I'm Bisexual for Sherlock

by birdie7272

Shine your shoes and tuck in your belts- uh. Shirts. It's shirts you tuck in right? John's so flustered. No wonder. It's date night. Johnlock, teen!lock, fluffshot.

AN: This is the unofficial sequel to "I'm Gay for Sherlock". It was requested by a few and I hardly ever write fluff for fluff's sake so... here you go dears. Is there such a thing as Fluff Without Plot? Fluff with minor plot? I'm starting the trend. FWMP.

---

"Hey, Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom!"

"Yes, dear," John's mom called from the kitchen.

John came tumbling down the stairs with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, "Have you seen my blue shirt? The nice one?"

"The sweater?"

"Yeah. But not the one with the bird on it."

"What's wrong with the bird one?"

"Nothing! I um- I just- the uh- color is-"

She laughed and pointed with her knife, "It's hanging up by the dryer-"

"You-"

"And no, I did not put it in the dryer."

John sighed in relief and jogged to the room at the back of the house. "Thanks, mom."

"Honestly," Mrs. Watson shook her head with a wide smile. "You'd think this was your first date."

"Moooom," John whined and ducked his head to cover his blush. His mother had taken his new-found homosexuality in stride. Of course, it was a bit less of a shock after having one child come out already. But he wasn't really coming out or anything. It was just Sherlock.

Mrs. Watson loved that even more. She was positively giddy when she found out about their date, teasing John at every possible second -with the best of intentions of course. It still made John feel horribly embarrassed every time. Every day that week it had either been 'Say hi to Sherlock for me!' or 'Oooh, you've put on cologne. Not trying to impress anyone, are you?'.

John scooped up his favorite blue sweater and ran back up the stairs to find a decent pair of jeans to go with it. Or should he go with slacks? Sherlock always dressed up now. He said it was because jeans didn't fit his new figure but the idiot probably just liked to look better than everyone else. It sure stopped him from being picked on- about his clothes at least. And he really did look good...

John sighed and dug through the back of his closet to find dress pants. Honestly, he hadn't needed them since…middle school. Oh god they were way too small. He had the whole week to figure out what to wear. Why didn't he think of this earlier?!

"Mom!"

"Wear dark jeans," Mrs. Watson's voice came from the doorjamb, laughing as John tripped onto the bed to tug the pants off his thighs. "You have a pair of black ones, don't you?"

"But-"

"You're just going to Angelo's." She walked into his room and dug through one of his drawers, finding and pulling out a pair of black jeans with mom-like speed. "Besides, you need to be able to bowl in them. And you'll look fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Very. Go on then. Black jeans with your nice shoes and you'll look adorable."

"Moooom." John frowned as he picked out his shoes from under the mess of old clothes. He didn't want to look adorable.

After all that fiddling and ironing and shaving he found he did end up looking adorable. He pouted about it and then decided that was clearly not the look he was going for. He pushed up his sleeves and picked out his leather jacket. There. That was better.

"Well, don't you look handsome." Mrs. Watson could barely contain her smile as she not-so-secretly snapped a photo with her phone.

"Come on, mom." John rolled his eyes and tried to snag the cell out of her hands.

She managed to slip it behind her back and skipped away before he could reach, calling to him as she went down the stairs, "Your keys are hanging up. Be back by two."

"Yup."

"And not a minute earlier."

"Mom!"

"What? I want you to show Sherlock a good time."

"He'll probably get bored of bowling by then."

"I think he'll surprise you. Now go on." She snapped another photo, stunning him with the flash before he could argue back. "Have fun."

"Thanks," he rolled his eyes but kissed her on the cheek to make up for his sarcasm.

It was just Sherlock. Just his best friend. Who happened to be a guy. Who happened to grow into an Adonis over the summer. Who he happened to like… a lot.

Just Sherlock.

John smelled his breath for the fifth time as he pulled up to the café Sherlock requested he be picked up from. He was going to brush his teeth after having that last cup of coffee but he forgot and now he smelled like Folger's and he was pretty sure that was a bad thing. Or would it be worse to have mint/coffee breath? That had to be bad too. Who mixed coffee with min-

"Stop worrying, John. Your breath is probably fine."

John dropped his hand into his lap and sheepishly looked over to find Sherlock pushing into his passenger's seat. The rush of excitement at hearing Sherlock address him was enough to have his already nervous and caffeine buzzing body kicking into overdrive, but looking at his friend decked out in an actual suit with a deep maroon silk button up was enough to kill him. He knew he should have dressed up. Surely he shouldn't be driving.

"Are you going to stare all night?" Sherlock teased, that low baritone bouncing through the small space of the car. John swore he could actually feel the vibrations shaking his shoulders.

"I- uh- uh-"

"Good. That was the plan."

Smug bastard. "I remember when you were the one that stuttered."

"I remember when you pretended not to like a boy."

Hm.

