"This feels weird."
Twenty minutes later, jeans were rough against his legs, and his arms felt bare with the tight fabric of the black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders.
"New jeans are always more coarse," Sherlock called dismissively. He was in the bathroom that adjoined to his bedroom, digging through a cabinet for something.
John looked at himself in the mirror that was attached to the inside of Sherlock's wardrobe. He had to admit that the t-shirt fit nicely, emphasizing his shoulders and chest, well-muscled from rugby. Other than his clothes fitting more tightly than usual, though, there wasn't much that was different. He certainly didn't look like a greaser, which was what Sherlock was trying to turn him into.
Perhaps the bare feet were part of the problem.
"Are my socks acceptable to wear?" he called to the bathroom. Sherlock poked his head out, and John held his socks up for inspection.
"They'll do," Sherlock said, flicking curly fringe to the side before disappearing back into the loo.
John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see him, and sat down on the bed to put them on. As he pulled the second one over his toes, the banging around in the loo finally stopped.
"Here we are," Sherlock said, emerging. A comb and a container of hair grease were tossed to John. He managed to catch them, but his sock hadn't been pulled on enough and fell off of his foot.
John stared down at the two items in his hands, at a loss for what to do. He looked back up at Sherlock, whose brow furrowed. "Don't tell me you've never slicked back your hair," he said. John shook his head. Sherlock groaned. "Fine," he said, walking over and climbing onto the bed, behind John.
"What are you doing?" John asked, twisting around to face him.
Sherlock scowled at him, putting his hands on John's shoulders and making him face forward. "Greasing you hair, as you've not enough life experience to have done it yourself," he said, snatching the grease and comb from John's hands. The bed was across from the wardrobe, and the door with the mirror was still open from when John was admiring the fit of the shirt, which meant John could see Sherlock settling behind him, sitting on his ankles.
Sherlock started by combing through John's hair briefly, quickly and without a thought spared for the possibility of John having a sensitive scalp (which, lucky for him, he didn't). The comb was discarded after that though, and Sherlock picked up the can of grease.
"You're going to have to let me move your head around," he informed John.
"Okay."
Sherlock's long fingers carded into John's hair, and he tilted John's head to the left. Then he twisted the top off of the grease. Smearing a some onto his fingers, Sherlock started with the hair behind John's right ear.
Even though he could see it coming, the cool grease still startled him, and John jumped and knocked Sherlock's hand away. "That's cold!" John yelped.
"Hold still!" Sherlock hissed. "You're going to make me get it on your shirt!" He glared at John in the mirror, and for once, John supposed this wasn't a time that he could glare back. He braced himself, and when Sherlock's grease-coated fingers touched him again, he held still. Sherlock coated the roots of his hair with the grease, and then moved to another section. It was rather slow work, but John felt himself relaxing as Sherlock's nimble fingers worked through his scalp. He was quick about it, and not ten minutes later John's entire head of hair was full of grease.
"This is going to take forever to wash out," he sighed as Sherlock climbed off the bed and stood in front of him.
"Stop complaining," Sherlock said, picking up the comb and starting to part John's hair. "It's for the case."
John grimaced as the comb caught his ear. "And if it's for the case, it's worth it?"
"Precisely," Sherlock said, with a particularly hard yank.
"Ow," John complained.
Sherlock ignored him and continued combing, moving hair this way and that, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Five minutes later, Sherlock put the comb down. "Done," he announced, stepping back and admiring his work. John stood, and Sherlock stepped out of the way so that he could look in the wardrobe mirror.
"Wow," John said. Unlike earlier, now he actually looked like a greaser. Sherlock had coaxed his hair up and bit and then back, so that it looked a good bit like James Dean. It completely changed his looks, going from a normal boy to something a bit more exciting. Possibly even...dangerous.
Well. Dangerous, once he got his other sock on. And perhaps some shoes.
