Well howdy strangers, bet you have forgotten about me and this story haven't you? Well it's back, sorry its taken so long, believe me I feel awful but now i have graduated uni and all back at home doing pretty much nothing I can concentrate on this, aren't you the lucky ones. I hope you like this!
Finally a humongous thank you to Marie for being my beta, she is awesome. My grammar makes small children cry so she deserves a round of applause and a very big G+T. Love you honeybunch.
'Loss of motivation, lack of enjoyment in normal activities, poor appetite, feelings of tiredness, guilt and uselessness, I'm afraid Mr Watson these are all classic symptoms of depression.'
John looked at the middle-aged doctor, he glanced down to look at all the pictures of smiling kids that surrounded her desk – smart, middle-class children just like his students. They made him feel sick. A plant on the windowsill provided the only splash of colour in an otherwise completely white and sanitary room. The blinds on the window were cutting out most of the bright sunlight. He had a slight distrust of doctors; they seemed to know everything about a person just from one look. Sometimes it was as if they knew their patients better than they knew themselves, and John found that rather unnerving. He had travelled to the doctor's surgery in the neighbouring village of Little Flossop. It was half the size of Bakerford but it was a very similar, picture postcard, chocolate box, self-satisfied, white bread community. He was worried that if he went to the doctor's in Bakerford he would run into Sarah, and he really didn't feel like explaining why he needed to see a doctor. How exactly could one explain to someone the feeling of emptiness, the feeling that something was missing even if that something was unknown?
'I'll write you out a prescription for a course of anti depressants. Come back and see me in a few weeks and let me know how you are getting on.' She printed out the prescription and handed it to him. John knew it was silly, but he immediately hated the doctor. She acted like she understood but she didn't, no matter how much she nodded and pretended. She didn't know what it was like in his head, what it felt like to be him or to think like him.) He left the office without a backward glance and knew he would not be back. He wouldn't even take any of the pills the doctor had prescribed because he didn't think they would solve whatever it was going on inside him. Whatever salvation he might find, he now knew he wasn't to be found in a doctor's office.
Sitting in his car, he rested his head on his hand and felt utterly let down. He wasn't sure what he had expected from the trip, but this was not it. He didn't want to be put on a course of pills and told come back in a few weeks. He felt hollow, as if he was living in a shell and watching his life flitter in front of his eyes, feeling absolutely nothing. Looking back, he should have known this would happen; after all he did have the classic signs of depression, even if he didn't think that was what was wrong with him. He also felt his problems were so complex that he couldn't just take a pill and have it all go away. He sighed and felt very annoyed with himself for being so naïve as to think that going to the doctor wouldn't involve medicine. Of course that's what they would prescribe him, in the same way that if he went to the pub they would prescribe him beer, a priest would tell him to pray to God and a whore would tell him to go fuck something.
He screwed up the prescription the doctor had given him and flung it on the passenger seat. He didn't want medication, he just wanted someone to explain to him why the hell he was feeling this way. He wanted someone to tell him why he was so dam tired all the time and why life had lost its sheen, why he didn't genuinely smile, why it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning as if some invisible weight was pulling him down and why his entire life felt like it was being lived by someone else. Pills wouldn't stop the crippling loneliness he felt. He just wanted someone, anyone who would understand the way he felt, he just wanted to live his life like he used to, laugh with his friends when they came around, make love to his wife and not feel like he was fucking up every day of his life. He didn't want to be a ghost, and he didn't want it to be forever night inside his heart. He just wanted to be okay. Was that really too much to ask? He didn't think he was depressed; he just knew there was something missing from his life, and he wouldn't feel right until he found it.
He wondered if everything was as good in London has he remembered it. Maybe he was looking at everything through rose tinted glasses and his hatred of Bakerford was simply exacerbating the situation. Maybe he had always felt this emptiness and was only just noticing it now he didn't have the distractions of friends or a city he loved. There was always something to do in London, always somewhere he had to be, and now there was quiet. The silence seemed to have opened a door in his mind that only led to darkness and despair, he just couldn't quite close it. The drive home didn't offer any answers to his questions, he felt very, very alone.
Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled out on his bed and, for now at least, tried desperately to ignore the large bulge between his legs. He had been lying on his bed thinking of Mr Watson, before he knew it all the blood had rushed south. His crush on his teacher was getting out of hand, .He was acting like a schoolgirl with all this swooning and daydreaming about him, and he hated it. He had hoped to spend this Saturday as he usually did, studying hard at the library but, much to Mrs Hudson's surprise, he actually had to leave because he just could not concentrate, he found himself staring at the words on the page but not taking anything in, constantly thinking of Mr Watson, his expressions, the way he looked, the way he moved, the way he had sat so closely when they at the cinema. He had hoped leaving the library and the bicycle ride home would clear his head, but now he was again thinking about his biology teacher. Away from Mrs Hudson's prying eyes he could think about whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was Mr Watson. It had progressed from simply imagining Mr Watson to imagining what he would feel like, to imagining how soft his lips would be against his and how his body would feel under his finger tips. All of this had led to the predicament he was in now, that is lying on his bed with an erection for his teacher. He had never had an erection over someone before. He had woken up with morning wood before, but that was more simple biology then desire. He had never got hard by thinking about someone or looking at a picture or a film…That was until now.
Finally, staring down at himself and the state he had gotten into, he pouted, he looked at the way his member bulged up in his jeans, long and thick against his skinny thighs. He had never indulged himself in such practices as masturbation; unlike most teenage boys who had wanking down to an art form, he preferred to see himself above such matters. Now curiosity and the lust he felt were getting the better of him. He was all alone in the house, his father wouldn't be back for hours, so it was the perfect time to indulge himself and release the pressure that had built up inside. He knew the mechanics of what he was about to do, but, being such a novice, he still felt a sense of nervous anticipation. He didn't know how it would feel or how his body will respond.
Getting up, he went to the bathroom (quite difficult with a hard on) and came back with a handful of tissue for the mess, he lay back on the bed. Propping himself up on the wall, he put a pillow behind him then gingerly undid the zipper of his trousers before pulling them down. Screwing up his eyes, he toyed with the waistband of his boxers then pulled them down so they joined his jeans down around his ankles. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments then finally plucked up the courage to actually look at himself he stared at the now swollen muscle, red, almost purple in colour he noted the blue veins that snaked themselves up the sensitive flesh. It was almost painfully hard and he desperately needed release. That was all he was doing he lied to himself, he couldn't spend the day with an erection like this and this was the quickest way he could think to get rid of it . Yes, that was all he was doing.
He reached down, curled his hand round the base and stroked gently, a simple up and down motion that left him with a warm and not exactly un-pleasurable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited a few moments, savouring the feeling touching himself had given him, then he did it again, this time increasing the pressure slightly and flicking his thumb over the tip. Yes that felt nice, very nice indeed, again a warm pleasant feeling flooded him except this time it was stronger, becoming more intense each time he moved his hand. He increased the pace between the strokes and found his mind going completely blank; all he could feel, all he could think about was what was going on between his legs. No matter how intense it was becoming, no matter how much he thought he couldn't handle the way he was feeling, he knew nothing could make him stop. Images of Mr Watson came into his mind, and he couldn't help himself. He imagined him smiling, laughing. Sherlock imagined what it would feel like if he had been courageous enough to have reached out in the cinema and threaded his hands through his teachers….. But most of all he imagined what it would feel like if it was Mr Watson's hand doing this to him.
He felt something emerge from his stomach, a feeling like something was tickling his insides, like an itch he couldn't scratch, and it felt very nice. Very, very nice indeed. He surrendered himself to the flood of pure desire he felt and let out a small moan, his stomach muscles contracting subconsciously. Suddenly everything became too much, he couldn't handle what he felt, it was too strong and a strange pressure built up inside of him that he both savored and desperately wanted release from. A few more tugs and the pressure escaped, hot liquid spilt out over hand and his orgasm hit him so completely, he felt a high that he never wanted to come down from. It was the greatest feeling he had ever experienced. He felt like he had been pushed into a sea of pure ecstasy that had taken over his entire body. When his mind rewired itself and began working again, he was panting. He felt that he couldn't move as everything felt very heavy, and he felt a wave of sleepiness hit him. He lay in his mess, feeling the sweat dripping from forehead and thighs as he panted and tried to even out his heart rate. His breathing was usually measured and precise, but now it was erratic and out of control.