To be fair, he didn't pretend. He just didn't know. Apparently everyone else did. But it's not like he pretended to be something he wasn't. He just…didn't know. He still didn't know. "It's not like I'm gay or anything."

"Is that important to you?"

"Well...um-"

"Because if this is going to plague you all night we may as well address it now."

"I- uh- okay." John sat back in the driver's seat and turned a bit to face him, a weight starting to settle in the middle of his chest. He knew they would have this conversation. How they avoided it all week was a mystery to him. Then again, he'd been so nervous about everything he made it a point not to talk about this date. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and nodded shortly, "I guess that's fair."

"You like me."

"Y-" John caught himself looking at the gleam of Sherlock's hair and quickly looked back out the windshield -only feeling a bit guilty about his cowardice. "Yes."

"You like girls."

"Um-" That wasn't really a question.

"You won't hurt my feelings."

"Okay then." John shrugged and looked around for anyone that may have been scoping out their car, maybe using spy gear to listen in on their conversation. They sold that stuff everywhere. Someone could be.

Okay, no one was and he had no real reason to look away other than to avoid the heat driving into his cheeks as Sherlock continued to stare, waiting for an answer. "Yeah."

"So what's confusing you?"

"I'm not-"

"Gay," Sherlock cut him off. "No. I am."

John could hear himself swallow past the dry lump in his throat. "Harry said- I mean- well- she said I could like whoever and still be straight."

"You are whatever you want to be. Be straight if you want to be straight. Be unicorn-sexual for all I care."

John could not have stopped the snort if he tried. "Unicorn-sexual?"

"Don't discriminate John."

"God forbid. Must let people love their…unicorns."

"Something's still bothering you." John could feel those eyes running over him, just as he could feel them every day. They were calculating and unforgiving, pinpointing his weakest thoughts and exact fears. "The people at school. They have and forever will be idiots, John. The sooner you realize that their opinions don't matter, the better off you'll be."

"But I don't want to end up…" He shrugged, not knowing how to phrase it.

"Like me? Too late. You're already friends with me. Your social status has been corrupted. If you wish to salvage what's left of it, you should get out while you can."

"No. That's not- ugh- god I'm sorry. I'm being stupid."

"Obviously."

"I just- It's new for me."

The way Sherlock sighed in disappointment made John's already twisting tummy drop. This was it. He screwed it all up didn't he? He should have just kept his mouth shut. Now Sherlock was going to leave and everything would be over and he would have to go home to his mom and she would want an explanation and he really didn't feel like talking about any of this and now any time he looked at his leather jacket he would just feel awful and he really liked his jacket and school would be awkward because Sherlock was his best friend and now-

Sherlock interrupted the ramblings the silence let slip, "We graduate at the end of this school year, yes?"

John cleared his throat, "Yes."

"Who will follow you past graduation?"

"Um-" Was he an idiot or was that question supposed to make sense?

"The only constant in your life is yourself. Therefore your opinion is the only one that matters."

"Yours kinda matters too." The silence lingered too long after that came tumbling out of his bumbling mouth. John sucked in a breath and forced himself to stop being a yellow-belly and turn around to face him. "But I'm not really straight if I like a guy."

"Bisexual then." The way Sherlock said that, his shoulders tossed up and thrown to the side, it was almost enough to have him agree completely. Almost.

"That's still kinda…" It just didn't sound right. It wasn't wrong just... new. "I don't know. I guess. It's only really you though. Can I be gay for you? Or bisexual for you? Can I say I'm bisexual for Sherlock? Or is that misleading? It's just… confusing."

"Then I will introduce you as my heterosexual boyfriend and watch everyone's idiotic faces as their tiny minds try to figure out the logic."

John snickered, "We'll be a hit at parties."

"Promise me we'll never go to a party."

"Prom is this year."

"God. Kill me now."

"Wait… you called me your boyfriend."

"You shouldn't idle your car like that. Wastes gas."

John smiled all the way to the restaurant. He wasn't quite sure why hearing Sherlock call him his boyfriend had him so full of giddiness –a complete 180 from moments before- but, then again, how could it not? With a voice like that Sherlock could say just about anything and have him grinning like an idiot.

After parking, John raced around the side of the car to open Sherlock's door, only to reach out the same time Sherlock bashed it open –directly into his fingers.

John hissed and shook off the pain as Sherlock exited with a curious expression –not in the least bit apologetic.

"What are you doing?"

"I was trying to open the door for you."

Sherlock looked back at the car, more confused than before. "Why?"

"Because that's what you do on a date."

"Have none of your dates known how to open doors? I know you've been with some idiots John but-"

"No. It's not like that. It's something you do. You know. Chivalry and all that."

"Chivalry is dead, John."

John rolled his eyes and shook out the last bit of pain from his knuckles.

Sherlock sighed and gestured back at the car, "Would you like me to get back inside? We can do it again."

