When John got home that Monday evening, freshly showered, muscles aching, body exasperated beyond belief, he went straight to his room, all navy walls and posters upon posters of his favorite TV shows and movies, and fell onto his small, single bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly and letting out a frustrated sigh. He slipped a hand into his back pocket and yanked out his phone from beneath him, quickly opening up his YouTube subscriptions and sliding the circular images over until he found the one he wanted: the single image of a bee, all scientific and tauntingly anonymous.
He sighed and went to the YouTuber's playlist, tapping "Compositions Only" and hitting shuffle. He reached for his headphones, lain clumsily on the edge of his bedside table, tangled and knotted, and quickly plugged them in. The soft, melancholy quivering of a violin sounded, warming his ears, and he instantly relaxed, letting out a deep much needed breath of relief and humming along quietly.
The boy, of whom went by the name of theballetbee, had uploaded recently; yesterday in fact, the night after John's own video hit the web, successfully as well.
He had listened to it today in French class, and watched it under the discretion of his desk, and fallen utterly, and completely, in love.
This man: this anonymous, beautiful, talented man would be the absolute death of him.
He shut his eyes, imagining the lean, pale body twirling about with such poise, such grace. He pictured the dark mass of blurred hair atop the boy's head and the unreadable face. He thought of the bee spread out across his back and the effortless way he jumped to his tippy-toes mid-dance. He conjured up all this and more, his mind reeling with shameless imaginings of a mystery boy pulling him to his feet and dancing for him, the pale figure pulling a bent bow across the strings of his violin and serenading him whilst he watched with utmost awe.
A sharp jab to his stomach sent his eyes flying open and his entire body flinging upwards in shock. He came face to face with the amused expression of his older sister, her caramel brown curls thrown up into a messy bun and her entire figure clad in her green work uniform. John sighed, mostly to get his heartbeat back to a normal rhythm, and took out the headphones from his ears, glaring at his sibling for interrupting and letting out a sharp huff, "You scared the shit out of me."
Harriet chuckled, her pale pink lipstick cracking a little and her black eyeliner crinkling as she smirked down at him, shaking her head fondly. "Listening to your boyfriend again?" She quipped, her eyes narrowed suspiciously and the ends of her lips curving upward in amusement.
"Christ, Harry," John blushed, running a hand through his hair and tossing his phone to the side, watching as it hit the far end of his mattress with a thump, "Shut up, will you? I don't even know who he is."
Harry sighed and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and jutting out a hip, "Better start figuring that out then," She winked, leaning against his bed post, "so you can ask him on a date and all."
John tossed a pillow at her, but she expertly maneuvered out of the way.
"I'm not gay."
Harry snorted, "So simple-minded."
John arched a brow in confusion, "What?"
"Gay and straight aren't the only two sexualities, John Hamish Watson," She smirked, winking at him and glancing at his phone as if to further exaggerate her point.
John blinked at her, and then scowled, "I'm not a bloody idiot," He snapped, "What do you want anyway?"
She scoffed, "Debatable," but before John could defend himself, she continued, "Mum made an early dinner. She's working late again, and I've got the graveyard shift tonight. You gonna be okay?"
John laughed gently, swinging his legs off the bed and swaying towards his computer, booting it up as he lifted the screen and nodding quickly, "Yeah, 'course. I'll just do homework."
Harry nodded and smiled sneakily, snickering a little to herself as she turned to the door, pulling it open and talking a step out before glancing over her shoulder, "Who am I kiddin? You've got your boyfriend to watch."
John turned and glared at her as he finished pulling his science notebook out of his school bag, watching as she shrugged innocently at him. He snorted fondly and shooed her away with a small flick of his hand, "Go on. Don't you have a job to get to?"
Harriet giggled to herself, high-pitched squeaks that always reminded John of a dog's toy, and closed the door behind her, but not before yelling teasingly out, loud and clear, "Behave yourselves!"
Sherlock sighed to himself as he crept slowly into the rather large, but almost decrepit, house, closing the rather tall, intimidating front door behind him and sliding his shoes off. He tiptoed across the white, cold tile and headed for the winding staircase eager to get to his room and lock himself away but only managing a few steps before a slurred voice called for him from the living room couch.