He cleaned himself with the tissue and threw it in the bin. Pulling his trousers back up, he couldn't quite believe what he had done. He had had his first orgasm, and it was glorious. But it also terrified him slightly, the intense feeling and the way his mind lost total control. He hadn't been able to think or do anything apart from entirely focus on his orgasm. To experience this in the privacy of one's own bedroom was one thing, but doing this in front of someone else was a completely different matter. He didn't like the idea of someone seeing him so vulnerable or exposed.
'Hi Sherlock.'
Sherlock looked up from his book at morning registration to see Molly's bright face shining back at him and his mind went into overdrive, uniform was neat, as usual, but she appeared to be wearing lipstick? Why was she wearing lipstick at school when she never did before?...Biology. In fact Sherlock had never seen her wear any make up before but now could see lipstick, her cheekbones enhanced by some blusher and some mascara round her eyes. She was trying to impress someone, Mr Watson judging by the doe eyed look she gave him in biology.
'I'm having a 16th birthday party on Saturday, and I want you to come.' Handing him an invitation, she smiled again as she took the seat next to him. He looked down at the pictures of balloons, the swirling writing and knew at once there was no way he was going. Besides, he had no one to go with, no one at this party would pay him any attention and he just wanted to be left alone.
'Please come," she requested again.
'Maybe,' he responded, this was Molly, little mousy Molly and she didn't deserve this. He wished he could see what exactly it was Molly saw in him but he couldn't. He was heartless, worthless, a waste of blood and oxygen just like his dad told him. Why could she not see that? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Molly was the only person in the school who paid any attention to him, and he hated her for it. He knew he should be grateful, but whenever she spoke to him, smiled at him, even acknowledged he was there, it just made him feel uncomfortable.
The school day passed quickly and quietly. He didn't see Mr Watson at all, much to his relief and disappointment.
He walked towards the library when school ended. Passing by the corner shop, he walked in for a pack of cigarettes. As soon as he walked in he remembered he was in his school uniform and wouldn't get served, so he decided to get something to eat instead. Hovering over the pre packed sandwiches, he went for the least sorry looking one he could find, something with egg and cress in it. He didn't really care what was in the sandwich he just wanted the hunger pangs to go away. Eating very little food had started to catch up with him. He had always been very thin, but now with his dad spending his wage on drink rather than food for him and his son, Sherlock had started losing even more weight. He noticed how he could feel his ribs under his shirt, and the bones in his arms and legs stuck out slightly. Having picked his sandwich and a also a packet of Monster Munch he noticed a small display of cards. He went for the first one he saw with Happy Birthday written on it. The script was bright, there was a picture of kitten on it, and the envelope was bright pink, it would do.
'Hello, Sherlock.'
'Hi, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock replied and the librarian smiled lightly at him.
Rather than going to his usual seat in the crime section, he spent the next few hours scouring the library for whatever he could find about love. There were epic romances, classical fiction, self help books, trashy romance novels... and it all left him feeling utterly confused. It seemed the more he found out about love, the less he knew. Attraction, lust, sex, desire, love, relationships, he didn't understand any of it. Why did he fancy Mr Watson? Why did he get butterflies in his stomach when he thought of him? Why did he catch himself thinking about his teacher without even realising it? But most of all, why couldn't he control how he felt? It angered him that he was having all these emotions he hadn't chosen to have. He threw one of the books down on the desk and buried his hand in his hands. He felt utterly let down. Books had always taught him whatever he needed to now but now they were just confusing him as he struggled to comprehend the matter at hand. Life would be so much easier if he didn't fall in love, if he could close his heart of and stop himself feeling the pain. However, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't stop himself. He couldn't let go of how he felt about his teacher, and he could not deny the strange pull he felt toward the man.
'You alright dear?' Mrs Hudson asked.
'Fine, just fine.' He grabbed his bag and prepared to head out the library.
'Someone gave me this earlier this afternoon, you might be interested.' Mrs Hudson handed him a leaflet. He shrugged his shoulders as he glanced down to read whatever was on the paper.