Sherlock made an approving noise, then looked down at his watch. "It's about seven thirty," he said. "We should leave in about half an hour."
"Where are we even going that requires me to dress like this?" John asked, getting down on his knees to search for the sock that hadn't made it onto his foot.
John heard the bedsprings creak as Sherlock reclined on the mattress. "An abandoned lot behind a cafe. Archie Wells's gang meets up there."
John sat back on his heels, sock found and in hand. "Who's Archie Wells?" he asked slowly.
"The milkman," Sherlock said.
John nodded slowly. "And the police are going to be there too, right?" he asked.
Sherlock snorted. "Why on earth would they be there? It would scare everyone away, and all the trouble I went to to hunt Archie down will go to waste."
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.
"What?"
"We can't just walk into a gang meeting! What if there's a rumble or something?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Well then, mister scrum-back. I expect you'll have to put your rugby skills to good use."
John made an exasperated noise. Part of him wanted to back out and tell Sherlock he could go on his own, but the other, larger part was screaming for him to go and make sure Sherlock didn't do something stupid and get himself killed. He sighed in resignation. "Are there certain shoes you want me to wear?" he asked, sitting down fully and finally tugging on his second sock.
Sherlock grinned at him, and then threw him a pair of Chucks. "Just twenty minutes now," he said gleefully. "Then we get to find Godfrey Staunton."
It turned out that they did not need to leave at eight to go to the abandoned lot. They had to leave at eight so that they could sit in a sandwich shop called Speedy's and watch the abandoned lot. Not even really the lot itself, either. The alley that led to the abandoned lot.
"Aren't you going to eat anything?" John asked, around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
Sherlock glared at him, surely for his lack of manners. "No," he said, turning and looking back out of the window they were sitting next to.
John frowned. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked.
"Eating slows the brain," Sherlock said, matter of factly and not bothering to glance at him.
John's frown deepened. "No it doesn't," he said in disbelief. "That's utter bull."
Sherlock turned away from the window to scowl at him fiercely. Then he snatched a crisp off of John's plate and put it in his mouth. "Happy?" he spat, after he swallowed.
John frowned more. "No need to be a dick about it," he muttered, letting Sherlock go back to his alley-watching once more. John, bored of the lot, instead let his gaze wander around the shop. It was small, with lots of small tables crowded with chairs. It wasn't extraordinarily busy, the main lot of the dinner rush already served and gone, and as John looked around, he caught the girl behind the counter staring at his and Sherlock's table. John became aware that he'd seen her looking at them several times as they'd been sitting there.
John's brow furrowed. "Sherlock," he muttered.
"Mmm?"
"That girl is staring at us," John whispered, not taking his eyes off of the short girl with brown hair. She caught his gaze, immediately turned bright red, and ducked back into the kitchen.
"What girl?" Sherlock sighed, not taking his gaze off the window.
"Well, she's gone now," John said, picking up his sandwich again. "But the one behind the counter."
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "That's just Molly, she's harmless," he said. They lapsed into silence for the next ten minutes or so, and John slowly finished eating his sandwich and crisps. A few minutes after that, the same brunette girl that Sherlock had dubbed Molly appeared by his table.
"You're done?" she asked, a nervous smile stretching over her cheeks.
John smiled and nodded. "It was good," he said. Molly's smile became a bit less nervous and a bit more real, and she picked up his plate.
"Do you want anything else?" she asked. "Do-do you want anything, Sherlock?"
"No," Sherlock said, still not turning away from the window. "Unless it's a coffee. Black, two sugars."
Nervousness and the shaky smile returned to Molly's face. "Okay," she said.
"I'll have one, too," John said. "Just milk."
"Okay," Molly said again, then scampered away.
John turned back to Sherlock, his smile falling off of his face. "You could be a little nicer," he told Sherlock.
That pulled Sherlock away from the window. "What do you mean? I was perfectly civil," he said, his pale eyes narrowing.