He inhaled sharply and shut his eyes, shaking his head at his own faulty discretion and turned around, taking the corner cautiously and swallowing thickly as his uncle came into view, sprawled out on the grey couch in a half buttoned dress shirt and unzipped black trousers.
"Sherl," He scoffed, trying his best to sit up without spilling the expensive scotch in his hand, "You're back late."
Sherlock dropped his eyes to his black sock clad feet, trying his best to ignore his uncle's oncoming scowl.
Siger was right. He was late. But that's what happens when you're eager to film a new video in the school's ballet studio and the walk home takes thirty minutes.
But he wouldn't dare say a word of that to the face of the man in front of him.
"Yes. It was imperative that I study," He lied subtly, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously, risking a glance up at his uncle, "what with tests coming up and all. I met up with a friend in the library."
Siger let out a loud laugh at that, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock and arching a degrading brown brow, "Friend? You don't have any friends." He heaved and grunted until he was on his feet, lifting his hand, of which was grasping tight to his drink, and pointing it accusingly at Sherlock, the ice sloshing about here and there, noisily.
Sherlock swallowed.
He wasn't wrong.
"You lyin' to me, Sherly?" He snapped, icy blue eyes wide with rage as he glared down at his nephew, lifting his glass and taking a long drawn out sip until every last drop was devoured.
Sherlock shook his head and gulped, running a hand through his haphazard curls and looking away, gesturing weakly to the staircase, "No, but I do have homework so if you don't mind -"
"You always think you're so clever don't you, boy," His uncle sneered, smirking a rather malicious smirk and swaying unsteadily over to the small liquor cabinet on display in the bland, brightly colored living room, "Always thinking you can slip one right over my head, ay?" He growled, grabbing out a glass jug of his favorite scotch and helping himself to a refill.
Sherlock winced and looked down at his feet once more. His father's favorite as well. Siger and he had shared a number of things - hobbies, habits, taste in women. They had been close. And then Sherlock's father had died and their special evenings of sitting beside the fire, drinking half a glass had turned into Siger sitting alone, downing the entire bottle.
"No, I just," Sherlock cleared his throat, and huffed, shrugging his shoulders and glancing timidly up at the man pouring his scotch, "I just really need to finish my homework."
Siger glanced over his shoulder at him, took a hearty sip of his drink and hummed, a malicious smirk spreading wide across his face as he began walking towards Sherlock, of whom stood frozen still, swallowing and watching his socked feet with renewed interest.
"Fine," His uncle spat, a menacing grin altering the lines of his fairly wrinkled expression, before he extended his arm outward, tipping his cup instantly upside down, ice and expensive scotch toppling to the floor with a clink and a splash, "But clean this up first."
Sherlock glared at the man in front of him.
He hated Siger Holmes. He hated him with a burning passion and yet he found himself nodding to his commands, affirming his orders. The punishment would be far worse if he didn't anyways.
Siger Holmes was the Holmes relative gone bad. He was the man in the family that had been far too influenced by grief and loss, and turned to alcohol to cope. Most of Sherlock's distant relatives sympathized for him. The poor dear lost his brother, the poor lad lost his only sibling, his best friend, his true mate.
Sherlock didn't.
Sherlock had lost his father.
And he had, and was, coping just fine.
When John pulled his mother's tattered old Toyota into the student parking lot, he caught sight of a lone figure walking slowly along the pavement, somewhat dragging his feet as he sucked on the end of a cigarette.
Sherlock.
Yet again, another rarity.
All long legs clad in black skinny jeans, and thin torso covered in a baggy grey sweatshirt. He smiled softly, admiring the bounce of the brown curls and the sharpness of those unreadable eyes as they focused on the school, seemingly filling to the very top with revulsion and dislike.
John had to agree with the detest in Sherlock's expression. Baker was an interesting school. It was still burdened by cliché - the nerds, the geeks, the punks, the jocks. You chose your bunch and you stuck to them. There was no jumping about or testing the waters. John despised it, well and truly.
