Challenge 1/?.
Inspired by REO Speedwagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling"
Enjoy.
John has known Sherlock for three days. Three glorious, amazing, infuriating, much-too-long-yet-much-too-short days. He's breathing hard, eyes wide even though he could fall asleep on his feet any moment. They're running through back alleys and over fences, avoiding main roads. His heart flutters in his chest, but not because of the physical exertion. There's a warm hand in his, sweaty from the run and the humid early-fall air.
Sherlock is laughing ahead of him, deep, even for his age, and jovial. John feels his own smile stretch across his lips and a high-pitched chuckle leave his throat despite the pit in his stomach and the metal scraping against his wrists.
The other boy stops suddenly and turns. John almost runs into him, skidding to a halt just in time.
"Do you think we lost them?" the short blond asks, brushing his bangs from his eyes, making a mental note to get his shaggy hair cut as soon as possible.
The bright-eyed teen in front of him grins, chest heaving. "I think so." Sherlock releases his hand briefly to adjust the handcuffs on his wrist. "I don't have anything to get these off with, though, so it looks like we're stuck with them for now." A pink tongue swipes across red lips and John watches attentively as pale fingers brush back curly, dark hair.
There's something on the breeze, but the blond can't place it. It could be the scent of his apple shampoo, but that's not it. That particular smell is overpowered by a mixture of sweat and adrenaline and excitement all combined with a dark, mysterious musk that rolls off of Sherlock in waves. John feels a spark between them as their eyes meet and they share grins - Sherlock's: ecstatic, John's: flighty.
Just an hour ago, they had slipped out of their dorm room past curfew and hit the city streets, only to be caught by police fifteen minutes later. They had been dragged back to the school where they found Mrs Daily, the headmistress, and Anderson, an annoying boy with beady eyes and a nasally tone, waiting for them. Five minutes after that, Anderson was bleeding on the sidewalk and clutching his ribs, and Sherlock and John were pinned to a police car, cold metal biting into their wrists. Only seconds after all that, Sherlock had spit in the officer's face and made a run for it, practically dragging John after him.
Now, Sherlock grasps his hand again and leads John to the street. John trots after him like a loyal dog, wondering how two fifteen year old boys get into this much trouble after only being acquainted for three bloody days. Hell, not even an hour earlier he probably broke a boy's ribs and nose all because he called Sherlock a freak. He barely knows this kid, yet he's willing to go through anything with him. And, despite the consequences facing him, the trouble they'll be in, he feels safe with Sherlock.
"I'll phone my brother," Sherlock murmurs as they reach a phone box. "He'll get us out of this." The dark-haired boy digs a few pence from his pocket and dials a number faster than John's eyes can follow. After a few moments, someone answers.
"Brother dear," his friend lilts over-affectionately, like most little brothers in trouble do when they turn to their big brothers for help. "My friend and I are in a bind with the police. Do fix it with that silver tongue of yours and clean dear John's record at the school for me, please?"
There's a long pause. "What kind of bind?"
"We snuck out, then John chinned Anderson for being a prat. Good boy, this one," Sherlock deadpans, though he smirks at his short friend. "Can you help? Don't want poor John's new record soiled because he felt I needed defended." John's ears turn hot at this point, but before he can retort there's a sharp question from the other voice.
"And why the bloody hell would I do that?" It sounds tinny to John, who is beginning to press his ear as close to Sherlock's as possible. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind.
"Because I never ask you for anything."
"You're always asking me for something," the voice on the line replies irritably, though there's something soft there as well. "Besides, what friend? You don't have friends."
It's here that Sherlock sighs heavily and hands the phone over to John. The blond boy stares at it for a moment before he opens his mouth. "Hullo..."
There's another long pause and Sherlock eventually takes the phone back. "Mycroft?" John receives a look that he can't decipher. "What? Yes, yes Mycroft." The blond can no longer hear the voice on the line. "Yes, just a friend- What do you mean you've been watching me!" Sherlock's eyes flash for an instant before they calm. "Ah, yes. You do go to the same school... No, he's just a friend." The dark-haired boy's cheeks seem to redden under the dim streetlights. "Yes, I'm sure Mycroft..." He suddenly turns away from John, voice so soft he can barely hear. "He doesn't feel that way for me, so piss off."
John feels like he's been struck by a double decker, yet he doesn't know why. For the rest of the conversation, he zones out and stares at the street, watching the occasional car pass by, oblivious of their existence.