"No," John huffed but Sherlock was already getting inside the car. "Sherlock-" he tried to call him back and reached out to stop the door from closing but Sherlock pushed it out at the same time –right back into his fingers. "Jesus!" John jumped back and re-shook his aching hand. "Just- Come on."

"You really need to make up your mind."

John glared at Sherlock's back as he followed him to the door and let him open it for himself, for fear of getting a goddamn concussion or something.

John greeted the hostess with a smile and requested a table for two when Sherlock cut him off, "No need."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a reservation."

"You can't reserve for just two people."

"You can't. I can."

"Sherlock!" a boisterous voice called above the noise of the crowd and a hefty man waddled his way from behind the bar to their spot by the door. Sherlock smiled tightly at him as the man slapped him on the back and greeted him with a wide grin, "Hello! I'm so glad to see you. And who might this be?"

"John. John Watson," John stuck out his hand and shook the other man's.

"I'm Angelo. Nice to meet you. Sherlock, I am need of your help. This boy," Angelo shook Sherlock's shoulder as he led them to the back of the restaurant, "-he is the smartest man I know. Now, my wife, she handles the money. I can't make heads or tails of all these taxes and forms. I belong in the kitchen. She tells me our bi-weekly statements –whatever that means- are not adding up. She thinks some petty cash is missing. Maybe you can do what you do –go psychic, read the staff's minds. Tell me what is happening?"

Sherlock looked to John in exasperation over being called a mind-reader but nodded his head all the same.

"Wonderful!" Angelo cheered. "Here you are, if you need anything, call for me. Dinner is on us. Anything off the menu. Go crazy."

Sherlock gave Angelo his very best fake smile and the chef ran back to the kitchen to cook. John sometimes forgot how shy Sherlock actually was. He was so used to hearing his new voice from speaking for hours on end. It was actually pretty adorable to see him clam up.

Ha. Who was adorable now?

The answer was their table. Their table was adorable. While the rest of the tables were draped in a white cloth accompanied by the usual silverware, their table was a bit different. The cloth was a deep shade of red with small swan napkins sitting just before a pair of fancy looking wine glasses. Small white petals littered the table, circling around a tall, burning candle acting as the centerpiece.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice and slid into his side of the booth as he undid the buttons on his jacket, exposing the form fitted shirt snug on his body. John suddenly felt quite warm, his face heating in embarrassment, and quickly threw his jacket off as he slid into his spot.

"Sherlock, did you tell Angelo about me?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock frowned at him, took a moment to read him, then glanced at the table. "Is it too much? I could ask for us to move."

"No. No, it's fine. Just very-" John picked up a handful of petals and dropped them back down again. "- floral."

Sherlock's smirk quickly dropped as Angelo came back with a bottle. "Some sparkling juice for you both. I am sorry it is not something better. I believe you are of age for good wine, but the law says otherwise and I am not risking my license."

"No worries," John smiled up at him. "I'm sure it's great."

Angelo left them to their menus and John took a long look over their options. He wasn't fond of mooching a free meal off Sherlock's acquaintances and it didn't really go along with his offer to pay but was secretly quite glad. The prices weren't exactly in his comfort range. Maybe he should have worn slacks.

"What you're wearing is fine." Sherlock the psychic said. "Stop picking at your sleeve. You'll put a hole in it."

John pouted but stopped picking and rolled the sleeves back up. "So," he wiggled his menu in the air, "What do you like?"

"The pasta."

"Sherlock, this is an Italian place. It's all pasta."

"The spaghetti and meatballs."

"Ah, does that make me the lady or the tramp?"

"Are you making a reference to something or are you actually considering a sex change?"

"Never mind. What are you going to get?"

"I'm not that hungry."

"You never are."

"There's bread." Just as Sherlock said it, a waiter dropped the basket between them, nearly hitting the candle.

"Then eat it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but picked up a piece and started ripping off bits to pop into his mouth. John was satisfied and gave their waiter the order. Then there was silence.

Completely, totally awkward silence.

"Uh-" John started to play with the head of his swan, unraveling it and wondering how on earth they folded it to get it that way in the first place. "Um-" Well the swan just fell to pieces anyway. He tried to lump it back up but it was a lost cause. "Uh-" Leaning tower of goose. "Huh-" He shoved the thing off the table and into his lap and looked back up at Sherlock. He seemed amused. That wasn't good. "So." He jumped as his foot touched something hard, and pulled both legs back. Or wait, maybe he was allowed to rub Sherlock's legs? Well, not rub. He didn't want to…well…"Um-" He reached for his drink and nearly rammed his bruised knuckled into the candle. That had to be a fire hazard. He could just see it now. Death by flammable floral decorations. "So-"

"Are you having difficulties?"

"Difficulties?" John sputtered and put his drink back down before he had a chance to spill it.

"It's just a date, John. You've been on dates before."

"Not like this!" John quickly turned to see if anyone else was watching -or spying on- his laughable display and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Not with my best friend. I mean, how do you even do that? We already know everything about each other. What's the point in asking you your favorite color?"

"Red."

