"Are you going?"

Sherlock glanced up, then looked back at his book without a word.

I stood there, hands awkwardly thrust into my pockets. Tosser. "Are you going?" I repeated, and jerked my head towards the school bulletin. "There's a dance tonight."

"No," Sherlock said flatly. "I have no interest in such a frivolous waste of time and money."

"Okay, god." I was irrationally pissed off, and had no idea why the next words rolled off my tongue. "Do you want to come over?"

He raised an eyebrow. "When?"

"Today. After school."

He contemplated this, then put his book away and propped his elbows on the edge of the table, steepling his fingers in one effortless sweep. "I'm not going to give you the answers to the test on Monday."

"What? Jesus Christ, that wasn't what I had in mind at all."

"Oh."

"Wait, there isn't a test on Monday."

"Pop quiz. Predictable."

"Well, either way, I thought we could, you know, hang out."

He looked genuinely confused. "What does that entail?"

"I dunno, we could watch TV, get pizza. Harry's at a friend's house."

"Oh. I don't generally watch television."

I seriously considered revoking my invitation. I'd see if Molly could visit. I didn't fancy being alone on Friday nights, with Mum yelling at insurance because they didn't want to cover an eighteen-year-old unemployed alcoholic.

"Alright," Sherlock said just as I was about to take it back.

"You'll come over?"

"Is that not the plan you just proposed?"

"John!" called Mary Morstan from across the cafeteria. She'd had a universally acknowledged crush on me since primary school; we were sort of a thing, but I didn't think holding hands once in a while and slow dancing at Adriana Lopez's quinceanera qualified as dating. "Coming with?"

"Yeah, be there in a sec." I gathered my things and said, "I'll see you on the bus then."

Sherlock blanched slightly. "We can't walk?"

"It's a 45-minute walk, are you insane?"

"I do it every day."

Blimey. I'd always assumed his mum picked him up.

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly, crumpling his cellophane sandwich wrapper up and binning it. "I can walk to your house and meet you there."

"Why don't you want to take the bus?"

His eyes flickered nervously to the cluster of boys lurking in the lobby. "My experiences on the bus have never been of a particularly positive nature."

Shit. I should've known. Those prats were always making fun of him. I made up my mind to kick them the next time they did. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"It's perfectly fine." He maintained a tone of mild disinterest, but there was something strained in his voice. "So it's settled, then?"

"I –"

Mary approached us, flashing Sherlock a cursory smile, and gently tugged the crook of my elbow. "Hey, we're leaving now."

"Oh, um, okay. Wait." Sherlock glanced back up at me; the moment Mary had joined us, his head buried itself in the pages of Dante's Inferno again. "I'll see you after school."

"At your house," he clarified. "Not on the bus."

"John. We're running out of time. Sorry," she apologized to Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively. "Come on."

I followed Mary outside, thinking about Sherlock, and the way his spine stiffened when I asked him about the bus. I'd witnessed his torment since we were little; why I never did anything, why I never stepped in, was beyond me. I thought of all the awful things I could do to make them pay – I was relatively popular, and growing up around Harry's dramatic phone conversations about who broke whose heart and then wore the same shirt as so-and-so's ex (the nerve!) had taught me a thing or two about social manipulation.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, fine," I said quickly. God, what was wrong with me? I shouldn't care about him.

"Good." She beamed. "Are you and Sherlock going to the dance tonight?"

"No, actually, I think we're going to study." A white lie. We might end up studying, who knew? I felt bad, though. Mary was the only one of my friends who'd been wholly accepting – even supportive – of my friendship with Sherlock. I did like her. She was a wonderful friend. It was just that, for whatever reason, I hadn't taken to girls the way they'd taken to me. My "relationships" thus far had been warm and affable and fun, and I'd kissed past paramours (if they could be called that, which was dubious at best) but it never gave me an exceptionally good feeling. More like a vague sort of acknowledgement that yes, we were compatible, and yes, we cared a moderate amount for each other, and yes, we were mature teenagers doing couply things for shits and giggles.

"Oh, alright. I'll miss you. It's just as well, though. Catherine's having a mental breakdown over another breakup, so that requires my attention."

The rest of our posse were waiting at the end of the drive, crammed into Ben Talbot's older brother's car. We drove into town, and the entire way there all I could think of was Sherlock, sitting alone, walking alone, reading alone, home alone, and it broke my fucking heart.

–––––

"Hi," I said, locating the familiar head of curls in a mass of kids cluttering the lobby.

Sherlock spun around in surprise, one of the first times I'd ever seen him disoriented. "Hi," he said cautiously. "You just missed the bus."

"We're walking," I said firmly.

"But –"

I didn't know why, but I grabbed his wrist and dragged him out the door with me. "Come on."

"Well, alright," he said. "I hope I didn't cut into your social time with Mary."

"It's fine." I struggled for a moment: how did I explain to him that social time with my "girlfriend," if she could even be called that, was the least of my priorities? That, shockingly, he had become one of the most?

"I hope you understand about the bus." He puffed out a little breath, brow furrowed, eyes glittering with some sort of emotion. Anger? Fear? Sadness?

