Fanfiction based off of DrSlug's amazing Teen Sherlock comics. Be sure to check them out!

Find This One:

art/Teen-Sherlock-Molly-389411251
art/Teenager-Sherlock-John-Watson-390889981
art/Teen-Sherlock-Addictions-Part-1-392689629
art/Teen-Sherlock-Addictions-Part-2-the-end-P-393220736

Find Them All: gallery/45469663/Teen-Sherlock
Just add drslug . deviantart . com before all these links.

A/N: The plot, story, inspiration, and cover art belong to the wonderful DrSlug. BunBunTeddyBunBun is, as usual, my editor. Enjoy and be sure to leave me a review!

Disclaimer: I'm not Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Martin Freeman, or Benedict Cumberbatch, unfortunately. Sorry.

Sherlock sighed, his back turned against the girl behind him, her mousy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, like it always was. It was nice to know some things didn't change. She stood timidly with her eyes on the ground, flickering up to Sherlock every now and then. Sherlock took another breath, realizing he'd stood still for far too long, and turned around. He looked at Molly, who's eyes were now fixated on his. Biting her lips, nervous habit.

His expression was dull, but her eyes were sparkling. His eyes were already starting to burn. He supposed he should get it over with. He only gave himself a moment of hesitation, before rushing the word out faster than he ever did with his deductions, and he asked what seemed like should be a simple question. "Date?"

Almost immediately, and all at once, Molly's eyes began to sparkle as she rushed forward, almost as if to hug him. But noticing his uncomfortable look and remembering who she was standing in front of, she settled for awkwardly standing close to him, her arms against her chest and her hands clasped, stopping mid-rush. Although she knew it wasn't right to feel so enthusiastic, considering the circumstances, she couldn't help but exclaim, "Yes!"

They would have been nose to nose, if not for Sherlock's height, despite the fact that Molly was on her toes. Sherlock leaned away from her, searching his Mind Palace for what he was supposed to say.

For once, Sherlock wasn't able to keep it all down and push it back into a dark room in his Mind Palace. The walls were breaking, and it was all gushing out. Instead of returning Molly's gestures and faking happiness, as he might have to slightly cheer himself up, he turned away from her again and curled up into a ball, disregarding the file in his Mind Palace labeled, "Societal Rules". Molly's lips dropped into a concerned expression, confused once again, although deep down, she knew what could be bothering him. Hell, she did know what was upsetting him. She asked him anxiously, "Sherlock?"

He didn't reply.

She crept up towards him, not wishing to make him lash out at her as she knew that he may do. What she noticed now, however, startled her more than it should have. Distressed, she asked, "Sherlock, are you crying?"

He still didn't look at her, but he muttered, "Please, Molly..."

He sighed again, for the millionth time, peeking up through bleary eyes just for a few seconds to peer down at the road below, from the rooftop he was sitting on. Sherlock looked away, beginning to get a little bit dizzy. "Just leave me alone."

Molly bit her lip and kneeled down beside him, before reaching out a hand to place on his back, afraid he might push her away. She struggled to know what she could possibly say. She gave him caring eyes, despite the fact that he couldn't see her.

"It's going to be okay... You'll see." she smiled, just a little. It was unclear to her who she was comforting. "You can't blame yourself for John's death."

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and whipped his head around to Molly, wet tears strolling down his face, red eyes meeting Molly's.

His words were spoken bitterly as he asked angrily, "And how would you know that? Did you kill any of your imaginary friends!?"

Sherlock's eyebrows dropped down at his lash, perturbed.

Molly raised her hand off of Sherlock's back, becoming afraid.

"I..." she began, unsure where to even begin. She started what was supposed to be easiest and told him quietly, "Am sorry."

"Oh, Molly Hooper." she thought, desperately criticizing herself. "Sorry won't fix anything, and you know Sherlock knows that. You ought to put more thought into your words."

She shook her head, thinking silently, "It's much too late now. You know you won't get that date either. It won't ever happen again."

She bit her lip before saying hesitantly, out loud, "Social skills are not my expertise, you know..."

Sherlock snorted at her before rapidly realizing his emotional mistakes. Although he really didn't want to, he stood, and swiftly wiped the tears off of his face with his arm, before turning to Molly with a somewhat cocksure smile. Both of them knew it was no where close to real. He bit the inside of his lips, so Molly couldn't see as he quickly filed through "Social Expertise" in his Mind Palace. It definitely needed more information.

Inwardly he was quietly panicking at what she might think of him now, but he kept it all down as best he could.

"I apologize Molly. What I said was inappropriate." he said, reaching out a hand to help her up.

When Molly kept her hands clasped together and her face a concerned expression, Sherlock awkwardly withdrew his hands, stuffing them into his pockets. Seeing no response from Molly, he reminded himself, it didn't matter.

Without another word, he strolled away quicker than he needed to, reaching the door leading downstairs as quick as he possible could. Molly sighed, eyes to the ground again, feeling more timid than she had before. Just when she had thought she couldn't possibly feel worse, Sherlock had proved her wrong. She pressed her lips together.