"What?"

"My favorite color is red. Not that I see what the preference has to do with our compatibility."

"It doesn't but… red?"

"And yours is blue."

"Part of the fun is me telling you."

"This is fun?"

"Never mind," John laughed, easing into his booth and taking a slice of bread for himself. He wasn't really hungry either but he hadn't eaten since lunch so he should have been. "So what do we do then?"

"Shouldn't you be telling me? You have more experience than I do."

"Well… I mean… I had thought that after dinner if you… I know you said we'd go but I wasn't sure if you still wanted to…"

Sherlock's smirk was enough to silence him, "I get to see your true competitive side."

"I'll take it easy on you."

"Well don't do that."

Food arrived and the awkwardness melted away. John stopped letting his nerves get the better of him and after that it was as if the two of them were hanging out after school, like normal.

Okay, it wasn't completely normal. His leg was brushing Sherlock's calf –or was that the table?- and he kept getting distracted by the sheen of his best friend's shirt. But other than that, the conversation was just about normal.

"The bartender."

"What?" John looked over at the man pouring a beer behind the bar.

"He's taking more out for his tip than he should be."

"Oh."

"He owns an animal he can't afford to keep. No doubt the result of a messy breakup. If I could get closer I could tell if it is a dog or a cat."

"A breakup?"

"Why else would he have an animal he can't afford? Unless he really is that much of an idiot."

"What are you going to tell Angelo?"

"The facts."

"But you can't get him fired if he has an animal to feed."

"Why not?"

"Because what about the animal?"

"What about it?"

"Oh my god, stay here." John shook his head and left to walk over to the bartender. He was a short kid, probably only a few years older than John. His muscles were slightly intimidating but nothing John couldn't handle...probably.

"ID," the barkeep said instead of hello.

John shook his head at the man, "I don't want a drink. I want to give you some advice."

"Look kid, I don't know what movies you've been watching, but this ain't therapy."

"No, I said give. As in you need advice."

"What the hell do-"

"You need to give up your pet and stop stealing from the register. You're gonna lose your job if you don't."

The bartender's frown tightened further and his brow twitched together, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't. Look, if you're girlfriend doesn't-" John paused a moment as he looked back at Sherlock. "If your significant other or whatever doesn't want it back, then start putting up flyers. You have a week or I tell your boss. Deal?"

The bartender didn't look happy about it but he nodded and rushed back to take someone else's order. John smiled a bit, selfishly liking the smugness he felt, and went back over to Sherlock. Was this how he felt all the time? It was freaking fantastic...and it also explained a lot. "Problem solved."

"If he listens to you."

"Well he wouldn't have listened to you. You'd've threatened his life for saying ain't."

"It isn't that hard to not say ain't."

"I ain't got a problem with it."

Sherlock continued to glare at him as he burst out laughing.

"So," John panted after he calmed down. "Do you want dessert or are you full on bread?" That wasn't completely fair. Sherlock did have a third of his spaghetti, but Sherlock knew what he meant.

"I believe this is the part where I take you to ice cream or something?"

"Where'd you get that idea from?" John grinned. He started to get the feeling Sherlock had watched a chick-flick or two in preparation for their date. With the reservations and the table and now dessert? At least he wasn't the only one anxious about it.

"Did you want to or not?"

"We could grab smoothies at bowling?"

"Fine," Sherlock nodded and pushed up from the table.

John followed but trailed back to leave a couple of bucks for Angelo. The man was nice and the tablecloth couldn't have been free.

Speaking of Angelo, their host noticed them going and cut them off halfway. "Sherlock! John! Going so soon? You haven't had dessert! Can I bring you something? Coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you," John answered. "We're going to get something at the bowling alley."

"And so the date continues?"

John had to bite his tongue to keep in his natural defenses and not say 'It's not a date' or maybe even 'Shut up, mom'.

Angelo didn't notice and continued, "Well I am glad it is going well. Now, Sherlock, have you figured out my little problem?" Sherlock nodded his head. "See! Smartest boy I know. What shall I do? Who is it?"

"Wait a week," Sherlock practically squeaked, much quieter than he had spoken all through dinner.

"Then you better come next week to tell me." Angelo patted his back again and slapped John's shoulder as well. "Another date night, yes?"

John smirked as Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor and John answered for them again, "Sure."

"Good," Angelo smiled and pushed them to the door. "Enjoy your night! Come back soon!"

"He seems nice," John commented as they slid into his car.

"Overly so," Sherlock grumbled.

John kept his snicker under his breath.

"Shut up," Sherlock said to that.

They rolled up to the bowling alley just around the start of cosmic bowling where they turned down the lights, pumped up the music, and flipped on the black lights. The many different colors of the flashing neon lights led their way to the back where John purchased their tickets and obtained their shoes.

They arrived early enough to get a lane all to themselves –no bumpers. John tied his laces and queued in their names as Sherlock picked out their balls.

