Opening His Heart. TEENLOCK!JOHNLOCK.

5. Leave me alone.

" Ow."

"Stop wiggling around."

"It's cold."

"No shit."

Sherlock's face twisted into one of discomfort and annoyance while John could just laugh, taking another try to press the cold towel against the boy's eye.

The nurse walked back into the office, placing a tube of cream on the desk .
"It should help to stop the swelling." She spoke.

"So, Sherlock - how did you injure yourself this time?" She asked after a small moment, John holding a victorious smile after Sherlock took ahold of the towel.

"Baseball."

The boy looked over at the other who's mouth was already open, looking ready to argue or chip in, but he caught the steely eyes of the curl head and just closed his mouth.

And in that moment - Sherlock felt some appreciation towards John Watson.

*

"Who is he?" Was the first guestion the boy asked Sherlock, after leaving the nurse's office.
Sherlock only shook his head, locking his jaw.

John halted to a stop, while Sherlock kept walking, he wasn't interested in the line of the thought of the other's .

That was until a firm hand grabbed his elbow, spinning the posh boy around and chest to chest with the Watson.

Sherlock's face flushed as he looked down at the sandy haired boy, he could feel hot shivers starting from his feet, travelling by his spine to his head and buzzing there softly.

What?

He was quick to shake himself out of the thought, settling back to his blank face and trying to escape the boy's grip.

"Sherlock - who is he and why does he act like this with you?"

"Leave me alone." Holmes muttered and John could swear he saw a hint of uncertainity - maybe fear in his eyes.

Those narrowed, brilliant looking eyes.
They weren't just blue like they seemed at first - there was green and grey -

John quickly shook the thought away, suddenly finding himself a bit hot in the face, but Sherlock had used the moment to free himself and then he was gone.

Like a wind, he ran down the corridor and John was left looking after him, eyes a tad wide and mouth curved into a frown.

But one thing was sure, he wasn't going to give up. Not on Sherlock - shit, he still didn't know his last name.

*

"You're late." Sharp eyes followed the raven head when he barged into the class, settling into the back of the room.

Sherlock said nothing, just brought his hands onto the table, locking them and sitting quiet.

He looked around the class, there were a few students, most he didn't know, but a flash of anger spurred in him the moment he saw Anderson, sitting at a desk at the other side of the class. Great.

Yet he was most relieved it wasn't James.
Anderson was just an idiot. They could bicker and call each other names, Sherlock wasn't scared to fight back.

Yet with Moriarty things were different between them. Unexplainable - and that's why he didn't like to talk about it.

He just fished his textbooks out and started to do his physics homework.

Ten minutes later and he watched the teacher leave the class. For whatever the reason she had, he didn't care. In all honesty he just wanted to get home.

He could sense movement by his side, merely glancing up, he continued to do the exercise.

"Well, Freak - lost your puppy dog?" An irritating voice asked. Sherlock still ignoring him, just continued to scribble in his notebook, yet just as when he started to turn the page of his textbook, he felt a hand in his unruly curls, pulling on them, a hiss escaping his lips as he finally looked up.

He was met with Anderson laughing in his face, "Oi, what happened to your eye?"
"What ever happened to your non-existent intelligence?"

The proud smirk immediately slipped off his face, leaving him look extremely dissapointed, pulling on the dark curls just proved Sherlock right that he had indeed pissed off the other.

"Listen up you git, you keep talking back to us and that golden boy of yours will see what happens. We'll ruin your life, William."

And he let go of Sherlock's hair and for once Holmes' face had fallen. William, he loathed the name - no one was supposed to know him by that name. He could feel slight ache on the skin of his head, yet he ignored it, just turned to his homework.

Yet he couldn't focus anymore, his thoughts everywhere else.

He remembered how his mother had woken up and then left.

He remembered the half eaten fried egg.

The fly sitting on the kettle.

John Watson petting a dog.

Redbeard.

No, go back.

Sherlock was shaken out of thoughts like a shock had hit him.

He remembered teasing on the bus.

John standing up for him twice.

James' true yet hurtful words.

No, shush.

His mind wasn't going to let him get rest.

The nasty smell of the cream.

The pimple on the nurse's nose.

John's hand on his elbow, concern in his eyes -

NO!

He doesn't care - he's just nosy like everyone else.

Sherlock shut his eyes to shut out the words in his head, try to collect himself and a second later his eyes only revealed to be blank and cold.

He stuffed his things into his schoolbag and without thinking, stormed out of the class, hearing giggling in the background.

He didn't think as he ran, out of the door, of the school grounds - and no, not into the bus stop, but past it. He kept running, hot tears sitting in the corners of his eyes yet he held them there bravely, not letting them slip.

Calm, collected.

He could feel his stomach start to hurt and his muscles throb with low pain, breathing getting irregular as he ran.

And he ran until he was home. Until he stood in front of the ridicolously white house, in front of the fancy gate, panting, sobbing, shaking and there seemed to be no stop to it.

With a trembling hand he pushed the gate open, slipping into the yard, wiping his eyes with his sleeves as he tried to blank his face.

To no avail.

He scrambled for his keys in the pocket, dropping them. The tears clouded his vision, wanting him to laugh how ridicolous it was really.

But he finally got open the door, stepped out his shoes, threw his coat on the hanger before storming upstairs, to his luck no one was there to meet him. He shut the door behind him and collapsed, his back resting against the door, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, he sobbed.

John Watson stood by his window, frown on his lips as he watched Sherlock Holmes,  feeling a twinge in his heart.