"No, you were abrasive. She's obviously sweet on you. Would it kill you to think about her feelings a little bit?" John said.
Sherlock groaned. "I'm not interested, and I'm not having this conversation with you," he said, turning back to his window.
John frowned at him, and they sat in silence until Molly brought two mugs of coffee to the table.
"Thanks," John said, giving her another smile. When Sherlock didn't say anything, John subtly kicked his shin with as much force as he could muster under the table.
Sherlock gasped, but quickly bit it back when Molly looked at him curiously. "Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said tightly, without a hint of sarcasm. Perhaps he thought John might kick him again.
The simple thank you made the girl light up, though. "You're welcome," she gushed. "Just let me know if you need anything else." And then she turned away and walked towards the counter again, her step light.
"What the hell was that for?" Sherlock hissed as soon as she was out of earshot. "Is it not considered rude to lead people on?"
John took a sip of his coffee cooly, and didn't respond. Sherlock huffed, then picked up his own mug and took a long draw. As he set his coffee down, Sherlock tugged the sleeve of his jacket up. "It's nine fifteen now," he said, then picked up his mug again and drained the rest in one large gulp. "Hurry up," he told John. "We need to go."
John was half-tempted to drink the rest of his coffee slowly, but when he took one small sip and Sherlock looked like he was about to his the mug to the ground, John quickly swallowed the rest of the hot liquid and stood up. Sherlock followed suit, pulling a wallet out of his pocket and throwing a tenner on the table just as John reached for his own.
"Wait, I can get my own-" John started to say.
"Let's go," Sherlock said, grabbing John's arm and tugging him out of the shop.
It was quick dash across the street and into the alley, and from there, a quick walk to the abandoned lot. As they walked in, Sherlock pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and held it out to John.
John stared at the harmless-looking white stick. "You've got to be kidding," he said in disbelief.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't have to smoke it. Just put it behind your ear. As if you were going to smoke, but got distracted and forgot about it." Then he pulled out another cigarette and his lighter and stuck it in his mouth to actually smoke.
John sighed and did as he was told, the cig feeling foreign and uncomfortable and he tucked it behind his ear.
"Now," Sherlock said, striding into the lot confidently. "When Archie gets here, all we have to do is approach him and ask him casually about the letters. You're not allowed to talk, you'll give us away immediately."
John frowned. "How do we tell which one's Archie?" he asked.
Sherlock took a drag on his cigarette before answering. "He's got red hair, and he's gangly. He'll also probably going to have a large duffel with him, because he works at an ice cream shop in addition to his milk route and wouldn't dare show up in the uniform."
John nodded, then settled in to wait. There wasn't anyone else in the lot, and John felt conspicuous as he and Sherlock leaned against one of the buildings that was on the border of the lot. Slowly, though, a trickle of other greasers appeared in the lot, some coming from the same alley he and Sherlock used, others from different alleys, some seeming to pop up from nowhere. Sherlock finished his cigarette and tossed it away, and then leaned his head back and started drumming his fingers on his leg.
About fifteen minutes into their wait, Sherlock elbowed John sharply in the ribs. John gasped, then looked up to glare. Sherlock inclined his head to the right, and John followed his gaze to look at a tall boy that had just entered the lot from one of the other alleys. It was undeniably Archie, if Sherlock's description was correct, which John had no doubt that it was. He even had a large duffel bag, which he tossed down quickly in favor of greeting his other gang members.
John lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock in question, and the greaser nodded in response. They waited until Archie was alone, then walked up to the boy.
"Hey, mate," Sherlock said, digging into his pocket and pulling out a box of cigs. "Care for a smoke?"
Archie looked between John and Sherlock suspiciously. "Sure," he said slowly, taking a cigarette out of Sherlock's proffered box, digging a lighter out of his pocket as Sherlock did the same. As they both lit, Archie looked over at John. "Aren't 'choo gonna have one?" he asked around the cig.
