Social-disease & Teenage Razors
"What do you think of this one?" He said while holding up another book for his friend to asses. Frankly, he clearly doesn't know what he's doing, and it would be a lot easier if his genius friend just told him which book he should read in order to be able to do his homework so he could actually get to the part of, well, doing it.
"Dull." Was his friend's answer, and maybe he should've seen it coming, everything was boring for his younger friend. Once he turned his blonde head to watch Sherlock sprawled back on his bed and staring at something in a way too advanced for his age book, he realised the silver-gazed boy had not even seen the item.
"You are not even looking!" He accused and dropped the book in the big pile with the other rejects.
"No need," The other explained, "None of those books will help you." He said matter-of-factly, in that arrogant tone John equally despised and loved. The blonde bristled and glared at his companion from his place in the floor.
"Then why the hell did you let me give you choices for the last hour?" He questioned, rubbing his eyes, as if the motion would rid him of the exasperation his friend often caused in him.
The other lowered the book and looked him in the eye for the first time, "It's funny." He said, and John thought he was actually going to punch him this time. The older boy sighed and decided to give up on his project. He still had a week to turn it in and it was unlikely he would get anything done with Sherlock there, lying on his bed and being all aloof and perfect; and also a dick, which was his usual combination.
John tried to distract himself from the rush of contradicting emotions surging through him, so he got up and turned on his laptop, opened his favourite playlist and pressed Play. It was not an uncommon thing for them to hang out at his house, listening to music and doing not much else. For the blonde, it will always be wonderful how such an antisocial person like his best friend could feel comfortable with him around all afternoon. Granted, they fought at least twice a day, but he seemed happy to remain sprawled wherever even if he was sulking. Specially in John's room. Sometimes the aspiring doctor wondered if Sherlock felt more at home in his house than in his own.
John laid down on the foot of his bed, perpendicular to what the sixteen year-old was doing, and closed his eyes. He waited until his friend would inevitably break the silence; because for all the warnings of silence for days on end when they first met at the first day of school last year, his friend had still yet to live up to that quiet reputation. Most of the days John pondered the possibility of Sherlock loving the sound of his own voice more than he loved that old violin he has had since he was little.
"If you were a serial killer, would you think it would be better to pick up victims off the street, or to ask for a lift in their car?" 'Well, straight to it then, huh?' John thought. Smiling fondly at his friend's predilection for crime and death. He thought it was interesting, yet it had gotten him an array of name-calling and shoves by idiots in their school. The eighteen year-old did what he could to defend his friend, yet he knew Sherlock didn't like to be protected. Specially because, against all expectations, John and Sherlock were the closest of friends, even if one of them was the most beloved person of the school and the other was the class outcast. The curly-haired boy had once told him he did not want him to damage his perfect reputation by letting him stand up for a freak.
"I think I would probably ask for the lift." He said in answer to the query. "Otherwise, I would have to clean up my car." He explained, and the other let out a laugh at his attempt at a joke. That right there, John argued, was all the reward he would ever need for his chivalry attempts. Sherlock Holmes happy was more valuable than a whole school-worth of jerks who pretended to be your friend just so they would be well-liked by some other pricks.
Sherlock cut through his musings. "Victor chose the same." He said, and the blonde already could feel his blood start to boil inside his body. Apart from Molly and him, -and Mike, with whom he was friendly- the younger man only had one other friend, and it was the worst possible option John could ever had dreaded for.
He hated stupid, bloody Victor. Acting all smart and perfect, and clearly manipulating Sherlock for his own amusement. The two of them had met during advanced chemistry -one of the classes John didn't take with his friend- and they had strangely hit it off since then. Victor had clearly set out to woo the aspiring detective, and John had no idea if his advances were being well-received. Victor Trevor was the sort of boy who made you want to punch in the face; he was an arsehole and John was more than certain that all he wanted with his friend was to use him, yet Sherlock didn't seem to see it. He let him flirt with him on various occasions, to John's grief, and sometimes they even had whole secret conversations together that made his friend feel self-conscious about the level of his own affinity with the raven-haired boy. In short, it was basically John's every high-school nightmare wrapped up in one tall package.