John avidly stayed away from thinking of any jokes that could be made about that, for fear of having another verbal slip up.

He was about to go help his friend –er- date, when the balls clunked into the ramp. One of them very well could have clocked him in the skull with the way his face fell into the most dumbfound expression. All it was was Sherlock, just Sherlock -shedding his coat by popping the buttons with a single hand, then slowly letting it slide over his silk draped shoulders and down to his elbows. Those long arms curved the rest of the way out and then he chucked the thing away, as if taking off a jacket actually meant nothing –as if he did it every day. The maroon of his shirt gleamed in the disco lights as he flicked the buttons around his wrist away, folding the sleeves up to expose his smooth forearms with practiced finesse. Then he dropped his hands down, letting one just barely graze the inside of his pocket as he pulled out something that killed the entire mood.

John laughed hard and incredulously as Sherlock slid a fingerless glove onto his hand. "You bought a bowling glove?!"

"You said you wanted to get competitive."

"Alright," John laughed. He walked around to pick up the balls Sherlock picked and tested their weight before deciding which one he wanted. Usually he would have gone for the lighter one but something about having Sherlock watch his every move made him lean towards the heavier. He cracked his knuckles, dipped his finger into the holes, and tossed it down the lane. It was only by a stroke of pure luck that he got a strike on the first try. Sherlock didn't need to know that. "We'll play."

The first game was eye-opening.

John hadn't played in a very long time and he may have been overstating his bowling skills. He tried his best and scored a 102 but that was nothing compared to Sherlock's 64. Sherlock was furious over it. He kept whispering mathematical calculations –overshadowed by the beat of Usher songs- and studying the angles of the floor but it seemed to help. The longer he played the better he got.

When Sherlock claimed he needed to switch the weight of his ball in order to do better, that's when things got interesting. The genius was correct and after switching to a heavier ball, he was instantly better. He knocked over so many pins that he matched John within the first three frames.

That's when John decided to get competitive. And by competitive, he meant dirty.

To be fair, John usually played by the rules. He wasn't one for cheaters. But this was a friendly competition between... boyfriends. Yeah, he said it. Boyfriends. And he was going to kick his boyfriend's skinny ass.

Sherlock was lining up to play so John came behind him, waiting at the lip of the wood, watching that skinny ass get into place. No rules were being broken. The fact that he just so happened to yell Sherlock's name the same moment he went to throw the ball…. that was just coincidence. The fact that Sherlock jumped and sent the ball rolling into the gutter, well that was his own fault. John wasn't cheating.

Okay, yeah he was. Sherlock knew it too. He turned around with one hell of a glare. "What, John?"

"Nothing," John shrugged innocently and wiggled his fingers of the air blowing out of the fan. "Just thought your shoe was untied."

Sherlock grunted and picked up his ball as it spat out of the shoot. "Cheating won't help you, John." He turned before John could do anything more and threw his ball down the lane. All the pins fell. Spare.

That was luck.

"Not luck, John," Sherlock slid past –reading his mind. "Math."

John ignored the gloating and picked up his ball, prepping himself for a strike. He could do it if he concentrated. Sherlock wouldn't distracting him with his math, teasing, or flirting. He had control. Just one strike. That's all he had to do.

Of course, just as he was about to go, Sherlock's hands jumped on his hips and kept him in his place, nearly making him stumble with the momentum he had stored up. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored him and said, "You'd do better with your hips at this angle, John."

"Sherlock," John groaned as he maneuvered his hips to a slightly different angle. Sherlock forced him to stay until he stopped wiggling. Not that he could help it. Sherlock's hands were warm –and huge- and his heart was pounding faster than a locomotive.

This position felt the same to John but apparently he didn't know how to stand. "Are you seriously trying to teach me how to bowl?"

"Your technique could use some work."

"And you could use some too."

"My form is perfect."

John really wasn't debating that. In fact, he could see plenty of that perfect form as he spun around to face him. "Sometimes it's not all about math you know."

Sherlock's incredulous face could be called nothing but adorable.

Ha. Adorable.

John placed his bowling ball at their feet and reached for Sherlock's hand. Confused as he was, he let John take it and didn't question as John undid the straps on his glove and slid it off. "Sometimes, you just need to have some fun."

John led the way into a round of bowling with the non-dominant hand, goofy positions, eyes closed, and 'accidentally' bowling into the next person's lane. Sherlock was dubious at first but conformed to the fun and bowled on his belly like the best of them.

"I have to tell you John, you've really let me down."

"What?" John's heart really couldn't take all these adrenaline rushes and drops. "How?"

"I was promised a competitive match. This has been nothing of the sort."

A smile easily slid back into place. "You haven't been much competition."

"What do you say we raise the stakes?"

"Winner of the next round buys milkshakes?"

"I was thinking something a bit more…" Sherlock's head bobbed side to side in an overzealous manner before his playful eyes dropped to John's. "Fun."

"I'm listening." And nearly fainting with the look he was receiving. "What'd you have in mind?"

