A/N: This chapter starts to show off some more of the John/Sherlock aspects. Rating will go up either this chapter or next if this goes well.
Of Shampoo and Sheers
"So you think he's bipolar?"
John and Cassie were sitting in the small school cafeteria, it was entirely empty due to the hair students having a different lunch schedule then the rest of the school. John had been telling his ginger friend about his first day, not skipping the part where Sherlock had burst the personal space bubble by leaning in so close to him. She couldn't believe it either, based on what John had told her about him making snippy comments one moment and then pressing closer and telling him how wonderful he was the next. They had come up with several conclusions to this, the most realistic was that he suffered from bi-polar syndrome and couldn't help it.
"No, not bipolar. I don't know what it is, I just think he's testing me, making sure I'm not lazy or anything. Nichole said they had high expectations of their staff." He leaned back in his chair, lifting it off it's front two legs. It was only Monday, he didn't have to work again until Saturday, but there was this urge, this unsettling in his stomach. He had to show them he was the best and he was cut out for this job. It amused him in the back of his mind, he wasn't even sure he wanted this as a career, but now, all he wanted to do was go everyday if it meant he would gain the approval of the hair mogul. Granted, all he knew about the stylist was that he was one of the best in town and he had an English accent. Tonight, he vowed, he would do some more research on this guy. Right now he had to finish his lunch before the bell rang.
"When are you going in again?" Cassie asked.
"Tomorrow after school, I haven't really met any of the other staff either though, just said hello to a couple of them." John said, he felt like a child waiting for their birthday, so close, he could almost see the calendar switching. Cassie raised her eyebrow at him.
"Just be careful, he doesn't sound exactly stable, you know. This isn't your only job option you know, you could always cheat." She shrugged, mildly concerned for her friend's safety. John rolled his eyes back at her and blushed, he wasn't ready to tell her that he found his boss attractive quite yet. There was always time for THAT shock.
Three o'clock rolled around and John nearly sprinted home to pick up his car and drive to work. Class wasn't any better today as it had been the previous four weeks. It was monotonous and drawl, and he was forced to feel uncomfortable being taunted by the only other guy in the class. A homosexual boy named Jesse, who was, as it stood, incredibly popular due to his high natural skills and bubbly personality. He wasn't sexually aroused by him, no, but the heavy forced flirting and personal questions made the timid blonde boy very uncomfortable. He mostly squeaked out at him a small whimpered 'I'm not gay' and was responded to with a loud 'Well, I am' from the more outgoing male. This was an awkward situation, John felt the shrieks in the back of his head:
"You are, don't deny it. Maybe not for him, but you know you like Sherlock."
The accusation, and that knowledge made those taunts and teases unbearable, because deep down, John knew it was true. He had never had a girlfriend, and he appreciated the female figure, but he wanted to have Sherlock's complete and unwavering attention, and only his attention. Was he looking for the older man's approval, or was it really something deeper?
God, he hadn't felt this was since middle school, when he first found out what a crush was and that he, indeed, as a young prepubescent boy, had one. He was confused, all these labels and definitions danced in his head as he was forced to pick one and stick with it's name. But he wasn't really comfortable with a name or a term or label. Instead, he found solace with the one that came with the least baggage:
Straight.
But now, he was starting to question that too. After five years of being comfortable with some sort of mainstream identity, he was once again thrown into the torrent of confusion and questioning that went along with being a teenager suffering from the stimulus of other people.
Some days all he wanted to do was find the one person he wanted to take to bed and just stay there, happy, with a partner of any kind and just stay like that the rest of his life, without the public's prying eye to silently judge him as he walked down the sidewalk.
Unfortunately he wanted that partner to be Sherlock, his boss who happened to be over a decade over than he was.
"We weren't expecting you today." Jamie said pleasantly as John entered the door to the salon. It was considerably less busy today, John noticed. He gulped slightly, not sure what that meant about staffing and whom he was to expect sitting, waiting for him in the back room. There were only two stations in use, Sherlock's and a stylist with very puffed up, backcombed hair.
"I said I'd be in. Hey, I thought you said you only work mornings?" He asked, leaning on the reception desk casually, trying to act nonchalant in the environment he still knew nothing about.
"Lynsey called in sick today so I'm stuck here all day. We're open until Eight on weekdays, are you sure you want to stay the entire time? You don't have to." Jamie was trying to give him an out, with school and homework to do, being stuck cleaning for five hours wasn't the most enjoyable thing for the teenager to be doing, and she knew that.