John shrugged. "My girl doesn't like the taste of them," he lied, before remembering that he wasn't supposed to be talking. He glanced at Sherlock who looked like he was caught somewhere between annoyed and impressed.
"Shame, mate," Archie said, inhaling deeply and then exhaling a stream of smoke. Sherlock's expression became one that was simply impressed instead of annoyed. He schooled it away when Archie turned back to him, though. "So, can I do anything to help you lads?" Archie asked.
"Yes, actually. We're looking for Godfrey Staunton. You see, he and John had a wager on tonight's rugger match between St Luke's and Kaplan. John wagered that St Luke'd win by a margin of fifteen or more, Godfrey said he's mad and that Kaplan would win by a landslide. John's won, though, and Godfrey's disappeared. You have any idea where we could find him?" Sherlock said.
At the mention of Godfrey's name, Archie had tensed up. "Sorry," he said. "I don't know who you're talking about."
Sherlock faked surprise. "Really? 'Cause I've seen you deliver the milk on his street before. Godfrey's an early riser, surely he's met you at the door before."
Archie's jaw tightened. "Thanks for the smoke," he said tightly, tossing the cig to the ground and grinding the butt under his shoe, then reaching down and picking up his duffel.
"C'mon," Sherlock said, stepping in front of Archie and keeping him from walking away. "Help a mate out."
"I'm not your mate," Archie said hotly, and suddenly there were several other greasers around them.
"Is something wrong here?" a taller one asked, cracking his knuckles in what John supposed was supposed to be intimidating, but he was slipping into the mindset of the young boy that had grown up on a rougher council estate than the one he currently lived on and had played rugby for about ten years now. The boy wasn't that muscular, and was favoring his left leg.
Sherlock smiled winningly. "Nothing wrong, just trying to ask a simple question," he said.
"Doesn't seem to be the case to me," another greaser said. This one was a bit bulkier, but a good tackle would put him down and for the count.
Unconsciously, John was loosening his stance, ready to lunge at whichever greaser decided to throw a punch first.
"Why don't you take your questions somewhere else," the third greaser said.
"I don't think I will," Sherlock challenged, and John mentally cursed him.
The the greasers exchanged a look with Archie, who nodded his head once. The bulky one looked back to Sherlock and John, and then stepped forward. "Then you don't have any more questions," he said, and reared back to throw a punch at Sherlock.
John had been waiting for the blows to start, and immediately leapt at the greaser, leaning over and putting his shoulder straight in the boy's stomach with a grunt, which had the advantage of both knocking the air out of him and getting him on the ground. John leapt back up, and saw Sherlock handling the tallest greaser, and he turned to the third one.
This boy was wiry and small, about John's height. The boy grinned, then pulled a knife out of his pocket.
John's blood got a little colder, but instead of letting it show he stepped in closer and tried to disarm the boy. The greaser was waiting for him, though, and switched hands as John got closer, swinging the knife down and narrowly missing John's arm. John gritted his teeth, stood still for a moment and let the other boy study him. Then he jerked out, punching the boy in the stomach.
The wiry greaser gasped and doubled over, and John used the opportunity to grab his wrist and force the knife from his hands, then swept the boy's feet out from under him and sent him tumbling to the ground.
John was starting to feel good about himself when suddenly a fist collided with his jaw, and he stumbled back a few steps. Turning, he saw that the bulky guy had gotten up again, and was apparently fighting-ready. Grimacing, he fisted his hand and, without hesitating, threw it up and into the other boy's face. He reared back, clutching his nose.
When the boy brought his hand away from his face, blood was trickling down from his nose. He made a fist and drew back to throw another punch, and John's legs tensed, ready to duck.
"Stop!" Sherlock shouted suddenly. The bulky greaser froze, and both he and John turned to look at him. He had the other boy in what looked to be an extremely painful hold. "Any more, and I break his arm," Sherlock threatened. John heard twin gasps from the two greasers he had been fighting. "We're done," Sherlock continued. "You can either walk away now, or walk away in a minute to take your friend to the hospital."
