Disclaimer: I own nothing.

I apologise in advance for posting this fic now. I was going to wait until I was done. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. So here you go.

Oh, and this is rated T because I'm not sure if it will have smut. If I decide it will, I'll change the rating. See, if I had just waited to post until I was done, I would be sure what rating to give it. Oh well.

Enjoy.

Any high school student that tells you they don't care what anyone else thinks of them is lying. If you're one of the people who says that, and you think I'm wrong, then you're lying to yourself.

And it's possible you're close. It's possible you don't care about most of the things people think about you, but there's that one thing that bothers you. Or maybe you don't care what most people think, but there's that one person that you need to think positively of you.

John Watson is one such example of this type of person.

That people thought him strange didn't matter to him one bit. That not even his family seemed able to understand him was of little to no concern. It would seem to anyone looking from the outside that he really didn't give any credence to what people said or thought about him.

But then there was the one person that he didn't want to matter, but who always had.

It started when the boy transferred over to play football. John saw the team walking down the hallway with the boy whom he knew had only been at the school for a few weeks. John knew little about him at that point, other than that his name was Sherlock Holmes and he spent too much time with people like Anderson to be worth anyone's time. Well, he was more likely to be seen with Lestrade than Anderson, and admittedly Lestrade was less of an idiotic prat, but he was certainly one of the dullest creatures John had ever known, so that didn't make Sherlock seem worth his time any more than before.

But anyway, John was at his locker, and the team was waltzing on by. John, like he often did—and cursed himself for every time—turned when they walked by like most everyone else in the school, as if he were some stupid drone that followed the leader like every other person in this insipid establishment. Usually when he did, someone would have a less than kind comment ready to throw at him. But Anderson, for once, didn't notice John and couldn't make any snide remarks. Nobody really seemed to look John's way at all… except for Sherlock.

And a strange thing happened. John met eyes with Sherlock, whose gaze was the pale blue of ice and should have stabbed just like it… but Sherlock smiled warmly, nodding to John. Tall and pale and regal looking, Sherlock had the countenance of a vampire, and yet his smile contained all the sunshine in the world.

John didn't have time to decide if he was baffled, disgusted, or a little entranced before Sherlock was out of sight. But even as John—quite rudely, as he did most things—half stared and half glared at the taller boy, Sherlock kept smiling until he was gone.

It shouldn't have mattered to John. Not the slightest bit. It should have been suspicious, if anything. Never trust a footballer to be kind until they've thoroughly proved that fact. This Sherlock was probably just like the rest, but just barely clever enough to try to gain John's trust before striking. John could only reckon that a horrible prank was in store.

But John kept staring after the strange boy, the one who looked at him like he belonged when nobody else ever did.

And that was when the fascination began.

Every time Sherlock passed John in the halls, he'd smile. Not just when he was alone, but when he was with friends as well. And John every time would just stare, his eyes probably narrowed and his lip probably twitching, and Sherlock didn't care in the least. He'd keep on with that grin—a smirk like he and John shared some secret nobody else did. One time, he winked. John hadn't known what to think of that.

Things became stranger yet when Anderson made fun of John for the first time when Sherlock happened to be around. It was just Anderson, Lestrade, and Sherlock walking down the hallway.

"Oh look, if it isn't the boy genius," Anderson sneered. "Well, he's got no glasses to break, so why don't we get his nose instead?"

Usually, this was when Lestrade would casually mention that he should stop and Anderson would ignore him and Lestrade would let it happen, not knowing what else to do.

But before Lestrade could say anything… Sherlock did.

"Phil, quit it. What's John ever done to you?"

Anderson turned to Sherlock. "Is that a joke? You know the stuff he does. Always… always guessing things about people."

John rolled his eyes and said in a bored voice, "It's not guessing, Anderson, it's observing. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn't take a genius to know that you're only such a bully because your father did it to you first."

Anderson immediately dove for John… and Sherlock caught him by the arms.

"Phil, come on, you're being stupid. If you don't want him to make you look a fool, then at least don't play right into his hands like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he spat.

"I mean he's trying to bait you and you're going for it. Just take a breather, Phil. Greg, take him somewhere." Lestrade nodded and took Anderson by the arm, and Anderson let himself be dragged, even as he glared daggers at John the entire way.

Then Sherlock met eyes with John. John somehow expected some sort of lecture or something… but then Sherlock was smiling again, that same smile as always.

"This might sound stupid, but I've actually being wanting a chance to talk to you for a while." John looked up at him with blank disinterest, even though on the inside he was gaping. "I knew you did that. Could, you know, 'observe' things about people, as you call it. How do you do that?"

John considered not answering for a moment, but Sherlock did save him another trip to the nurses' office, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to say something. "I just do. I've always been able to."

"It's just… it reminds me of my older brother, Mycroft. He's smart like that. I guess I didn't get the gene." Another grin. "Anyway, we've never been properly introduced. I'm Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

John hesitated for a long moment, but then took the hand in front of him. "John Watson."

"Good to meet you, John," said Sherlock pleasantly. John noted that it was strange how much Sherlock's whole visage didn't fit his disposition whatsoever. It wasn't uncommon, of course. Judging a person by their appearance didn't often work—their clothes and their actions, sure, but not just their hair and eye colour, not really. "Oh," Sherlock added, cutting off John's train of thought, "I'm sorry about Phil. He's honestly just jealous because you're the only one with higher marks than him in the school. He told me himself."

"Anderson's got high marks? My god, how is anyone stupider than that twit?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "You know, I'm seeing why you get punched so often."

"What, are you going to punch me too then?" asked John, the same snotty indifference in his voice as always so he could pretend it wouldn't truly hurt his feelings if Sherlock decided he disliked him.

"No," Sherlock replied easily.

John wished he could hide his genuine surprise a little better. "Why not?"

"I didn't say I wanted to. I just see why other people do is all."

"And why don't you want to?"

Sherlock scanned John, in his version of trying to see all he could in another person in a few moments. What he could actually see from the inspection was probably laughable to John, but he supposed that the effort could be respected. A little.

"This would sound stupid to anyone," said Sherlock. "Especially to you. But I'll say it anyway. Ever since I first saw you, I felt this… bond, with you. Like you and I are supposed to be friends. Does that make sense?"

John blinked. "No, none at all," he replied seriously. "You don't believe rubbish like that, do you?"

John was surprised again by Sherlock smiling. "Yeah, figured as much. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to charm you the old fashioned way. I gotta go to class though. See you 'round?"

"… Sure."

And Sherlock was gone.

And that night, John had the first dream in his life that he remembered. And the star? You guessed it: Sherlock Holmes.