"If I win, you have to throw away your red, white, and blue sweater."

"What's wrong with that sweater?"

"Besides the hideous patriotic color scheme? Everything. I will be fully willing to replace it with something more suiting."

"Fine." John frowned. He liked that sweater. It was warm and comfy. It would have to be something good in return. "But if I win, I get to see your house."

"You can see my house anytime you like. We can drive past it tonight if you want."

"That's not what I mean." John pointed and poked him in the chest. "I want to see where you live. I've never met your family or seen your room."

"Oh. My room." Sherlock's eyes pointedly dropped to the buckle of John's pants, a casual biting of the lips making his subtly perfectly clear. "I see."

John felt his ears heat and covered his crotch with his hands. "Shut up."

"Alright. Fair is fair. Let's play. And no cheating."

They started the round on a playful note but that competitive nature sunk right back in. The teasing and smiling cut short as Sherlock started knocking more pins down. John still had a large lead but that could easily be swiped away by one strike too many.

Once John got a gutter ball on frame six he strung together a slew of curses that he was one hundred percent certain made absolutely no sense.

"You seem tense, John."

"Shut up."

The final frame came up and John felt very good as he finished. He had a high lead and there was no way for him to lose. Unless Sherlock bowled a strike for- oh no. Sherlock smirked as he spun away from the evidence of his strike.

"Prepare to burn cotton."

John felt his fingers curl into the edge of his seat as he watched Sherlock prepare to go again. John spit curses under his breath as Sherlock took his time lining himself up, muttering calculations or something, and threw.

"Dammit!" John yelled aloud as Sherlock knocked them all down again.

"Careful. Your vein is showing."

John batted Sherlock's hand away from his forehead and Sherlock prepared to bowl for a third time –completely unfair John thought. If he had only gotten more than 8 pins down on his last frame, he would be guaranteed the win. Stupid freaking game.

Sherlock lined up and John was on the edge of his seat, cursing the ball, music, air –hell, cursing everything. Sherlock pulled back, the ball went straight down the middle and –

"Yes!" John jumped in the air with glee. 9 pins fell down but the one left wobbling stayed up. John had won by two measly points.

Sherlock's glare was bitter sweet as John ran up to gloat. "Aw, don't look like that, Sherlock. I'll still pay for the milkshakes."

"I should have won."

"Don't be such a sore loser. You just need practice. And to loosen your grip a bit."

"My grip is fine."

"No, see." John grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him back towards the lane. "The way you were holding it locks up your wrist." John slipped his hand around the back of Sherlock's and curled his fingers. "If you loosened them up you wouldn't hurt yourself." John threw out Sherlock's hand as if there was an imaginary ball. He spun Sherlock back just as quick and lost his train of thought when he realized his fingers were intertwined with his dates. His eyes dropped there and he ran his thumb over Sherlock's wrist.

"So you're saying," Sherlock twisted his hand around and traced the pattern of John's palm with the other. Tickling him with both his touch and his words. "I should cradle the balls gently, rest my wrist for activities more suited to a speedy nature, and build up to a satisfying release?"

"You have quite the mouth on you." As he said it he looked at those rounded lips –still pouting at his loss. They looked quite...comfy.

Those lips curled into a half-grin, the trademark smile that made John's knees quiver. "I don't know what you're talking about."

John leaned up as Sherlock knelt down and in their own corner of the bowling alley they found a piece of paradise. The kiss was brief but it was perfect. The music and lights all swirled together, creating a world inside this one. A world where it really didn't matter. There were no thoughts of who was spying or of John's sexuality. After all, John was pressing a pair of soft lips against his own. Melding together in a moment of bliss with the person he cared most about in the world.

Naturally, it had to be ruined.

"Well if it isn't John Homo Watson and his little stalker Sherlock. Don't look so little anymore, do you? I had to ask Mary but she told me it was you."

"Anderson," John hissed and spun away from Sherlock so he could cross his arms over his chest and glare. "What are you doing here?" And shit, was Mary there too? He couldn't see her anywhere.

"Three day weekend at my new school. Thought I'd come home for a visit. And I am so glad I did. Now that I am, maybe I'll take advantage. Mary did look rather lonely. I bet she's just dying to know what it's like to be with a real man." Anderson laid it on thick with a thrust of the hips.

"Why don't you go back to your game?" John warned. "And we can go back to ours."

Anderson ignored him and smiled his creepy, greasy smile at Sherlock, "So you finally did it. You hooked your claws into him and brought him over to bat for your side. How many blow jobs did that take?" He tilted his head in mock -and probably actual- stupidity, "Oh, you're still not talking are you? Fag freak."

"Unless you want a bowling ball replacing your head, I suggest you leave," John seethed. "Now!"

"Enjoy your date," Anderson smirked and walked back towards a group of kids on the other side of the room.