The wiry greaser didn't even hesitate. He was off like a bullet from a gun. The burly greaser was a bit slower, trying to call Sherlock's bluff. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and tightened his grip on the other boy, causing him to cry out.
"Okay!" the greaser said, turning and jogging away. Satisfied, Sherlock released the boy in his grip, whom fell to his knees, then scrambled up and ran.
Sherlock scoffed, then turned to John. "Are you alright?" he asked, pointing to his jaw.
John shrugged. "You okay?"
Sherlock nodded in response, and then they both turned to Archie, who, at some point in the scuffle, had taken a blow to the face and fell down, where he was still sitting. As Sherlock and John came closer, he held his hands up. "Don't hurt me!" he cried. "What do you want? I'll tell you!"
Sherlock sent a of loathing to John, rolling his eyes, before turning back to Archie. "The address of the person you've been bringing notes to from Godfrey Staunton," he said flatly.
Again, Archie froze up. Perhaps milkmen weren't supposed to also act as a go-betweens, because suddenly Archie was scrambling down the alley.
"Oi!" John shouted, immediately breaking into a run after him, quickly catching up and tackling him to the ground. "You're not going anywhere," John growled, looming over the boy. "Now tell us where you took the notes," he said, lifting Archie's torso off the ground with a fistful of his shirt.
"F-four thirty seven Sycamore," Archie stuttered out. "Doctor Leslie Armstrong." John glanced back at Sherlock, who nodded, then let the boy fall to the ground. Archie scrambled up and tore away from them.
John shook his head at the boy's retreat, then stood fully and brushed his hands off on his jeans. He ran a hand along his jaw and could feel where it was already swollen and would be a bruise in the morning. He looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a glint in his eye that John didn't quite recognize nor could quite identify. "Let's get out of here and go find Godfrey, yeah?" he said, tilting his head towards the alley. Sherlock nodded, and together they walked away from the abandoned lot.
They walked into the alley, and then Sherlock took the lead, winding through different alleys expertly, until suddenly he stopped and turned around to face John.
"What is it?" John asked, backing into the wall and Sherlock stalked up to him.
"You are unbelievably hot," Sherlock said, then ducked his head down and attached his lips to John's.
John made a shocked noise, but quickly sunk into the kiss. All that was going through his head was yes yes yes. It was everything he had wanted to do with Sherlock without realizing that this is what he wanted to do.
Sherlock sucked on his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth, and John moaned, his arms coming up and finding root in the short hair at the base of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock licked at his lips for permission to enter John's mouth, and John eagerly granted access, allowing his mouth to be plundered. All he could do was pull Sherlock closer as the greaser utterly dominated him with the kiss.
After a while, Sherlock had to pull back to take a breath. One kiss, and they were both panting. "I've been wanting to do that for quite a while now," Sherlock said.
"Oh really," John breathed. "Since when?"
"Since I broke into your room for the first time," Sherlock said without hesitation. Then he leaned forward and put his lips next to John's ear. "I suspected this would be pleasant. On the roof, though, I became sure, and later I'm going to ravish you"
John's breath hitched, and he shuddered, and there was a sudden redirection of blood in his body. He pulled Sherlock back down and recaptured his lips, relishing the slide of tongues. And then Sherlock pressed closer and suddenly their hips were aligned and John moaned again, the feeling intoxicating as he rocked his hips forward, and then-
Sherlock drew back with a gasp, and John whined. "We have to finish the case," Sherlock said, his voice rougher and deeper than usual, and John had never heard a sound so lovely. "We are not having messy handjobs in an alley."
John flushed, partially at the crassness of the word 'handjob,' and partially at the idea of Sherlock having his hand down John's pants, or having his hand down Sherlock's pants, and how good of an idea that sounded. "Why not?" he stuttered, still out of breath.
