I have been reading this over rather a lot, and am a lot happier with it than my other one-shot, 'The Return'. Just to clarify, John and Sherlock would be 15-16 in the fic. Here in Scotland that would mean they would be in their 5th year of secondary school, I'm not sure about the education system down in England however, which seems to change from account to account that I have heard. If people wish I can continue this, whether as a collection of one shots or a multi-chapter story is for you to decide.
-The People That Mind Don't Matter-
Sherlock found John crouched behind a tree at the edge of the school grounds, school bag dumped beside him and head resting on his knees. The taller boy stood for a minute or so, watching and listening as John Watson (his partner in chemistry and unexpected best, well- only friend) take deep breaths and count slowly to ten. Sherlock could tell his John was upset, but though he was talented at many things, comforting was not on the list. After a brief internal debate, Sherlock sat down stiffly next to him, narrowing his eyes in annoyance as a root dug into his back.
What's wrong? Was a good phrase, Sherlock had heard other people use it and usually turned his nose up, couldn't they figure out what was wrong for themselves? Since meeting John however, he had concluded it was a way of getting the person to talk about what had happened, which was somehow considered to be therapeutic. These thoughts flashing through his mind, Sherlock allowed the question to fall from his lips.
John glanced up at him, before straitening slightly, pressing his back against the rough bark and smiling at him slightly. He looked tired, not physically, more like he was enduring something annoying and had been for a long time. He wasn't at breaking point; he was beyond the time for breaking points now. Sherlock had the distinct impression he'd come to some sort of decision, though for once he couldn't deduce what it was.
"Nothing's wrong." Said John, then seemed to think better of lying to the genius sat beside him, "My friends just kicked me out their group."
Sherlock frowned, "Why?" He asked, he couldn't imagine who wouldn't want to be friends with John, he was kind and caring and thoughtful and strong and…
John shrugged "Dunno." Was all he said, but Sherlock caught the flicker of his eye lashes as he said it, and the way he dropped his gaze to examine a blade of grass by his thigh.
"It's me, isn't it." Sherlock didn't bother to state it as a question. Johns friends had made it clear that the fact John chose to sit with Sherlock at lunch rather than them displeased them utterly, and the fact he chose to hang out with Sherlock sometimes after school somehow further rubbed them up the wrong way. Sherlock had heard them telling John his new friend was a 'brattish snob' and 'probably a psychopath' as well as 'hurting anyone who comes close to him'. John had come up with some very colourful insults for them, and these conversations tended to dissolve into full-scale rows. Sherlock supposed this time John had crossed some sort of line.
John didn't bother to deny Sherlocks statement, just bit his lip and looked at him with wide, cautious eyes. "You do realise," Sherlock continued, keeping his voice smooth and factual "That the logical way to solve this problem is to stop hanging out with me." He internally winced at using such an immature term. John shook his head vigorously.
"I'm not doing that Sherlock, I'd never do that."
"But it would mean you could hang out with your friends and would not be insulted at regular intervals for being such a blubbering idiot. Which you are."
John smiled, "You love me and you know it."
"But you don't love me back. Not in the way I want."
There was a silence. A long, shocked silence in which Sherlock experienced a severe rise in blood pressure causing his pale cheeks to become dusted with pink.
He had said that for a number of reasons; firstly- he thought it might help to chase John away and get him back into his old friend group without hurting his feelings. Secondly- he felt that keeping his own emotions hidden from the boy was somehow traitorous and not what Good Friends do. And thirdly, he had been experiencing a whirlwind of emotional turmoil since his feelings for this boy had been discovered, and was immensely relieved to get the confession off his chest.
John meanwhile was experiencing a similar whirlwind of emotion, and couldn't help but blurt "How do you know that?!"
Sherlock cocked his head "You haven't shown any interest." He said, internally praising the control he had that kept the hope washing over him from seeping into his voice.
John stared at him, feeling his ears slowly turn red (trust Sherlock to be the attractive blusher). He had stayed with Sherlock despite the constant insults and ignored texts. He had broken rules for him, gotten into trouble with him, hell, he'd punched people for this man; he doubted he wouldn't kill people for this man. He had encouraged Sherlock to continue with his violin lessons, experienced Sherlocks stony day-long silences and managed to not only figure out they were usually disguised tantrums, but often what they were disguised tantrums about. He had forced Sherlock to consume regular meals and helped him catch and examine bees (resulting in much angry buzzing and a lot of stings) he had given up study times and meal times and sleep times for the man. He had now given up his friends for him. John new Sherlock was a genius, but sometimes he could also be very stupid. He opened his mouth to try and think of something to say, but could think of nothing. So he leaned over and kissed him instead.
Sherlock froze as John pressed their lips together. His heart rate doubled and his stomach tied itself in a not. An unexplainable warmth spread through him, tingling at his lips and pooling in his stomach. He relaxed slightly and pressed back, revelling in the soft heat of John and his close smell. Johns tongue flickered gently over his bottom lip and he opened his mouth in response, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder, then letting it slide down to the smaller boys waste, drawing him closer until John was almost on top of him. John's hands became entangled in his hair and the kiss deepened, became more urgent and less gentle as both boys gained confidence. Sherlock felt their teeth click together and smiled into the kiss as John moved to straddle his lap without breaking apart their mouths, he allowed his hand to explore Johns back, running long fingers up and down his spine and cautiously (he couldn't resist) letting them come to rest on the curve of his ass.
The shrill, brash cry of the school bell tore apart their reverie, causing John to lean back. A look of vacant wonder blossomed on his face at his own forwardness, quickly turning to one of smug triumph as he saw the state Sherlock was in, pallid cheeks turned rosy, lips red and odd-coloured eyes shining brighter than he'd ever seen them.
"People will talk." Murmured Sherlock, more to break the silence than anything.
John smiled and leaned forward, "That's all people ever do", he murmured.
It wasn't until they had straitened their clothing and (attempted) to neaten Sherlocks hair that John coined what he had been trying to say, a sudden memory of a childhood book, written by Dr. Suez, stating in cheery handwriting on the last page (emblemised by drawings of the weird and wonderful)
'The people that mind don't matter and the people that matter don't mind.'