Summary; Teen!Lock. First attempt, be gentle. John/Sherlock.

- John finds himself at a new school, and he doesn't seem to fit in, well, anywhere. Not really, anyway. On top of a troubled home life, coupled with a rocky past that hasn't quite stopped haunting him yet, John doesn't have a single person to turn to... well, except maybe one. One, slightly odd, bit of black sheep teenager. And its all thanks to a old scarf.

Warnings; I'll warn you now, this is an AU MxM. Male on male, folks, and yes, its underage. Just close your eyes and pretend they're older if you wish. New warnings as they come.

First chapter (of sorts), and first story. Oh, please be gentle, lovely people.

Apologies for the shortness, the lack of creativity with the high school name, and this is not brit-picked. It will get better, promise(:


Prologue:

Unsure, slightly pudgy fingers groped at the boys neck. Anxiety swelled in his chest, where was it. Where was it? A tiny beat fluttered through the skin—oh thank god. There it was.

Those fingers latched down as weary blue eyes shot to an old, nearly-shot watch around his wrist, and soft, slightly chapped lips moved as they counted the boy's pulse underneath his breath, as they had probably a thousand times before, nice and methodically. One, two, three…

Ah. The ruffled, dirty-blonde teenager sighed in his head. He relaxed his arms, stretched, and greeted himself with a deep yawn in the mirror. He was in nothing but his underwear.

Normal 100.

This is all to say that those fingers belong to this young man, only 16. That anxiety there was for his new life that had all but barged its way into the place of the teenager's old life. His more preferred life, if he was asked. His family had recently moved and today was, in fact, his first day at Baker High School. Something to be quite unsure and jittered up about, understandably. The old watch around his wrist was an heirloom, scratched and clanky like heirlooms typically are, and this particular boy used that watch every day, when he woke up, to check his pulse. It wasn't a common habit that boys his age developed, but this boy found he quite liked being able to tell that his heart, on the near surface, anyway, was in top condition. No jumps, no unsteadiness or unhealthy patterns. No, his heart was perfectly in rhythm with the rest of the world. Good.

John Watson nodded, much to his own reflection, and continued dressing in his usual lazy, unhurried way. He was up, always up, in plenty of time before eight a.m. (it was six forty-eight, to be precise), and he liked taking his time with things.

He pulled out slacks from his dresser, nice and pressed, along with a button downed shirt from the closet; blue, of course. Blue always did seem to be his lucky color. And he would need luck, today, he decided.

John watched his tired eyes as he gathered up his clothes, there were dark circles underneath. His posture wasn't all that spectacular either. In his defense, sleep hadn't come easily last night. Or the night before, for that matter.

The teenager turned to snatch out his blue briefs from the draws as well. Lots of luck today, then.


Harry had left at seven that morning, if their mother asked.

In actuality, John's older sister had sneaked out of the house around nine-forty the evening before, scampered in her best friend's car and had driven off somewhere Harry didn't want him knowing about. John didn't mind much, his sister didn't like telling things and she always ran off, but that didn't stop John from thinking the worse in his more careless moments. Harry was a teenager too, three years older than he was, and on more than one occasion he had caught her scrambling back in at odd hours of the morning smelling of alcohol and cigarettes and who knew what else. Ideas got tangled in his head sometimes, and he would stay up for hours making sure she got home safely. But this morning wasn't one of those long nights, and John was careful. To him, today, Harry had gotten up early, grabbed some toast and left at seven. Seven sharp.

John settled himself around the stove. He made breakfast; eggs and ham, portions for two. He ate in silence at the table, the sunlight just beginning to filter through the dusty apple spotted curtains of the kitchen window. He finished, cleaned up, and left the portion remaining on a paper plate on the counter, covered in plastic wrap. It wouldn't be touched, though, he knew.

His backpack was waiting for him on the back of a kitchen chair, and it stared at him when he turned around to lean against the sink. John stared back at the black sack for a moment, and then his light blue eyes shot up the clock.

Seven twenty-three.

The school was at most ten, fifteen minutes from his front door— walking distance. That was new, he had gotten so used to buses.

John glanced out the window to the streets. Yeah, there wasn't even a single kid out yet. They were probably all still in bed, parents screaming at them to get up, or they'll be late, they screaming back just five more minutes.

John listened around him.

His house was quiet. The loudest thing in the entire house was the dust as it filtered through the rich morning sunlight over his shoulder. Maybe the tick of the clock above him.

John's eyes outlined his stretched shadow on the kitchen floor, then his eyes slipped upwards and looked out of the kitchen into the slice of living room he could see behind the stair case. The pile of blankets on the couch were moving steadily, up and down, with the body underneath them. A single arm was sticking out, clutching on with the lasts threads of sober conscious to the half drained bottle of whisky tilted on the floor. It had soaked through the carpet overnight.

John decided not to care, about the time or anything, as he grabbed his backpack, slung one strap over his shoulder and let the door settle carefully and quietly on its hinges before skipping down the front steps. Tiny, identical houses lined the streets, standing in nearly the exact way his house was, just as tall, just as sleepy. Every house was on a slight hill until you got further down the block where the ground leveled out with the street. The fresh, rural town air welcomed and settled pleasantly around him; sweet and chilled humming with the early hour.

John smiled to himself and got walking, sun warm on his back.

If he was painfully early, then he was early.


Leave love. The good, and the bad(;

xxIDID.