Fall 1998

There were six of them. Six, which was amazing, because, let's face it; none of them had ever had more than one or two friends before. Yet here they were, laughing in the small spare room at the Watson house while rolling out their sleeping bags. They were all entirely inexperienced with girls, which wasn't too odd given they were only a few months into high school, so it was no surprise when the talk of the fading evening turned to making out.

He didn't know how the joke started, but somehow, lights already out, his new best friend (please, please) Sherlock and he were cuddling through their sleeping bags. They were just trying to freak out the rest of the guys, and it was working, though everyone laughed it off. No one wanted to seem like the prude in the group, which gave John an increased sense of bravado. When he acted like he was about to kiss Sherlock, it was clear the others' patience was hanging by a thread. Not wanting to risk losing his new friends over something so stupid, he laughed and finally moved away.

As the sounds of sleeping bags shifting gradually came to a halt, John couldn't help himself. He shuffled just a few inches toward Sherlock – and found that the rest of the space between them had already been closed. They passed the rest of the night near enough to hear each other's breathing. In the morning, Sherlock was halfway across the room. John didn't say a thing.

Spring 1999

The group of them were at the movies. Obnoxious teenagers passing around candy and sitting in the center of the two back rows. It wasn't too crowded, but Sherlock was quite tall, and disturbed the peace by climbing over seven chairs, some occupied, to join his friends. He was late – the movie had already started – and everyone thought he had bailed. When John turned around to give him the "what the hell took you so long" look, he froze.

"Your HAIR!" A hiss ran through the theater at his exclamation, but he just fired back, "Oh, SHUT UP," and kept talking, albeit in a lower voice.

"You cut your hair! Why?!" Sherlock's formerly long, deep brown locks had been chopped off. True, it wasn't too short, and it suited him well, though John would be loath to admit that. But it was dramatic and unexpected and –

"Surprise!" Despite his smile, John could see the uncertainty, the ever-present insecurity, shining through his friend's eyes. He smiled back reassuringly. It wasn't that he didn't like it. It was just… it could be a surprise for everyone else, but why hadn't he told him? John had a right to know if his best friend was going to do something like that. If he was going to... change. What if he changes? Or maybe he already has. John turned to watch the movie. He didn't sit there in the dark, worrying that his best friend didn't need him anymore.

Summer 1999

John's head had fallen on Sherlock's shoulder in the backseat. They were crammed in with two other guys they didn't know on the way back to their buddy's house, and there hadn't been enough cars to fit everyone. It had been a long, hot day watching the ballgame, and the copious amounts of ice cream he'd eaten just made him drowsier now. Well, that, and the scent of Sherlock's shampoo. Nope, I did not think that. Why is he letting me sit here like this anyway? Not that it's a big deal. I mean, it's not.

John sat almost without breathing, not wanting to risk that Sherlock would notice the hand resting quite unnecessarily on the edge of his thigh. Too soon, they were back at the house, ready for birthday party, part two. There would be pizza, and music, and a huge sleepover in the basement where Jack's parents didn't have to hear them. All John had to do was get out of the car. He had never been so disappointed in his life.

What felt like an eternity later, everyone was finally in their sleeping bags, lights off, some already asleep. Sherlock had picked the spot right beside John without a second thought – if it were up to them, they would probably just hang out alone forever, where there was no risk of awkward social rejection. When it was just the two of them, everything was ok. Sure, they each worried a bit that the other would judge him whenever some weird comment or personal thought slipped out, but the judgment never came. They could just be whoever they were at the moment. It was all fine.

He didn't know how it happened, exactly, but here they were again. Sleeping bags touching, faces only inches apart. John held his breath, not knowing what he was doing, what he should be doing. Too afraid to ruin it and too desperate to hold on as long as he could, he reached out slowly, a jolt of electricity firing up his arm as he ran his hand lightly up his friend's side. Then came the voice, barely audible. Sherlock was so close that his nose grazed John's ear as he spoke.

"I know I shouldn't say this. But… you're really sexy." John's brain went offline. He didn't know if he answered, didn't know if he moved or blinked. This moment. This is it. This is everything.

He woke suddenly in the morning, paralyzed with emotion. What happens now? What do I say? What even are we? Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John… I… um. About…" he looked away, rolling up his blankets. After a deep sigh, he began again.

"We don't need to talk about… that. Actually, we shouldn't. Talk about it. With anyone."

"Yeah, no, of course not," John agreed, trying desperately to understand what his friend was thinking.

"I mean, nothing happened anyway. So I think it's best if we don't talk about it. You know, like, ever," the tall boy laughed nervously.

"No, I mean… yeah. Yeah. Nothing happened, so. It didn't happen."

"Great." Sherlock's relief showed plainly on his face. John smiled. If it didn't happen, he wasn't confused about their relationship. He wasn't bisexual. He wasn't completely heartbroken. He wasn't.

Winter 2000

"Are you asleep?"

"Nope," John giggled. They had stayed up talking until two o'clock, which wasn't unusual. They had been on the verge of passing out sitting on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom, where John basically lived now, but somehow the act of making up the rollaway bed had revived them. John was happy to hear the sound of his friend's voice breaking the silence. He had not been lying there, staring up into the darkness, wondering if there was some excuse for him to –

"Wanna listen to music?"

"Yeah. Won't your parents wake up?"

"Hmm. Headphones?"

"Yeah, ok."

Sherlock knelt on his bed in the dark, pulling headphones from a drawer behind him and setting up the stereo with practiced movements. John thought he must do this a lot at night. He wondered what it was that kept him up, and why he'd never talked about it. He thought they shared everything. What's so personal that he can't tell me about it?

