1.
"I'm so proud of you," said Violet tearfully, fussing over her son's collar.
Sherlock stared straight ahead. "Yes," he said flatly, and gave a small smile to satisfy her.
"Prom," she said dreamily. "What an accomplishment."
"I fail to comprehend how and why one would ever equate a frivolous affair advertising the commercialization and materialistic tendencies of humankind at large with an 'accomplishment.' I don't even know anybody there." He did not enjoy social situations, and enjoyed them even less when he didn't know any of the other people with whom he would be forced to fraternize the rest of the evening.
"Oh, didn't I tell you?"
"What?"
"John will be there."
Sherlock froze. "Impossible. He's at uni."
"His date is in Year 13 at your school. Mary Morstan." Sherlock scanned his memory, pulled up an image of her. Not quite compatible, not quite incompatible. Not good enough for John, surely.
"Oh."
The car honked from outside. "You'd better get going," said Violet. He began plodding down the front walk.
2.
Mary's phone went off mid-song; she pulled away apologetically to answer it and rejoined John half a minute later, leaning in towards him to be heard above the pounding music.
"Molly's upset," she explained.
Molly. Molly who?
"Hooper. Her date refused to come in, then refused to dance with her."
John grimaced. "Sounds like a dick."
3.
John leaned against the hood of his car and stared up at the sky. Mary had yet to return, and no way in hell was he going to stand alone in a room full of hormone-driven, mostly intoxicated teens.
It wasn't as if he missed uni, though. It was lovely, being back home for his couple weeks off, and Mary was a gorgeous girl. Warm, intelligent, friendly. They'd been good friends growing up.
Still, he was not entirely sure as to the nature of their relationship. They had kissed, once, a year and a half ago. She was the one who brought up prom, and when it aligned with his schedule he saw no reason to reject the offer. Dancing was all very well; whether or not their festivities tonight were intended to progress in a physically intimate nature was unclear. And if so, what would be the by products? Romance? Dating? Love?
He wondered if Sherlock had come.
4.
Sherlock fled the scene when Mary arrived. He attempted to apologize; she gave him a fiercely disapproving look and, moderately terrified, he left, ending up at the corner of the parking lot. Bored, and not sure if the situation was dire enough to risk calling his mum and disappointing her, or texting Mycroft, thereby providing him with future blackmail, he decided to wait.
Cars lined up between white streaks against glistening black pavement, like some sort of army. Ready for combat. He let his eyes trace lazily up and down the rows, identifying the brand and model of each based on whichever headlight was peeking out at the corner.
And then he saw him.
5.
"Hi."
John nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked dapper and out of place in his tux, an expression of tentative happiness on his face. John's heart pounded. Just as beautiful as he'd remembered.
"You're here," the older man said dumbly.
"I am fairly sure that is the case, yes."
A hug, the natural procedure when greeting an old friend, felt a bit risky. They'd parted on... ambiguous terms. Confusing late night conversations, ridden with blatantly present but maddeningly cryptic subtext. Phone calls shrouded in a sense of confession, unspoken admissions of mutual attraction.
Sherlock slid over next to him, leaning back on the car, slender fingers arching against the curvature of the hood.
"I missed you," John mustered.
"Yes," said Sherlock.
"How have you been?"
"Alright."
"Who are you here with?" It shouldn't matter. It did.
"A family friend. Molly Hooper."
John couldn't help but chuckle. "Ah. So you're the dick."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Harsh, but true."
Silence. Bordering on tense; not quite there. Sherlock shifted subtly, so that his elbow rested behind John's. One movement and he'd have an arm around the other bloke's shoulder.
"Enjoying yourself?"
"My date actually left to go console yours, so..."
"I'm sorry."
"No, I – I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
More silence. It was dark out, illuminated only by the distant glare of neon city lights. After a moment, Sherlock's fingers brushed against the back of John's hand, pinkies overlapping.
6.
Molly was crying in the girl's bathroom. "I just liked him so much," she said, swiping at her face with a brown paper towel. "I was so looking forward to this night."
"I know," said Mary, wrapping an arm around her. "Sometimes... sometimes guys are douches."
"Not John. You're lucky," Molly sniffled and dabbed at the mascara smudging on her cheeks.
"Well."
Molly's head snapped up. "What happened?"
Mary sighed. "It's not him. It's not me, for that matter. He's just unavailable sometimes."
"He made time for you today," Molly pointed out.
"No, I don't mean like that. I mean... he's distant. More so than I remember him when I was fourteen." She ran a hand through her short blond hair. "People change. I just wish he hadn't."
"Is he still friends with Sherlock?"
"Yeah, I think so. They've barely talked since he went away, though."
"I wish Sherlock wasn't... well, whatever he is. Between him and John, I'm losing faith in love."
Mary grinned. "Maybe they're just gay."
They had a good laugh over that one.
7.
Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock's hair, curls rubbing against John's callused fingers. Sherlock's smell, sharp and familiar. Sherlock.
8.
John's spine as Sherlock pressed his hands along it. John's mouth. John's teeth. John's stubble. John's breath, mingling with his in the cool of a spring evening. John.
9.
Kiss me beneath the milky twilight
Lead me out on the moonlit floor
Lift your open hand
Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance
Silver moon's sparkling
So kiss me
10.
Overall, it was a nice prom night.