It slowly occurs to John that maybe, just maybe, he cares for Sherlock. That maybe since he met him his life has been hell, but the past three days have also been the best of his life - stress-filled and sleep-deprived or not. It's slowly occurring to him that maybe he even loves this peculiar, extraordinary Sherlock Holmes, and maybe he can't fight what's taking over him. Ever since he laid eyes on Sherlock, he's been on his heels. They quickly became The-Freak-and-The-New-Kid, no spaces, one breath. They've been attatched at the hip, Sherlock going as far as climbing into the blond boy's bed when he tried to take a nap.
"What are you doing, John!" he exclaimed, eyes wide and bright.
John had simply sighed and sat up, his own eyes dark and drooping slightly. He had wrapped his arms around Sherlock then and pulled him down onto the mattress with him, just to get him to shut up and maybe even sleep a little himself. The effort was fruitless however - John was kept up despite his efforts. Sherlock ended telling him everything he knew about everyone he knew for the following three hours with his curly head on John's good shoulder, arms around each other tight.
It was the best three hours of his life.
"Goodbye, Mycroft. Oh yes, cheers... Yes, thank you... Laters."
John just now realises how close they are in this phone box and how tightly Sherlock is (still) squeezing his hand. The shorter-than-average blond boy may not be as fast, nor as observant as his brilliant new friend, but even he can see what's going through Sherlock's funny head. He focuses mainly on Sherlock's red face, his dilated pupils that practically eclipse (recently) bright green irises, how his breath seems to hitch in his throat. Even John can see this is a whole new experience for him.
"You don't have friends," the voice had said. Mycroft, his brother. Surely he knew what he was talking about. Sherlock even affirmed this late the first night they spent together.
"Come on, Sher, you've had to have had friends before!" John had said, incredulous, unbelieving smile stretching his lips. It was after lights out, they were supposed to be sleeping, but they didn't care. Candle light flickered around them, dimly illuminating the small space.
Sherlock had smirked briefly at the way the blond had shortened his name, then went back to his chemistry set. He seemed far away, and spoke so softly, John had to move closer just to hear.
"John, I've never really had a real relationship. Friendly or otherwise. A lot of people don't like me, and I don't like a lot of people. Girls don't interest me, and I don't seem to strike their fancy either. Everyone generally avoids me like the plague, except to call me unimaginative names like 'freak' or something of the like... You're actually the only person to treat me-" It was there that Sherlock broke off, closing his eyes for a moment. His expression was neutral as always, but his voice cracked slightly. John almost thought he imagined it, but his heart breaks all the same at the whole sight. "I don't have friends," Sherlock picked up (a tad bitter), then goes silent, wall successfully rebuilt.
All was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. John wanted nothing more than to say something - anything - that will make everything this poor boy has gone through disappear, but the words eluded him. His next option is to offer comfort of another sort. And so he did.
At first Sherlock jumped and went rigid when John's arms snaked around his middle, but once he realised the blond wasn't trying to hurt him he relaxed. He rests a pale hand on John's arm and sighs, world weary, but not yet eager to show it.
After a while, John glanced up into his friend's ever-changing eyes. Sherlock was gazing down at him, not quite sure how he should proceed, but he was enjoying the contact. "You've got a friend now, Sherlock," he whispered, words intended only for the dark-haired boy. "You've got me."
Something had definately changed after that night. Something brought them closer, made Sherlock even more accepting of his presence until he very nearly relied on it. He drank it up like a shrivelled plant drinks up water. Now here they stand, practically nose to nose in a hot phone box on a ever-cooling night.
John does something he never expected to do.
He cups the other boys face gently with his free hand, tilting Sherlock's chin up with the other. They're eyes meet, and the taller boy straightens, seeing something in those gorgeous brown depths.
I can't fight this Sherlock, John thinks before he stands on his tip-toes, using Sherlock's lapel as leverage.
Their lips touch once, softly, and both boys feel a flush of heat. John backs away slowly, unsure of himself. He watches his friend closely, foreheads barely touching, and waits for Sherlock's eyes to open, not realising they had closed.
They do open after a moment, pupils blown, and stare down at the blond boy. There's something in them, something familiar. Sherlock bends down to John this time for another chaste kiss. It lasts a few moments longer than before, and John feels a new euphoric sensation he hasn't before. Sherlock feels the same.
When they pull away the second time, there's a long pause. Sherlock smiles sheepishly after a while.
"We're not friends anymore... are we John?"
John grins. "No, Sherlock." We're so much more...