"Good to know." He snapped, and then regretted it the second he said it. Not only knowing it would end up in a quarrel with his best friend, but also because he knew he should be fishing for information. Knowledge about when exactly did his friend ask him that, and why was he the second-hand option to talk about possible murder strategies. He knew he was being completely pathetic, but he loathed the fact that a prick like Trevor could maybe get Sherlock interested in what he always said he didn't want, and John himself couldn't. He should've found a casual off-handed way to ask, but there was nothing in the world that infuriated him more than this. The younger man was never very forthcoming with anyone when it came to sentiment, and John was left to wonder if Victor's propositions could be returned, and even if they already had.
Sherlock, for his part, narrowed his eyes and stared at him unabashedly. As he always did whenever John looked irritated by the mention of that name. "Why do you hate him so much?" He inquired and sat himself on the bed, as if ready for an attack.
"Because he's a jerk." John lied. Well, it was not necessarily untrue, but it was also not the whole truth. He could not as well tell the other reason why he despised him now, could he?
"No," The other said. "That's not it." Trust Sherlock to pick up on his feeble attempt to hide anything from his insightful eyes. "You don't like jerks at our school, but none of them seem to get a raise out of you like Victor does." He explained, "He's not that bad, you know?" His gaze started to dance all over John's face, as he always did when the deductions started to take on a challenge mode. If John did not backtrack now, he would inevitably show his hand, without question. Yet he could not seem to stop his mouth from forming words that he would assuredly come to regret later.
"Not that bad!" He yelled. "Jesus, Sherlock. Just because he doesn't shove you into lockers, doesn't mean he's not bullying you." He said, and the blonde was seriously considering placing a hand over his own lips to stop them from making everything worse. "He's using you."
"Using me for what?" His friend was angry too. The older boy could see it in his face. This was quickly escalating into the worst fight they had ever had.
"I don't know," He commented. "For everything! As a joke, a game, a...fling." Silence fell in the room after the last word was muttered cruelly. Sherlock seemed hurt, as if he had been struck. John wanted to slap himself for wounding his friend in that way.
Sherlock stood up from the bed and grabbed his coat from John's couch. Ready to storm out. John knew that no matter how strong their friendship was, if he let the brunette walk out of that door, things would never be the same again. That word would hang above them like a dark grey cloud, and John could not let the best thing that has happened to him be tainted by his petty feelings and insecurities, if Sherlock wanted to go out with Victor he had no real say in it. That was not a reason to treat him like that, independently from his own unrequited affections.
"Sherlock, wait." He pleaded and grabbed the other by the arm. Firm enough to show intent but not hard enough to hurt him. Never.
"Why?" Sherlock said, a venomous tone that he often used with bullies at their school, now directed at him. "You clearly think I'm incapable of having a friend without it being part of some ruse." Tears were already gathering around the green-grey eyes, and John could not stand there one more second without trying to make it right. No matter what he had to do to make him understand. "Then what is your ruse, John?" He asked. "What are you hiding from me?"
"That I'm in love with you, you berk!" John said. As soon as the words were out his friend was struck silent for the second time of the day. Blinking rapidly as he tried to understand it. John let go of his arm, and took a step back, he would no force him to stay, specially not now that he had potentially ruined everything. "I'm sorry."
The tears running down Sherlock's face grew in numbers and John had to clench his fist in order to avoid reaching out and comforting him. He didn't really have a right to sooth him when he was the one who hurt him in the first place. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He said, and suddenly, long arms were circled around his frame, hugging him as if their life depended on it. After a few seconds of shock, John cradled the thin frame of his friend and whispered in his ear. "It's okay, Sherlock." Not expecting anything from him.
After his friend had calmed down a bit, Sherlock untangled himself from the tight grip he had and just remained there, carefully nestled in the other's arms. "I'm in love with you too, John." The curly-haired admitted, and the blonde had no idea how things had gone so right after the disaster of a few seconds prior. When he looked at the face of his friend's face he saw an undeniable emotion gathered there, and he could never begin to describe how grateful he felt for having this. For being granted this rare gift. Sherlock smiled at him and placed his head on his chest, letting himself be held for a few more minutes.
Hours later, after having migrated to the couch so they could embrace comfortably; Sherlock, as is his usual habit, said something John would never have expected. "John," He started. "I knew Victor would make you jealous." He confessed, and after a second of processing said information, John said 'you cock!' And the two of them bursted into giggles that didn't seemed to stop ever again. At least not if knew them and asked anyone else that spent time with them. But then again, if you knew them, you wouldn't need to.
Author's note: Another cloudy day, another observation.
Inspired by Gerard Way's Zero Zero.
If you liked it, go read my other stories.