Weeks passed and looked alike. John and Sherlock spent their days together and went to John's after school to do their homeworks. Rumors grew as their friendship did. Someone calling them "Ladies" with a sarcastic smile as a greeting was undoubtedly the nicest thing John had heard so far. Sherlock didn't seem to pay any kind of attention to whatever insult was thrown at him, and John pretended to do the same. He kept repeating his own words in his head : "It doesn't matter what people say. It doesn't matter what people say." When he first said that to his sister, he didn't know what he was up to. Now he regretted speaking so fast.
John had never been so glad to see winter break coming. The Watson family always visited John's grandparents in York for at least a week ; he would be away from everything. Of course, he would also be away from Sherlock. He clenched his fists as he tried to ignore the rumbling in his chest at the thought. He didn't want to think about what it could imply. It couldn't be true, he couldn't be – attracted to Sherlock. He had become his best friend, sort of ; the one person in the outside world to find his company enjoyable ; the one person he found intellectually challenging ; the one person to make him feel at home wherever he was. Nothing more. That's already a lot. Already too much ? No, of course not. Of course not. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him and glanced at him. They were attending the very last class before winter break, a boring lecture on the Cold War. They had been given an assignment on it the previous week, and theirs contained twice as much information as the lesson itself did.
"Is there something on my face ?" He didn't mean to sound so irritated.
"Not something on it, something with it. It looks tense."
John took a minute – and a deep breath - before answering. "Stomachache. I knew I shouldn't have had that saucy meat at lunch. I never digest that."
"That's part of why I don't eat."
"What's the other part ?"
"The very process of digesting alters my ability to think. I can't afford that."
John chuckled. "You'd still be the most brilliant man around if you were digesting." Sherlock's only answer was a smile. "Anyway, when do you actually eat ? Before going to bed, or something like that ?"
"What makes you think I eat at all ?"
"Well, to begin with, you'd be dead if you didn't."
Another smile. John hated that he couldn't keep himself from smiling too. "Fair point. I do eat something before going to bed and after waking up. It's my only human weakness."
John rested his chin on his closed fist and eyed him over his shoulder, a triumphant look across his face. "No, sir, that makes two." His smile widened at Sherlock's expression.
"Wel – what's the other one ?"
"You always have to rub it in everyone's face how annoyingly smart you are."
Sherlock pouted. "That's barely a weakness."
"I was only quoting you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What's next, smarty pants, did you tape me saying it or something, to prove your point ?" John sighed.
"You're such an arse."
"Isn't that why we get along ?"
"Are you calling me an arse now ?"
"I wouldn't dare." It was John's turn to pout. The bell rang, interrupting them, and everyone got up, ignoring the teacher's last words. John and Sherlock took their bags and got up on their feet as well. They reached the staircase and made their way down to the ground floor along with the flow of students going home. John didn't see the massive boy standing near the staircase entrance as he turned around the corner towards the front door, and they accidentally collided. The boy, whose back was turned to John, slowly moved to face him.
"Uh, sorry, I didn't see..." John began.
"You watch out, Gay Lord." John's words choked in his throat. Two equally massive students, who were talking to the first one before John's arrival, laughed stupidly. John was about to step aside to get out of the brute's way ; but before he knew it, the boy was thrown on the nearest wall, his back hitting the cold concrete... Sherlock's arm pressing his throat. He was gritting his teeth, and the look in his eyes was daring the brute to say another word to John.
"Sher-" The boy pushed Sherlock back on John who caught him by the shoulders, wavering under the power of the impact. Sherlock stepped aside, his eyes still burning with anger.
"And watch your girlfriend, too," the boy spat. The three of them went away.
Sherlock turned around. "Come, John." He walked angrily to the front door. John ran after him.
"Sherlock ! Sherlock, wait ! For God's sake, are you crazy ? That guy's shoulders were at least twice as large as yours. He could have broken all your bloody bones !" Sherlock didn't answer. John kept on staring at him with wide-open eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, you never react at anything. You always act like you don't care what they call you ! Why did you do that ?"
"They insulted you." Sherlock's voice was lower than usual.
"Sorry, what ?"
"They insulted you, John." John stopped. Their old parting point was here. They had agreed earlier that Sherlock wouldn't go to John's that evening since John had to pack.
"What difference does it make ?" John's voice was almost a whisper now, too.
"You shouldn't have to take this because of me."
"But I – this is not because of you. They hated me anyway, even before I knew you. They always did. This is not –"
"Well, enjoy your time in York, then. It'll do you good." His voice was almost back to normal, and he was smiling. A fake smile, for all John knew. "I'll probably be spending mine skyping Greg to help him with all those homeworks we got. By that I mean "skyping Greg about how dumb he is", of course. Well, I'm going that way now – see ya, John." He left without looking back.
A week away was more than John could take. Sherlock's tense face, the anger in his eyes, his words – the images kept running through his head. He had thought being away from it all would do him good, but he knew it woudln't change anything ; it would all be the same when he'd get back – and now that he knew Sherlock was hurt, too... He shifted in the car seat in restlessness. They were on their way back after ten whole days in York. John checked the time. "One hour to go", he thought. He could feel Harry's worrying eyes on him, but he didn't look at her. He just stared at the landscapes scrolling before his eyes. He knew she could read through him like an open book. She always could. She probably knew more than he did. Or than he wanted to know. He missed Sherlock, he just missed him, and Harry knew that. He was worried about him, about him being hurt, and that, Harry knew, too. Sherlock was all he could think about. And Harry knew.
After an hour that felt like an eternity, the car finallly parked in front of the Watson's house. John hurried out, took his suitcase, took it upstairs and in no time, he was out again.
"John !" Harry called. "Where are you going already ?"