"Such a dick," John said bitterly as he turned to Sherlock. He didn't look very affected. Then again, he would never really show it. Damn the dim lighting. John couldn't get a proper read on his eyes. "So. Another round or milkshakes first?"

"You want to stay?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Sure," John hoped he sounded sincere. He really didn't want to end the night so early. It wasn't even midnight yet and curfew was curfew. "No need to let him spoil everything."

"Then let me."

John's heart sunk –again- as Sherlock sat down and started unlacing his shoes. "You want to go home?"

"I can feel Anderson's stupidity radiating from across the room. For all we know, it's infections and I, for one, really don't want to find out.

They could hear Anderson laughing at them -with who was probably Hope and Moran- as they exited but it didn't matter much since they were leaving. John didn't much care to have anything to do with them. Hope's nose was still a bit crooked anyway so anything he had to say just came out nasally and John couldn't take him seriously.

"Where to?"

"Ice cream."

John nodded even though he thought it was a bit chilly for ice cream. He slipped into the driver's seat and let Sherlock direct him to a shop that was open late on a Friday night. That shop just so happened to be a gas station but that was fine.

There was a booth inside and they both sipped on milkshakes in silence. It was then that John felt himself heat back up with rage, something the ice cream couldn't chill out. He'd had to deal with plenty of boneheads but Anderson was one prick that he just couldn't seem to scrape away.

It was fine, he knew it would be at least. Anderson would go back to his school and he would just have to avoid him when he visited home. Hopefully Anderson wouldn't attend his college choice. He needed to finish his apps that weekend. He kept forgetting about that stupid application fee. He meant to ask Sherlock if…wait. Was Sherlock even going to college?

They always talked about John going, never really about Sherlock. His skills were far beyond that of any teachers, at least in John's opinion -part of the reason he easily skipped a grade. College would probably be a bore for him. He would move away and… oh no. They'd only been friends for such a short time but John couldn't imagine being without him. He was his best friend. Their summer apart was difficult enough. How could he spend any more time away from him? Especially after… well yeah. Long distance relationships sucked.

"Shut up, John."

John's head snapped up and he pulled the straw from its cup –spilling mint chocolate chip all over the table. Was he thinking out loud?

"Come on," Sherlock gestured and led them out the door.

John just followed, confused.

Sherlock didn't say anything more than which way to turn as John drove. He expected it was back to his house. His thinking must have ruined it somehow. His outburst at Anderson and then his moody behavior meant the night was ruined.

He was very surprised when he found them parked on the top of a hill just outside of town. Sherlock got out without saying anything again and John followed him asking, "Where are we?" There was no house in sight.

Sherlock hopped on top of the hood and before John could yell at him, he was holding out a hand and gesturing for John to jump up too. John shook his head but did it anyway, using Sherlock's hand to pull himself up.

Sherlock pulled him all the way against the windshield, refusing to let go. John looked at him curiously, but he was just as mysterious as ever. John didn't bother to ask as he waited for Sherlock to explain.

"Look at the sky, John," Sherlock said. "Stars."

"Is this from the same movie?"

Sherlock glanced quick enough to glare before looking back up. John smiled and his chest fluttered to warmth and he looked up too. There were a lot of stars that night, barely a cloud in the sky. For fall it was chilly but his side was kept warm by Sherlock's and his blood was pumping fast enough from nerves.

This entire date had to count as a workout.

Then the thoughts of what this meant and what was happening started to bombard him again. What would Sherlock do? Sure, he could take care of himself but everyone was just so mean to him. What would happen if John wasn't there to defend him? All that came to mind was a small boy curled up inside a cardigan, broken glasses near falling off his nose, and bullies shouting at him from above.

Then Sherlock spoke, dragging him out of his thoughts before they could get much farther. "I'm not going anywhere, John."

"I know," John thought he sounded defensive too.

"Stop worrying. You're giving me a migraine."

"Sorry. Just- I don't know."

"Everyone thinks I stalk you anyway. Might as well keep up the tradition next year."

"At college? You'll want to go to the same one as me?"

"All colleges are fundamentally the same. Ridiculous institutions that promise livelihood while sucking away half your life's earnings. Yet in our society we need a degree to survive. I may or may not attend but I can live anywhere. You needn't worry about it."

"I don't want you to move because of me."

"Then I won't."

"Oh." Disappointment made his heart drop, even if he meant what he said.

"The future is unpredictable. You can only hold onto so much. Keep living in the present and the things that matter stay. Keep holding onto one path and everything will slide."

"Is that from the movie too?"

"Final scene. Really moving, I'm sure."

"You're such an ass." The words didn't really bite with John's smile hiding his teeth.

"What's that star?" Sherlock pointed towards the sky.

"Oh, like you don't know."

"You're the one who cares about astronomy."

"You have to learn some in boy scouts! It's not an interest. You mean you really don't know?"

"What's the point of astronomy?"

"The north star? You don't know the freaking north star? Or the point of it?"

"I deduce it points north."