'Violin lessons? Could be fun I suppose.'
As soon as he was out the building he rang the number. Speaking to woman on the other end he arranged a lesson for a few days time. What did he have to lose? It would be good to challenge his brain, to get out of the house for a little while, and if he didn't like it he could stop. He had a few missed calls from Mycroft again when he checked his phone but he promptly ignored him. Still feeling bitter over his abandonment, he had no desire to speak to his brother. He sent him a quick text saying he was fine and left it at that.
When he got home, he buttered a roll for dinner and made a cup of tea.
'Fucking fags.' He heard his father hiss from the living room. Yet another football match and yet again another crate of beer. Sherlock had no intention of coming out to his father but knowing exactly what his father would think still made edgy.
He wanked again that night. When his father was asleep on the sofa snoring loudly, he shut himself away in his room and indulged himself again. It was even better this time as he knew more about what he liked, the technique he wanted to use, how he liked to be touched and the pace and pressure he favored. This time he didn't even stop the images of Mr Watson coming into his mind, he felt in some way Mr Watson was his when he was like this, that in some way he owned Mr Watson when his body was responding to him in this way. That he was Sherlock's even if it only lasted a few moments
'Right, hold this string down tightly and try again.' Sherlock ran the bow over the strings carefully and listened to the sweet sound it made. He was mesmerised the first time he stroked the bow along the strings; it was mournful, melancholic, utterly enchanting, and he adored each note. He loved knowing that he was the one making these sounds come out of the violin, that he was creating them. He also enjoyed the effect that the violin had on him – it seemed to calm his brain and make it easier to think.
'Well done, Sherlock, you're a natural.' His teacher Mrs Lestrade smiled at him. The lesson was at her smart cottage on the other side of Bakerford. Sherlock had fast become addicted to this. He loved the way the violin fitted in his neck and the sweet mournful sounds he could make with it, his teacher was right, he was a natural. The music was beautiful to his ears, the chord progression was simple maths and his brain could easily get around the patterns he played.
Once the lesson ended, he arranged another lesson for the next week, bid his teacher goodbye and left the house. He was walking down the path to his bike which he had chained up next to the garden fence, when a familiar face caught his eye. It was Mr Watson walking his dog up the garden path of the house next door. His mouth suddenly went dry and his heartbeat quickened. That was his house he deduced, Mrs Lestrade was his neighbour, his violin teacher was next door neighbors with Mr Watson. Sherlock thought he was about to explode when his teacher started speaking.
'Hello, Sherlock, what you doing here?' He smiled. Oh my God, he was actually smiling at him. Sherlock didn't know what to do or where to look.
'Had a violin lesson.' He gestured to the house.
'Oh, with Kate. She is lovely. I hope you weren't too much trouble for her.' He grinned, a genuine grin. Sherlock loved how when his teacher smiled it seemed to light up his entire face. He tried to say something witty and clever back but couldn't quite find the words.
Sherlock couldn't wipe the grin of his face all the way home. He had been outside Mr Watson's home, he had spoken to him. Just standing in front of him and having Mr Watson in his sight him made him feel all light headed and happy. He also now knew where he lived, a useless piece of information perhaps, but, still, he had seen Mr Watson's home! It seemed odd to any school child that teachers had lives outside of school, were, underneath it all, normal people with their own lives, hopes and desires, so seeing a teachers home always burnt into the memory.
Mr Watson may have said no more than a few words to him, but Sherlock couldn't help but rerun the scene inside his mind, his heart beating fast every time he went over Mr Watson's words, the way he looked, the way he held himself, the clothes he wore and every detail of his facial expression.
He was still smiling when he showered that evening. He tried to do his history homework but his brain was so full of Mr Watson he couldn't write a single word about the assassination of the archduke Franz Ferdinand without biting his lip to stop himself from laughing in complete joy.
The next day at school he saw, from his usual spot in the playing field, Mr Watson arrive in his car, but he didn't have the confidence to go speak to him. He knew he would babble and go the colour of a tomato, so he stayed away and admired from afar. Within a few minutes of arrival, Sherlock noticed how Mr Watson had gathered a small crowd around him of students who wanted to wish him good morning. He was carrying his bag and a box of something or other.