Sherlock's eyes glinted as a devilish grin broke over his face. "I have better plans," he said, and John's jeans were suddenly tighter than they had been before. "But first. Find the boy," Sherlock reminded him.
"Right," John said faintly. "Let's go do that then." And then Sherlock pulled away completely, and John had to take a few breaths before he gathered himself enough to push off of the wall and fall into step alongside Sherlock, albeit with a bit wider of a stride than usual as they walked across the street to get the motorbike from outside of Speedy's.
Sherlock drove them to the nicer part of London, straight to the address that Archie had given them. The house they stopped at was rather large, with two cars outside of it.
"What time is it?" John asked as they climbed off of the motorbike. Sherlock pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch.
"Nearly ten," he said, letting his arm fall back down and making his way towards the front door, pushing through the waist-high metal gate.
John hurried after him. "Bit late for a call," he muttered as they mounted the front porch.
Sherlock glanced over at him with a raised brow and small smirk. "Yes, but I want to finish this case so I can take you home with me."
John felt his cheeks flush as Sherlock reached out and rang the doorbell. He didn't have a chance to say anything before footsteps came towards them from the inside of the house, and the door was pulled open by a man in his mid-fifties. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly. "You know it's quite late, it's extremely rude of you to be calling at this hour."
"Very sorry, Doctor Armstrong," Sherlock said. The man looked surprised. "We're just here to say hello to Godfrey."
The man reared back. "What-what complete and utter poppycock, my dear boy!" he exclaimed. "Godfrey? Surely you don't mean Godfrey Staunton, the rugby lad who's gone and run away from home?"
Sherlock stepped into the house, forcing Armstrong back. He looked around, presumably appraising, but John could see his eyes rapidly flicking around and knew he was deducing. "Yes, him exactly," Sherlock said, turning back to the man. "I know he's been sending notes to you through the milkmen, and now that I've been here, it's dreadfully obvious what's happened." Sherlock turned and started mounting the stairs that lead from the entryway to the second floor. "Come along, John," he said.
"You stop right there!" Armstrong shouted. "Or I'll call the police!"
"Please do," Sherlock said. "I'm sure they'd love to close the missing person's case that's been open for nearly a week now. Come on, John."
John quickly followed Sherlock up the stairs, and Armstrong followed them, still shouting at them not to go any further. Sherlock heeded no warning, though, and continued barging up the stairs and down the hall of the second landing. He paused a moment, sussing things out, and then opened the third door they passed.
"And here we are," Sherlock said. "One missing rugby player, and a deathly ill pinned that no-one knew about. Oh, and look. They're committed."
John peered into the room, and sure enough, there was Godfrey, lying on a bed next to a girl who looked far too thin and pale to be healthy. When the door was thrown open, Godfrey had roused, lifting his head up. "Doctor?" he rumbled. "What's going on?"
"You've been found, my boy," Doctor Armstrong grumbled, glaring at Sherlock and John.
Sherlock snorted. "Please. The only reason it's taken this long is because your milkman decided to take an impromptu holiday. The police would have been here in the morning, and even if you managed to walk up the attic stairway before they made it up here, there are no less than sixteen tells downstairs, the largest and most idiotic being the trainers that are far too big for you, Doctor Armstrong, left by the door." The doctor looked indignant, and Godfrey's face was panicked. Sherlock turned to John. "And now that this waste of my time is over, we're leaving." With that, he stalked out of the room, brushing past John on his way.
John stood frozen for a moment, then jerked after him. "I'm sorry?" he said.
Sherlock was pulling his leather jacket around himself, doing the lower snap and pulling on the zipper, about to go down the stairs. "We're leaving," he repeated, his curls bouncing as he quickly trotted down the stairs.
John glanced over his shoulder, back into the room. The doctor was leaning over the young woman, checking her pulse while Godfrey stared at John. "Sorry, mate, but you had us all worried," John said to him, before taking off after Sherlock. A spike of anger had shot through him.