"Oh my god, alright so that's the big dipper and that's the little and over there-" John pointed and explained the very few constellations he knew, making a few up until Sherlock caught on.

Eventually John's eyes started to close and his blinking gradually grew farther and farther apart. Sherlock insisted he drive them back –as he didn't know how to drive himself and didn't need them getting in an accident.

Sherlock gave the final directions until John pulled up the sidewalk of an unknown street.

"Where are we Sherlock? I thought you wanted to go back to the café?"

"We're at my house."

John's mouth fell open as he looked out the window and saw the tiny cottage surrounded by flowers topped off with a cobblestone path leading to the front door. It was straight out of a fairytale. "Seriously?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Can I walk you to your door?" John asked.

"More chivalry?"

"Politeness, I think."

"My window."

"Your what?"

"Left side, all the way to the back. Keep low and don't step on the flowers."

John was completely confused but followed anyway –a pattern that really needed to stop.

"What are we doing at your window?"

"You won," Sherlock said simply before pushing it open and hoisting his body inside.

John gaped up at him until Sherlock offered his hand and pulled him in too. There John finally saw the room that had been kept secret.

Sherlock's room was small, with a bed that took up most of it. The rest was filled up with books from all categories, mostly the sciences and puzzles and strategies. There wasn't much room for anything else. The only other piece of furniture was a dresser beside his closet. On top were a few more books, his old glasses, and a single picture. The only one in the room. John smiled as he reached out and picked it up.

He remembered the exact moment this was taken. It was a yearbook photo. The committee snapped photos whenever possible and they took this one in the cafeteria one day when John was having lunch with Sherlock. John was smiling at the camera, politely –though he remembered wondering why they thought having photos of people stuffing their face was a good idea. Sherlock was small, big glasses hiding his face, and looking down at the apple John had given him that day –one small bite taken off the top.

John jumped as Sherlock slipped his hand over John's and led him back towards the dresser so he would put the frame back in its place. Sherlock's other hand slipped around his side and twisted his hips around until he was looking up at the young boy –such a dramatic difference from just a year ago.

Sherlock leaned down and caught John off guard in the dark, slipping his mouth between John's lips and stealing a kiss. John felt his body tense again, a nervous tick sweeping through him as he shook in place.

This was his boyfriend. He could kiss his boyfriend. He could be bisexual or gay or- oh, who the hell cares?

He leaned up and captured Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, accidentally biting down. His hands wiggled at his side, clenching and unclenching, until he worked himself up enough to try again. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock's shoulders and slammed back against him, closing his eyes tight as he felt the heat of his mouth move under him, a superseding jump shooting out from his chest as his stomach flipped with excitement.

The kiss was slow and awkward at first, then John's tongue slipped out on its own. Sherlock took the invitation to meet him halfway and the moment they met, sparks exploded. Lips rolled together, teeth nipped at tongue and mouth, and hands gripped every part they could reach. They moved fast and quick, until they were both panting, forgetting the cold that swept in from the open window. John suddenly wondered where Sherlock learned to kiss and why his bed was so big for one person.

John pulled back and Sherlock, reading his mind as always, answered before he could ask, "First," he said between pants. "You're my first."

"Quick learner," John teased, his heart jumping with a smug sense of pride.

"It was in the movie," Sherlock joked before taking his face in his hands and silencing him again.

They kissed for so long, John was sure his knees would give way very soon. As much as his body believed itself to be alive and awake, it really was late.

"Stay," Sherlock whispered as soon as he pulled away.

"I can't. My mom said to be home by two."

"It's nearly four and she hasn't called. She's not awake. You could stay and leave early. She'll never know."

John moaned as Sherlock's mouth found his again. It was so tempting, just to lie down, continue what they were doing. He had a point. He was the smart one. But, "I'll see you tomorrow. Or, well, today. I have practice at five. Won't you be there? You can come to my house after."

"Or you could stay here now." Sherlock smirked again and leaned in, stopping short a moment later. "Ah. I see. You're worried your mother will worry over you becoming like Harry. One night stands, out drinking all night. I can assure you, John, I wasn't planning on taking advantage. Unless you wanted me to."

Sherlock let his hands slide down John's front, slipping dangerously low on his hips.

"Sherlock-"

"This politeness is infuriating."

"Next time. I'll sneak out of my house and everything."

They kissed so long, John contemplated his own rational decisions again and again. He didn't want to drive tired, but he probably only lived 15 minutes away. That was no excuse, but he did promise his mom. She would have a heart attack if she saw the car missing. And Sherlock was right about the Harry thing.

He hated himself for saying goodbye and so he said it at least five times. Finally, Sherlock found him so annoying he practically pushed him out the window, reminding him not to step on the flowers on his way out.

John smiled as he danced over the petals and made his way back to his car. The cold brushed his heated face and he was dizzy with sleep. He couldn't stop grinning if he tried.

Yeah. This hetero boyfriend thing was going to work out fine. More than fine, actually.

Absolutely fantastic.