"It's okay Sherlock..." she spoke, although he was gone and the door was shut. "At least you showed some emotion."

John strolled through the halls, listening to Mycroft's words, something about graduation and universities. It sounded important, but he couldn't help but be distracted by the shouts just outside the hall. People were surrounding two men, one of which was taking an immense beating.

"Sorry Mycroft," John apologized as he interrupted him, making Mycroft frown, and John continued to ask, "Who's that fellow in trouble over there?"

Mycroft turned, sticking his nose up as if he didn't already live and breath the air of importance, in John's opinion. He supposed Mycroft really wasn't all that bad, he'd only known him for a few minutes, after all. Mycroft turned to see where John was looking, his hand on the knob of the door that lead them inside. Indeed, one with a mess of curly hair on his head had a hand on his neck, and another hand punching his face repeatedly while people shouted taunts and slurs at him.

Instead of looking distressed and calling the headmaster, as John thought he would have, Mycroft looked dully at them and replied, "Oh. That would be my brother."

John looked at Mycroft, concerned for Mycroft's unnamed brother. He coughed. "Aren't you going to, uh, help him?"

Mycroft grinned, John frowned. Mycroft even looked somewhat proud before asking John, "Help him?" Mycroft laughed, "Just watch."

John's frown deepened, but Mycroft's eyes were fixated on his brother, who had now pushed the man off of him with his feet while lying down on his back, having previously being choked, he turned the tables, his own hand on the shorter man's neck. John couldn't help but follow Mycroft's eyes. With the momentum the brother had from pushing the bully back, he stumbled forward, placing a hand on the ground, crooked, cocky grin on his lips, eyes set directly in the shorter-than-him man that stood before him. Mycroft's brother stood up as well, arms in a fighting stance that looked a little weak in John's eyes. The kid was absolutely scrawny. John still wasn't able to comprehend why Mycroft wasn't helping.

"You're all idiots!" the brother shouted, still grinning with his eyes fixated only on the man in front of him. John could only see the brother's eyes flicker up and down the "idiot's" body, before landing a hard punch to his nose, his eyes completely focused. John supposed he was getting an inkling of why the brother was getting beat up by now. He seemed awfully cocky.

"Anderson!" came a female cry, seeming to be a sympathetic cheer for the man that now had a possibly broken nose. Within moments, the brother grabbed so called Anderson's ears, pulled them towards him and landed a kick to his crotch. Anderson fell to the ground, grimacing.

"Oh..." many people said, their cheering hands silently lowering down to their sides. Whispers of, "Freak!" and "Call the headmaster!" echoing through the field now that their hero Anderson was out of the game.

John couldn't help but shout an excited, "Woohoo!" before adding, "You showed him, mate!"

He felt both of the Holmes' eyes look at him, confused. Everyone else in the field shared the same expression.

John flashed the brother a faltering smile. The lanky boy stalked up to John, somewhat leaving behind the slurs and quiet taunts. Instead of looking at John however, he looked at Mycroft first with his eyebrow raised, as if John was invisible.

"Making new friends, Mycroft?"

John beat Mycroft to answering him, saying, "Hey there! I'm John Watson."

While he would've normally stopped there, he really couldn't help but add, "Amazing technique!"

John swore he saw the boy's cocky grin increase. Mycroft leaned down to John's short height and helpfully told his brother, "John just transferred here from St. Andrews."

Immediately, the boy's grin dropped into a frown as his eyes flickered up and down John's body too, just as they had Anderson's. John's own smile faltering while Mycroft's eyebrow raised slightly higher, seemingly at the boy's disregard for manners, but he couldn't be sure. The boy asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?"

"Your dad. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. Then he looked at Mycroft, half expecting an explanation, utterly confused. Did Mycroft say something? John couldn't help but ask, "How on Earth-"

But the boy was already gone, giving his brother a sarcastic salute and the words, "Laterz, Mycroft."

Despite the boy's attitude, Mycroft had his own cocksure grin on his face, before patting his pocket for his phone, realizing it was gone. He glanced up angrily at his brother, "Did you steal my phone again, you twat?!"

Although the two couldn't see it, although Mycroft could feel it, Sherlock was grinning ear to ear, "Sherlock Holmes. Nice meeting you, Watson."

The whole scene just made John smile.

It wasn't long before John and Sherlock indeed became very close. It wasn't at all surprising for John to be so worried about his friend, even though they'd only known each other for a few weeks.

Click, clack, click, clack, click clack click clack click clack clickclackclickclackclickclackclick

John was running, running faster than he thought he ever could have. He couldn't help but think bitterly, "This will give my mates something to talk about, running to save your male best friend."

He immediately shot those ugly thoughts down as soon as he realized what he was saying; he knew those thoughts were only a distraction. What if Sherlock was dead? What if he was really hurt? What if he'd gotten badly beaten up?

"Where is he?" John called to Molly, who was lagging a little bit behind him, seemingly not sharing his amount of concern, "Where did you see him, Molly?"