The greaser was already out the front door, striding down the front walk and towards his motorbike. It was coming close to ten thirty now, and the only light came from the streetlamps that ran up and down the street.
"Oi!" John shouted, jogging down after him. Sherlock turned around, then gave John a sharp grin.
"Come along, John," he said. "We've things to do." He looked delighted with himself, his bright eyes alight and mouth not marred into its usual frown. Really, John should have found it overwhelmingly sexy, but his anger washed everything away as he stomped towards the greaser.
He made it down the walkway and through the gate, slamming it closed behind him. "Is that it?" he asked, words clipped.
Sherlock had turned back around and started mounting his motorbike. "Is what 'it'?" he asked, not looking at John as he dug through his pockets for his keys.
Sherlock's indifference only made John angrier. "That," he said, throwing a hand back towards the house. "Oh, we found the missing boy, look how stupid his hiding place is, now let's go fuck." John practically spit the last word.
Sherlock lifted his head, brow furrowing. "What more did you expect?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
John stared at him for a moment, a laugh huffing out of his mouth.
A true frown creased Sherlock's mouth. "What?" he said, his tone now more annoyed than confused.
John was quiet for a moment, baffled by Sherlock's lack of emotion. "What more did I expect?" he repeated. "Sherlock, you announced that they're engaged. That girl was obviously deathly ill-"
Sherlock interrupted him with a snort. "Sentiment," he muttered.
John glared at him. "All we did was walk up a set of stairs and throw a door open. You didn't say one word to Godfrey. You haven't even explained to me how you figured out where Artie-"
"Archie," Sherlock corrected, interrupting again.
John felt his lips twist into what was surely a fierce snarl. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on, John," he moaned. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"What do you mean, what does it have to do with anything?" John said. His voice was raised, he was nearly yelling. "It has everything to do with this! There are people that are worried out of their skulls about Godfrey, and you don't seem to give a damn!" he snapped.
"Frankly, I don't," Sherlock said, tone fierce. He lifted himself off of the bike, drawing up to his full height once more. "Sentiment is the plague of humankind, it drives you all to idiocy and drastic measures, and for what?"
"Healthy, normal relationships?" John supplied, crossing his arms over his chest.
Sherlock scoffed, body twisting around in aggravation as he said, "Normal. What's the fun in normal?"
"Well then what was about to happen tonight, Sherlock?" John snapped, throwing his arms out. "You said you were going to take me home. What, was it just going to be sex?"
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, his brows furrowing angrily. John waited for him to say something, but the greaser stayed silent, his hand closing in his hair and tugging on dark curls.
"Great. That's just great," John said, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "Not only am I an idiot for caring about people, but you also don't give a single damn about me. That's real nice, Sherlock."
"Why should I?" Sherlock snarled. His hands came out of his hair and started gesturing wildly as he spoke. "Why should I care at all about the rugby-playing son of two drunks that begged me to take a case where the only interesting thing was finding a milkman that was too stupid to tell anyone he was going to Sussex to visit his mother. Tell me, John," he said, stepping into John's personal space and looming over him. "Why I should give one single, flying fuck about you."
John felt his jaw tighten as an unbidden, but sharp and hot stab of hurt shot through his heart. He stared up at Sherlock's steely, angry gaze, searching for anything that might give a different sign. Finding nothing, he gave a single, slow nod. He took a step back, then did a ninety degree turn and started walking away.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock called after him.
"Home," John snapped, not looking back. He heard muttered cussing, and a few moments later, the roar of the motorbike starting.
A moment later, Sherlock was riding alongside him. "Let me drive you home," he sighed.
John looked straight ahead. "Sorry, I didn't think you gave a single, flying fuck about me," he spat.
He didn't look, but John could picture Sherlock's scowl. "You've got my shoes," Sherlock said. If he hadn't just given an awful speech about the downfalls of sentiment, John would have thought it was a last-bid plea to get him on the bike. Now, he supposed, it was an actual complaint.