"Uh, well I, I thought I could see how Sherlock's doing."
"John, we just got home, maybe you should..." she hesitated.
"So what ? I'm just gonna say hi." He hurried down the road.
"John ! Don't... if you – if you see him even during holidays then people... well they -"
"They already do, Harry. And I don't even care."
"But – John..." she breathed.
John was already running down the streets to Sherlock's. He wasn't living far from their high school, either. He stopped before the front door, and took a minute to catch his breath before knocking. He heard steps inside, getting closer, and the door opened.
"Sher – oh, uh, hi, I uh, I'm looking for Sherlock."
The man was tall, with dark hair, though less thant Sherlock's, and way shorter. He seemed a bit older, but was as impressive. "Hello. I believe my brother is in his bedroom upstairs, at the end of the corridor, last door to your right." The man stepped aside to make room for John.
"Uh, good, thanks." John came in. The house was big, with a high ceiling and what seemed like an endless living room at John's right. The wooden stairs were large, too, and they looked so clean John was afraid to put the dirty soles of his shoes on it. He finally climbed it, and walked until he reached the last door of the unexpectedly long corridor. How many rooms are there in here ? He wondered. He knocked on Sherlock's door.
"Get lost, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice sounded dizzy.
"I don't know who Mycroft is."
A voice came from downstairs. "That would be me."
"Oh", said John. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor came from Sherlock's bedroom.
"John ?"
"Sherlock, are you all right ? I'm coming in, ok ?" He opened the door and closed it behind him. The room, just like the rest of the house, was huge. The right side was occupied by a high wardrobe and several shelves filled with books ; on the left of the door, a big desk was flooded in papers, open books and scattered pens ; on another shelf was a microscope and pieces of scientific equipment. A large bed stood on the wall opposite the door, surrounded by two big windows hidden behind thick and heavy curtains, preventing the light from entering the room. Before the bed was Sherlock Holmes, lying on the floor, his face against the carpet, eyes half-shut. It didn't take John very long to figure out what had happened.
"For God's sake, Sherlock ! What is wrong with you ?" He kneeled next to him and tried to put him back up.
"Well, God isn't helping, is he ?"
"Neither are you. What the fuck were you doing ?" He sat him on the bed.
"Now you're swearing ?"
"Stop talking. Is that – is that cocaine you took ?"
"Of course it is."
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS ?" Sherlock winced.
"Don't shout, you're ruining my ears. It helps me think."
"Wh – no, Sherlock, it doesn't help you think, it ruins your fucking health !"
"You wouldn't know, you didn't take it." Sherlock's head was wavering. "It helps -"
"YOU DON'T TAKE DRUGS UNLESS A DOCTOR TELLS YOU TO FOR MEDICAL REASONS. DO YOU HEAR ME ?"
"There's no way I could not hear you, you're yelling at me. Stop yelling at me."
John sighed and sat on the bed next to Sherlock. "Did you.." He paused. He didn't know how to phrase his thoughts. "Did you do this because you're hurt ?"
"I'm not hurt."
"You know what I mean."
There was a long silence. John glanced at Sherlock. "I don't know."
John hesitated before speaking. He fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, over the crowded desk, and whispered. "You don't have to do this. We're in this together. We can go through this."
"But you weren't there", Sherlock murmured. His eyes were close now. His head fell on John's shoulder.
"I'm here now." He studied every detail of Sherlock's face. The eyes peacefully closed, the beautifully shaped mouth and nose, the prominent cheekbones and chin, the thin features. He was breathing deep and slow ; probably asleep. John's mouth formed a tiny smile. He rested his cheek on Sherlock's head, and waited.
Sherlock woke up to the sound of the door creaking and closing. He was lying in his bed, the covers drawn to his chin. He tried to get up, but the nauseous feeling he got made him fall back in his pillows.
"I wouldn't if I were you", said a familiar voice. Sherlock turned around.
"John ?"
"Here. I made you coffee." He sat next to Sherlock. "Your brother said I could just help myself, so... I kinda did. I hope you didn't want biscuits, because... Well", he said, looking down at his belly.
"What time is it ?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He got up on an elbow.
"Uh, ten. In the morning."
"Did you sleep here ?"
"Yeah, sort of." Sherlock looked up at John and noticed the dark rings under his eyes, the tired features, and the empty cup of coffee next to the bed. He sat up, avoiding John's eyes.
"You didn't have to."
"I told you yesterday. I'm here now." John's eyes looked for Sherlock's, and finally met them. "Just promise me there will be no more drugs now."
"Can you promise people will stop picking on you ?"
"I think people will always pick on me, but it doesn't matter. Promise no drugs."
"Why doesn't it matter now ? It hurts you. I know it. It always does."
John didn't recall seeing Sherlock so vulnerable. It was probably the drug he took the previous day and the still sleepy mind, but Sherlock's face was actually expressing emotions. The pain in his eyes hurt John like a knife in his chest. He swallowed hard.
"It doesn't matter... because I have you. I don't care about them. I don't care if it's us against the world, as long as it's...us." John bit his lip and looked away. He felt Sherlock's hand on his. He risked a glance, but Sherlock was looking down, too.
"So... you'll always be there ?"
"Always."
Author's note : So uh, I have no idea what the effects of cocaine are supposed to be, that's why I didn't describe too much. I hope what I wrote is accurate and if it's not, then, sorry about that.
Also I have a tumblr here where I doodled a scene from the fic that looked nice in my head (better than on the paper anyway, turns out I can't draw Sherlock), and maybe I will draw more, if you want to see it. It's not exactly art though, but if you can draw and are inspired by the story I'd be glad to see it !
I just noticed I forgot to add the link. My bad. Here you go :