"Sod the bus," I said. "You're with me now."

–––––

Molly was waiting at home when we got there.

"Johnny!" She hugged me. "Your mum's been going mad!"

"Shit. I forgot to phone her."

"Hi, Sherlock," Molly said warmly, putting an arm around his narrow shoulders, then rounded on me. "What were you thinking?"

"I dunno, me and Sherlock were just going to hang out –"

"This is the most foolish thing you've ever done," she said. "After Harry, how do you think she's going to respond when her only other child goes MIA?"

"Sorry! Where is she now?"

"At the station."

"The police?"

"You can hardly blame her."

"God, she's going to be livid."

"Yeah."

The three of us stood in the kitchen, contemplating our fates.

"I'd better ring her," Molly finally said.

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience I have caused," Sherlock said as Molly dialed the number. Why was he apologizing?

"It's got nothing to do with you."

"I know, but if you had simply taken the bus..."

"I'm not taking the bus. Not anymore. Not after –"

"John," he said sharply. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"You have no knowledge of the circumstances which led to my aversion of public transportation."

"I've enough smarts to gather that those idiots were awful to you. Which, incidentally, you did not deserve."

"It's my life. Do not interfere." His eyes were blazing now: defensive beyond belief. Molly shot me a concerned look, phone pressed to her ear.

I didn't have room to question why I was so inexplicably protective of an older boy who used to dissect frogs at recess in nursery school. "What did they do?" I demanded.

He paused, licked his lips nervously. I tried to look slightly less murderous as he answered quietly, "Your standard name-calling. Verging on verbal and emotional abuse. And they did not hesitate to get physical."

I hated them. "Do they leave you alone now?"

"For the most part."

"Sherlock."

He shrugged. "Technically, no. There is still a lot of, ah, resentment."

"Do they still hurt you?"

He shifted. "Sometimes."

I was going to kill them. "When?"

"At lunch. They've made it into a sort of game, as a matter of fact. About thirty-five percent intriguing and sixty-five percent amusing. They give laughably easy clues."

What kind of sick "game" was this? "Clues?"

"Of sorts. Threats may be the more accurate word. I was actually about to follow up on one of them when you showed up this afternoon. I believe I ought to thank you." He gave a pained smile. "At any rate."

"Your mum's really mad," Molly announced, striding back into the room. "I tried to calm her down a bit. Dunno how much good that did."

"Thanks, Molls," I said. "You tried."

"Yeah." She hesitated, then turned to Sherlock. "I overheard your conversation" – "Naturally," he said, inclining his head somberly – "and I just want you to know that bullying isn't okay. No matter what their motives are. I'm, um. Here for you."

He looked bewildered at such a proposition, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen for quite some time before shaking his head and giving a stiff, "Thank you."

"So now we just... wait?" I said.

Molly sighed and went to the fridge. "Might as well have a snack in the meantime."

I glanced tentatively at Sherlock, whose brow was somewhat stormy as he took a seat next to me and centered his glass of milk on the counter. "You okay?" I asked in an undertone.

He stared straight ahead. "I am not accustomed to people being there for me," he said frankly, and took a bite of biscuit.

–––––

Mum was, indeed, really mad. She shouted at me for a solid ten minutes, during which Sherlock lost interest and, before I could stop him, drifted off in the direction of my room. Molly, bless her heart, stayed and bore the brunt of it with me.

"...and you could have at least informed me that we have a house guest!" Mum concluded.

"I'm sorry," I said for the millionth time. "I forgot." It sounded stupid even to my ears.

"Where is he, come to that?" Molly inquired.

"In my room."

She raised an eyebrow. "And that's not weird because...?"

I didn't have a very valid answer. "I dunno. It's Sherlock." Then, since both Mum and Molly were now looking at me strangely – I guess the normal response to a kid you didn't know well snooping around your room would not be blasé acceptance – I added, "I'll go look for him."

He was perched on the edge of my bunk bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Hi," I said, joining him. "Sorry about that. I don't blame you for leaving."

"Nothing suggested that my presence would be beneficial."

How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?

"I do not like conflict," he confessed. "I have seen far too much of it."

"Me too." I thought of Harry, then the fact that he saved her life.

"How is she?"

"Haven't heard from her in a bit. Could be good, could be bad."

"Where does she go, when she's not at home?"

"Parties. Motels. I don't really know any specifics."

"You do know that she has a girlfriend."

What?

"Obvious, really."

What?

"You needn't worry. Her girlfriend's quite caring. Doesn't drink much. Older by about three years."

I gaped at him. He smiled a little, then hopped off the bed and jerked his head towards the stairs. "Is this the appropriate time to begin the process of 'hanging out'?"

"Um." Harry. Harry had a girlfriend.

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said that." He frowned. "It was not intended to be upsetting, and I see no reason, for that matter, why it should be. She is in a relationship; that is where she disappears to. They have a fight, she drinks and comes running back home. Rudimentary deduction."

I stared at him; he blinked at me. "Yeah, okay," I said. "I'll order a pizza."