Sherlock left quickly when the bell rang to get to his classes, wishing he could see his teacher again rather than attend stupid boring lessons. He wanted to see Molly, but she was always surrounded by her silly giggling friends.
He finally got Molly on her own at lunch. 'Sorry Molly, I'm busy Saturday,' he lied 'Can't go to your party but here you go.' He handed Molly the card and watched her eyes light up at the bright pink envelope and a smile creep onto her face as she took in the picture of the kitten and 'Happy Birthday, Molly from Sherlock' scrawled in his handwriting inside.
'Oh, Sherlock, thank you.' She flung her arms around him just as the bell rang, squeezing him tightly. The fumes of her strawberry shampoo clogged his senses and her hair tickled his nose. She stood on tiptoes to hug him as he stood utterly frozen to the spot, arms glued to his sides. He pulled away as soon as he could, almost running to his next lesson.
He saw Mr Watson in the distance walking towards his room and smiled again, thoughts of Molly's hug a million miles away as soon as he saw his teacher. Just the way he held his coffee was infinitely interesting to Sherlock. He wished he could bunk off and follow him about all day, stay in his room and be forever in his presence, but he resigned himself to watching from a distance. So many girls flirted with him, undoing the top buttons of their school shirts to get him to notice them, but he showed no interest. He didn't stand a chance.
The lessons passed by, and finally the end of the day bell rang. He walked amongst the students out of the school gates till he was once again alone, just the way he liked it. He decided to take the long route home. He saw how autumn was fast becoming winter, the leaves on the trees had all fallen and now they were quite bare, the branches looking like withered fingers against the landscape. The sky had turned a deep grey colour, the evenings closed in earlier and earlier, the sky covered in clouds. The air had become chilly, soon he would have to start wearing his coat. He walked aimlessly along the neat rows of houses and saw Molly running after him.
'Hi Sherlock.' She beamed at him 'Thanks for the card.' She smiled another saccharine sweet smile at him.
'It's alright'; he mumbled. For God's sake, it was just a stupid card.
'Can I walk home with you?'
'Fine.' He walked off and allowed Molly to walk alongside him. They walked in silence. Well, he was silent, Molly chatted quite a bit about things that did not really interest him. School, teachers, things on television... he stopped paying much attention, instead shoving his hands deeply into his pocket. Molly was inanely grinning at him again, and Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the floor as his feet pounded the pavement. When they reached Molly's home, he tried to hide his relief at finally getting rid of her.
'Well, here we are.' He gestured at her house 'See you on Monday.' Sherlock mumbled again then suddenly found Molly coming at him, striding at him with a look of such intent in her eyes. He tried to back away as soon as he felt Molly come into his personal space, but Molly curled her arms around his neck, holding his head tightly and crushing her lips to his. He tried to pull away again, but her grip on his neck was surprisingly strong. He immediately wanted to back away, but her nails dug into his skin as she tried to move her lips against his firmly closed mouth. Finally, putting his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away. He hated the way she tasted, the way she felt against him. It was his first kiss, and he hated every moment of it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand trying desperately to get rid of Molly's presence on him.
'What the hell are you doing?' he stammered. He may not know much about love, but he knew you shouldn't kiss someone out the blue, especially if they have not given any indication they want to kiss you back.
She gasped, her face turning red in embarrassment as she realised what an awful mistake she had made. 'I like you, I thought you liked me too.'
'I'm gay!' The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. There was a long silence, then Molly ran up the path into her house, wiping her eyes and slamming the door behind her.
Sherlock could not believe what he had done. He had just blurted out his deepest darkest secret, just like that. One fit of desperation, and it was now all out. Would Molly tell anyone? Would she tell Jim? Her friends? The whole school? Would his dad find out? He felt sick, desperately wishing he could turn back the clock and never walk home with her in the first place. He wished he had never even given her that card. His blood turned to ice in his veins, then suddenly he felt unbelievably hot and his head started pounding. A momentary loss of control and now there was no going back. He had worked so hard to hide this for as long as he could remember, and now all of that hard work had been ruined in a matter of seconds. What the hell was he going to do now? He turned away and started to make the short walk home.
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