There was no room for uniqueness, no room for difference or specialty. And that's why Sherlock was such an outcast. A cruel, cruel thing.
John scoffed and shook his head, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, yanking it over his shoulder and shutting the door behind him as he stepped out of the car. He clicked lock and took a deep breath, watching as Sherlock stopped outside the school gates, just slightly hidden from view, to finish his cigarette, nimble fingers shaking slightly from the bitter cold of morning.
With courage he wasn't aware he had, John sauntered over, putting on a small smile and making his way up and over to the side of the tall brunette, "I didn't know you smoked."
The curly-haired genius jolted in place, nearly dropping his cigarette as he whirled around to face John, eyes wide as they glanced once over the entirety of John's body and then moved back up to his line of sight, frozen there, brows above narrowed in confusion, and partial disbelief.
"Sorry," John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly, "Didn't mean to scare you."
Sherlock blinked, swallowed and then seemed to get a hold of himself, wrapping his arms around his torso shyly and shrugging a shoulder, "You didn't scare me." The brunette cleared his throat, as if trying to cover up the hoarseness of his deep tone, and lifted the cigarette timidly back up to those plush, pink lips, "I was just a little surprised."
John let out a soft, warm-hearted chuckle, adjusting his hold on the strap of his red backpack and sticking his other hand in his jeans' pocket, "Some might say that's almost the same thing."
Sherlock took a drag and then dropped the cigarette to the floor, stomping on it with the heel of his toe before glancing quickly up at John, expression guarded but almost fond, "They'd be idiots."
John let out one hearty laugh before smiling widely at Sherlock and shrugging the shoulder his school bag hung from, "Yeah, I guess so, huh?"
Right then and there, John saw the corner of Sherlock's lips lift up for a short moment in amusement before dropping once more as he fixed his attention to the floor, swallowing nervously and kicking a stray rock in utter silence. John watched him carefully for a moment, realizing he should probably say something, considering he was the one who'd approached him, but found he couldn't think of anything to say.
He'd never really spoken to Sherlock aside from a quick 'excuse me' in the halls or the interaction yesterday. He wasn't exactly sure how. Sherlock was so remote, so quiet, so discrete. John was afraid he might say something wrong and be forever despised by the genius' mind.
"Um," he began, grunting to clear the awkward bubble in his throat, and biting his lip a little nervously, "Look, I just wanted to say thanks, you know? For the compliment. Yesterday." He smiled wearily at Sherlock's downturned head and then watched, oddly fascinated, as it lifted in curiosity, those icy blue - silver, green, gold? - eyes dropping onto John's own and widening slightly.
"What do you mean?" That deep baritone asked and John instantly shrugged once more, feeling far more nervous now than before.
Since when did John Watson get nervous?
"I just mean for the compliment," He responded softly, smiling a lopsided grin, "on my videos."
Sherlock blinked and then looked down once more, shaking his head and scoffing sharply, "It was simply the honest truth. I quite enjoy them."
John, much to his own embarrassment, found himself blushing, a bright, crimson red, and was genuinely glad Sherlock wasn't currently looking at him with those scrutinizing eyes.
"Well," John laughed shyly, and chewed on his bottom lip, readjusting his backpack for what felt like the hundredth time and admiring the top of Sherlock's curly head, "it means a lot, you know?"
Sherlock looked up again at that, eyes widening softly before narrowing, as though they were readily observing John for any sign of insincerity. The brown haired boy swallowed, opened his mouth, furrowed his brows, closed his mouth, and then opened it again, only to mumble out, "Even from me?"
John blinked in confusion and scoffed softly, "'Course."
The boy in front of him quickly cleared his throat and avoided John's eyes, grabbing the strap of his bag and glancing towards the school, taking a step towards it and nervously shifting his attention indirectly at John. "I," He murmured thickly, in that deep baritone, "I should head to class."
John sighed inwardly, part of him itching to grab Sherlock's arm and ask him to stay and chat, or sit with him at lunch, or next to him in their shared English class. But instead, he merely nodded, shot the boy a short, "See ya," and a smile, and watched as the lean figure sauntered away.