John stopped walking long enough to yank the damned things off his feet and hurl them at Sherlock. Then he continued his trek, still refusing to look over. There was a thud as the shoes hit either the bike or the greaser himself, and then the crank of the engine as Sherlock sped up to pull up alongside him once more.
"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock said once more. John didn't dignify the comment with a response. There was a moment where the only sound was the purr of the engine. "Fine," Sherlock snapped. "That's just fine." The engine roared again, and then Sherlock sped forward and past John, quickly disappearing from sight.
As soon as he was gone, John let out a deep breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He felt like he was going to shatter. Which was ridiculous, because obviously he hadn't known Sherlock at all. He rubbed his arms as the chill of the night air finally registered, the heat of his anger subsiding as Sherlock disappeared.
It took him nearly half an hour to walk home. By the time he got there, his feet and arms were numb, the shortsleeve shirt and socks offering little to no warmth. Pissed at the world in general now, he banged his way into the flat, not bothering with his usual caution as he entered. His mother was sitting in her usual chair with her usual drink in hand and the telly on her usual channel. "Where have you been?" she snapped immediately.
"Out," John said, ignoring her as he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He blindly grabbed the first bottle of soda his hand landed on, then straightened and closed the fridge.
"Why on earth are you dressed like that? What did you do to your hair?"
"Not now, Mum," John said, walking across the living room and towards the bathroom. He could hear his mother saying something else, but he ignored it, closing and locking the door and blocking out her voice. He flipped the lid on the toilet down and sat heavily. He lowered his head into his hands, groaning loudly as he tried to sort through his roiling emotions.
He was angry. Unbelievably so. Not only about what Sherlock had said about him, but about his complete and utter lack of regard for others' emotions. And he was hurt. He had thought he was, if not important to Sherlock, at least some kind of an asset. He knew Sherlock didn't have a lot of friends, it was obvious the first time you met him. John had thought he had made some kind of connection with Sherlock, and somehow over the course of a whirlwind week, had developed a crush.
John breathed a quiet laugh. If that didn't make him sound like a primary school student, he didn't know what did. He ran his hands over his face, then stood and twisted the faucets on in the shower, setting the water to the hottest temperature possible. He yanked the black shirt over his head, and after a moment of debate, chucked it into the bin. His socks, which were rather worn to begin with, had holes from walking on rough pavement through London, so John binned them as well. The jeans followed suit. He stripped off his pants, and, unable to find a flaw with them, shoved them into the laundry hamper.
The hot water pounded against his back, warming away the last chills that had been lingering on his skin. He scrubbed his hair roughly, forcing the grease out of his hair. Unbidden, the memory of Sherlock's nimble fingers rubbing the grease in raced through his mind, causing a shiver to run down his spine. A hot surge of anger followed, and John grit his teeth and scrubbed harder, forcing his thoughts to stay neutral.
When John emerged from the shower, the hot water was running out and his scalp felt scrubbed raw. He toweled himself off, then wrapped the towel around his waist and darted into his room. He went about getting dressed, pulling on pyjamas and running his fingers through his hair. He turned towards his bed. Neatly folded, his clothes from earlier in the day and the bag with his rugby uniform were sitting primly on top of his blanket.
John practically saw red as he scooped the things up and hurled them into the corner of his room. There was a dull thunk as the bag hit the wall, his cleats no doubt the cause of the noise.
He thought he had made it clear that he didn't want to have contact again any time soon, but Sherlock had gone ahead and broke into his room.
A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that it was to return his things, but the larger, angrier part of him ignored that as John threw himself into bed, jerking the covers over himself. He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. After nearly half an hour, he gave up and flopped on his back, and spent a large portion of the night staring at the ceiling. His thoughts oscillated, replaying the entire argument over and over and desperately wishing it hadn't happened. When he finally fell asleep, it was with the knowledge that he would never overestimate Sherlock Holmes again.