks, everywhere, two on his neck, dark and sweet to taste. Like chocolate swirls in vanilla. Cookies and cream.

Hey, John thought, What happened? You okay, Sherlock?

He'd texted, telling John not to come over, so he must've not been. Probably fucking fucked. Decisively not okay.

How would John even look at him now? How would he imagine Sherlock? He wouldn't be able to, not without automatically attaching on that yellow gym suit with the extra long zipper.

Christo, Batman.

Sherlock

The next day, Sherlock sent John a quick text.

Come over, if convenient. -SH

Then another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

He was trying to be brave.

Siger said he was going out, to meet up with some insurance people. He said it would be a really, really long time, and if he wanted anything, to call him. Sherlock smiled for maybe a millisecond before saying, "I'm fine, thank you."

"Okay. Will, uh..." Siger frowned. "Do good, son," which was about the kindest utterance Sherlock'd heard him say. "And vacuum!" Siger yelled as he walked out, holding a briefcase. Mycroft left with him, shooting Sherlock a look.

Sherlock wasn't used to being home alone. He vacuumed. Picked up some empty beers, just in case John followed his instructions and came, as he was told. Then, Sherlock turned on the TV, and watched this show called Girls (Why? he thought, throughout). And he fell asleep.