He was beginning to run out of breath himself. Molly called back to him, "Over there John!"

He didn't quite register her words until she pointed again, "Over there!"

Leave it to Molly to always be able to recognize when someone needs a little more direction. At the moment, quite literally.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, rushing through the streets. It wasn't long before he did indeed see the almost silent body of his friend on the ground in the alley, a few groans and twitches in Sherlock's knocked out haze. John was terrified.

He couldn't even hear himself mutter, "Oh God..."

Click clack click clack click clack

The sounds of Molly's footsteps echoed in the alley, not too far away, "Did you find him?"

John dropped to his knees, swallowing down this information and image, although it kept getting stuck in his throat. He stuttered, "Y-yes."

Molly arrived behind John's shoulder, mighty scared, but not as scared as John was. With his voice barely audible, John asked, "...What's wrong with him?"

Molly blinked and pressed her lips together, "Don't you, uh, know, John?"

John whipped around to face her angrily. "Know what?!"

Molly took a fearful step back, and answered John with great hesitation. She subconsciously placed her arms over her chest in a half X position, fingernails digging just a little bit into her bitten lips. She cast her eyes away. "Well... Sherlock..."

She hunched her shoulders over before quickly continuing, "He has some addictions."

John gave Molly a bewildered, incredulous look. "Addictions? He's sixteen!"

The door swung open to the school, not too far away. A gruff voice that reminded John somewhat of his dad's called out to them, "Hey lads! What's the matter over there?"

"Oh bloody hell." Molly cried. "Headmaster Lestrade! How are we going to explain this to him?"

A few moments passed before Molly realized John wasn't answering. She turned around to see no trace of Sherlock or John. She began to panic and wildly look around all corners of the alley, although it wasn't much help, before she realized that John had Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, and he was leading his friend away.

"Hey!" she cried, cupping her hands around her face as a speakerphone, but John didn't hear. And in John's helpful arms, Sherlock managed to mumble John's name.

John grunted, struggling to take off Sherlock's second shoe as quietly as possible, as not to wake Harry or his mother.

"Come on!" he grunted, "This damn shoe!"

Sherlock was somewhere between a drug induced unconsciousness, and plain old drowsiness, so he was no help. John had half-expected that he would have woken up by now, but he hadn't.

POP

And off came Sherlock's shoe, flinging John back onto the ground as Sherlock's arm flopped down to the side of John's bed.

"Shhhhh..." came Sherlock's hushed voice, his arms now hugging the pillow. John glared at him before flipping open his phone to call Mycroft. It didn't even need to ring more than once before Mycroft's voice came, "Mycroft Holmes."

After a little bit of slight arguing and banter, John seemingly won. "Yes, Mycroft, I reckon he stay the night."

John paused, listening to Mycroft's voice on the other end. "My mother doesn't know he's here."

John paused to listen to Mycroft again, and to ponder what might become of the next morning. Referencing the few times Sherlock had fallen asleep in class, due to boredom no doubt, John could make an educated guess about his next words. He assured Mycroft, "No worries. He sleeps like a log. Okay. Uh huh. Ta!"

He sighed, flipping his phone shut. He looked at his friend, sleeping on the bed, snoring quietly. It looked like John wouldn't be sleeping in his bed tonight. John crept to the hallway closet to get extra blankets and bedding. He set them down beside his actual bed, and lay awake, hands clasped together with the occasional twiddle. The gray of his ceiling was the only thing meeting his eyes. It wasn't all that long before he dozed off, gray roof and quiet night lulling his eyes closed, despite his slight anxiety.

Being as he didn't go to sleep until late, it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock woke up before John did. Sherlock awoke, somehow still sleepy, and then began taking in his surroundings and deducing what must have happened before padding off to John's bathroom. He supposed John wouldn't really mind if he took a shower. It's what people did when they stayed over, wasn't it? He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging off his pants and trousers, nearly tripping on the latter. He switched on the water and it showered down on his face as he washed himself, only to nearly drift off again in the shower.

"John! Breakfast!" awoke someone who Sherlock presumed to be Mrs Watson.

"Harriet, dash it up." Sherlock heard Mrs. Watson say to John's sister as he traipsed down to the kitchen.

"John! Tea or milk?" Mrs Watson yelled to her son upstairs. "That child is driving me insane!"

Harriet stuffed a mouthful of cereal into her mouth and replied bitterly, "He's coming down, relax. I can hear him."

Instead of John, however, Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen, dripping wet from his shower and stark naked at that. The Mrs Watson nearly dropped the pan she was washing in the sink, explaining the shortage of water in the shower, and Harriet dribbled milk on her pants. It seemed both were unsure where to look or what to say.

Sherlock glanced at John's mother, who gave him a bewildered glance, seeming to have troubles keeping her eyes up. Then he glanced to John's sister, who was now spilling her cereal all over the table, hardly any manners there.

Without looking at either of them, Sherlock managed to remember his manners at least, remembering the magic word as he said in a calm droll, "Tea, please."

And right then was when John woke with a start at the scream of his name.