Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[eleven]

Sherlock Holmes became an aspect of Johns imagination overnight. Which was odd, since everyone didn't fail to point out John was not the imaginative type.

John wasn't concerned, as 10 pm approached and Sherlock had not returned, nor at 12am as he scrambled into bed. Not even at 3 am, when John's slight insomnia disrupted his sleep. When John woke up to his blaring alarm he shrugged at the empty and untouched bed opposite him, assuming Sherlock had just been to a party and possibly jumped into bed with one of the hollow girls, (John didn't really understand Sherlock).

As John had thought, he did not see Sherlock at breakfast and due to a lack of lessons with Sherlock he decided he was unlikely to see him until evening, back in their room.

Six hours of seemingly endless lessons dragged on, a trail of time that wound meaninglessly around Johns head.

That night, Sherlock never returned.

The suns hot breath licked at Johns skin hungrily, lighting up John's hair like a fiery halo. The warmth of it gushing in like a golden waterfall made him feel oddly at peace and he pulled his arms over his head, stretching his body and trying to soak up the tranquillity of the moment.

John usually hated mornings, especially when he woke up to the sun piercing his vision, but there was just something about the way it curled softly on his skin and tickled his hair.

Forcefully, he rolled himself from his bed, withering on the floor - tangled in blanket - until he found the energy to open his eyes properly and free himself. John was already, uncomfortably, aware of Sherlocks deserted bed, but seeing it caused him to itch his arms worriedly - an unconscious habit of his.

John avoided the large clumps of people as he hurried off to the canteen, the smell of cheap bacon turning in his stomach. His eyes searched for Sherlock: his black aura, but John was unable to find him, so instead he headed over to Mycroft and Greg.

"Hi," John said, hovering by their table.

"John, isn't it?" Greg asked smiling.

"Yeah," John confirmed, discreetly screwing his nose up at the bitter smell from his plate, "I was just wondering if any of you have seen Sherlock?"

"Uh - why exactly would you care?" Mycroft snapped protectively.

"Friends," Greg explained with a smirk, John was yet to find out what was so funny about that.

"What?" Mycroft spluttered, "what?"

"They're friends," Greg repeated, "John and Sherlock,"

"Or Sherlock and John. Which one do you think has a nicer ring to it?" Mycroft joked.

"The latter," Greg decided.

"Sherlock doesn't just get friends, who are you really?" Mycroft interrogated and suddenly John wished he had just stayed in bed, at least things made more sense there.

"No, I think they're genuinely friends," Greg chuckled.

"I - Where is he? I'll confront - I mean - I'll talk to him," Mycroft offered.

"That's why I came over, I haven't seen him in a while, he hasn't slept in his bed the past two nights," John told the two older boys.

Mycroft's expression dropped to his usual one - stern, cold and apathetic, he eyed Greg: indicating they both knew something John did not. For once, Greg spoke first, leading the situation with an uncertain reply.

"He does that, it's fine,"

"Yeah," Mycroft muttered unconvincingly.