"Here you go," Sherlock said handing John the detached half of a set of headphones, his whisper suddenly sounding too loud.

"Doesn't reach."

"Maybe if you push your bed over?"

"Nope. Well, I guess I'll just have to – "

"I guess you could… I mean. You could… lie down here?" Sherlock gestured to his own bed. "For awhile. If you wanted. So the cord will reach."

"Um, yeah. I could do that."

"You don't have to," Sherlock returned quickly.

"No, yeah, that'd be good. I mean, you know. Better than just lying here awake." John climbed onto Sherlock's bed, ignoring the desperate desire to slide beneath the blankets that he DID. NOT. HAVE. They lay there shoulder to shoulder, not speaking, until the disc ran out.

"Well, I guess I should get back over there now." Or, I could…

"Yeah. Night."

"Night." John crawled beneath his own blankets. He didn't feel hopeless. Or lonely. He was fine. It was all fine.

Spring 2001

"How does this thing even work?"

"Well, it's got a hook, right?"

"Yeah, but there are buttons on your pants. Why are there… what… ooooh. Ok, hang on… got it!" John fastened Sherlock's rented blue cummerbund. He was going to his girlfriend's prom and it was supposed to match her dress, or something. How had Sherlock even met her, anyway? John knew the story, of course; he knew everything. That wasn't what he meant. He meant how had he met someone without me around? Why wasn't I there? Why did he have a life that didn't involve me? But that was a bit not good, and so John didn't have those thoughts.

"Ok Sherlock, now what about your tie?"

"What? I already tied it. It's – " he looked in the mirror and his face fell. "Oh. Jawn?" he whined.

"Yeah, yeah, come here, sit down." They had an unspoken rule that they wouldn't comment on their rather significant height difference. Sherlock had already been a full six feet tall when they had met, and over the past three years, John had made it to a stunning five-foot-eight. Thankfully it was a sensitive subject for both of them, so it never came up, at least not explicitly.

Sherlock's girlfriend was nice enough, and they all got along fine. Sherlock still spent more time with John than was probably healthy anyway. And it's not like John hadn't dated a bit. Sort of. It was just… different… this time. He wasn't used to his friend having something he couldn't be in any way a part of. And this girl didn't really fit. She wasn't good enough for him. He needed someone more interesting. More adventurous. Someone more like…

"Done. You look – " John stepped back and raised a comically appraising eyebrow, " – perfect. Shall we rescue your date from your mom now?"

John waited until they left, then cleaned up Sherlock's room a bit. As he turned off the light, he didn't think about how empty it looked.

Summer 2001

They were sitting in the usual spots on Sherlock's floor, back against the side of his bed, a tub of cookie dough and two spoons between them. They'd seen the film a few times already, but had been researching it as quickly as dial-up 5.0 allowed and were eager to share the new facts each of them had learned, as well as their budding fan theories on what could/should happen off-camera.

Reporter: "I was under the impression that you were married and living in North London..."

Brian: "I am married. Quite happily, in fact. I just happen to like boys as much as I like girls…"

"Bowie was officially the first pop singer to come out of the closet," John supplied, "even though he's not actually gay."

"Right," Sherlock replied, popping an overflowing spoonful of cookie dough into his mouth, "he's bisexual. But everyone kind of thought it was the same thing."

"Yeah. I mean… it's not."

"Obviously."

"Right." John shoved more cookie dough into his mouth to stop himself from speaking for awhile.

"Oh, this is the best scene – I fucking love Oscar Wilde!" John piped up.

Reporter: Is it your belief that all dandies are homosexual?

Brian: Ha! Nothing makes one so vain as being told one is a sinner!

Curt: Hey! Coming through! Coming through! Hey guys. Watch out! Excuse me!

Reporter: Tell us Brian! Are the rumors true that say you and Curt Wild have some sort of plans up your sleeve?

Brian: Oh, yes! Quite soon we actually plan to take over the world.

Sherlock smiled at John and raised his spoon. "Cheers to that!"

Curt: Excuse me, fellas, while I raise a glass to the loveliest man in Europe! The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.

John noticed Sherlock shifting slightly on floor. Reaching for more cookie dough, he risked a glance over… wait, was he… Sherlock coughed and John quickly looked up and crammed his spoon into his mouth. John had to actively stop his mind from racing. They had been watching the big Brian/Curt kiss, and Sherlock had been... no. No, he had to have been mistaken. That definitely wasn't –

Sherlock leaned back further against the bed, and somehow his shoulder had come to rest against John's. Several minutes passed, but he hadn't moved away. John turned his head slowly to the right, and there he was. Lips parted, eyes terrified, staring directly back at him.

Arthur Voiceover: It's only now, looking back...that I see how you patched through my walls and entered my life...in waves.

John held his breath and cautiously placed one knee on either side of Sherlock's thighs, sitting back and searching his face for permission. The other boy's expression was inscrutable. As the longest moment of John's life passed, he began to panic. He'd gotten it wrong. He'd gotten it horribly, unbelievably wrong. And now their friendship – the single most important relationship in John's life – was going to come crashing down, and there was no way he could survive it.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, paused, then suddenly lunged forward to press his lips against John's. When he pulled back, he looked as shocked as John felt.

"You said… it didn't… we were never supposed to talk about it."

"I know."

"But… you don't… I mean, you didn't want to…"

"I'm… sorry. I'm…" For the first time, Sherlock had to look up at John, his eyes pleading. John saw it then, saw all of it for what it was. A tender smile appeared at the corner of his mouth as he leaned down toward his friend.

Softly, he said: "I will mangle your mind."