"Yes, I'm sure. Besides, the faster I get these hours done, the better. I'm used to not sleeping so nothing will really change by me working a couple weekdays." He shrugged, propelling himself back up and walking towards the back room, he was curious as to what happened to that other work experience girl they had, the one that was supposed to be doing weekdays. They never even mentioned her. Setting his small bag down on the shelf, John looked at the room, trying desperately to hide his disgust at the state of things in the salon. It was unused for two days, and they had only been open for 6 hours. How the heck could nine adults get a room so messy?
"Hey, new kid." One of the older stylists said to him as he opened up the dryer to fold the clean towels. John turned around to face her. She was pretty. Tan, tall and all leg. Dressed in lavish clothing and heavy metal jewellery, she looked more like a model then a hair dresser.
"Yes?" The blonde boy replied, dumping the towels into the basket, taking them over to the small counter to get them ready.
"I'm Jenn, there's two of us, don't get confused." She crossed her legs elegantly, making the small skirt she wore inch up even more. John flushed and forced himself to concentrate on his task. These people were much older than he was, he shouldn't be thinking nasty things about them. Especially not when-was that a wedding ring? Christ almighty, she was married. Of course.
"I...won't. Don't worry." He turned away from her, facing the wall, stacking towels beside him so he didn't have to look at her. She was gorgeous and he knew it, but she was also married, and who knew what she could do if she suspected him of inappropriate thoughts?
"How old are you? You're so shy, don't worry. We don't bite, really. Well, Sherlock will, but only if you're into that sort of thing."
John's heart stopped, his head felt ten times heavier than normal and his legs felt boneless. What did he tell them?
He felt lightheaded when she let out a humoured laugh. He knew his eyes were wider than normal, and he had completely ceased his job when she mentioned that little tidbit of information. His internal organs were fluttering out of control.
"I'm just teasing you kiddo! He only looks scary, and if you do your job right, he's as harmless as a kitten." Jenn sat back up and patted John's shoulder. 'They all seem to do that.' He observed, thinking about the numerous pats his shoulder had received since he started.
"Oh, well...I met him on Saturday, he seems...professional." John chose the safest road on that one, not too mean, no.
"You know how to keep tactful. I like that. It won't get you far in this industry, however. To get good relationships with your coworkers, you have to gossip, you have to lie and go behind everyone's back. You'll hear that enough around here, and I'm only warning you so you don't go blabbing your mouth off to everyone that walks in here." Jenn smirked from behind John. He smiled awkwardly back and resumed his task. He had his work cut out for him today, and he couldn't stop and sit to chat when there was so much to clean.
"And you work. THAT, on the other hand, will get you very far here. Sherlock likes that a lot, unfortunately it won't get you anywhere here other than his respect, since he doesn't hire people so new out of school. How old ARE you anyway?" She asked again, it annoyed John slightly, he didn't answer the first time, mostly because he felt so young and immature standing next to these people with numbers in the double digits of experience above him. It was superficial and a farce, but he guessed he had to face it.
"I'm seventeen. Still in school, we have the hair school at the collegiate, so we start younger than most people." John explained, now finished folding the towels, he went back over to the machine to load up the washer. He heard a small chuckle-was it sympathy? Pity? He didn't know, but he hated the sound of it, it made him feel even less like he belonged than he already had.
"I didn't even start until I was twenty-two, but by that point I was able to enter competitions and stuff without parental consent."
Yup.
Condescension.
"Are you bothering John, Jenn?" Cue the voice sharper than a sword's blade, as the man it belonged to entered the room.
"Are you going to put away those towels, John?" He continued, walking over to the counter John had just cleaned of all fresh colour stains. Suppressing the urge to groan outwardly and tell him to be neater with the gels, John backed away to give the taller man more room.
"Y-yes, I was just going to do that, but the far sink was being used." John said in his quiet voice, his brain trying to override his speech function by telling him to look at Sherlock's shapely rear.
"It's free now, you can put them away once you're done here. And Jenn, be nice, this one actually cleans."
With that he left. As abruptly as he showed up. John was left feeling hot and bothered, thanking whatever deity he could think of that his pants were looser than the ones he normally wore. His erection wasn't impeding, but it was certainly uncomfortable. He felt suddenly self conscious, choosing the safest way to avoid being caught in this situation, he went to the sink to wash the leftover dishes, turning away from both the open door and the staff counter where Jenn sat with a proud smile on her face. She was really starting to annoy John, she looked like a child teasing their friend in primary school. He could practically hear the 'I know your secret'.
Once his body calmed down and he was in control again, John put away the now clean bowls, and scooped up the neat pile of navy blue towels to fold them away in their shelves.
He could sense the unspoken words left in the room when he departed, he was starting to like his coworkers less by the minute. it was only day two though, and he hadn't had enough time to talk to Sherlock alone, yet. He wasn't on equal terms with his boss yet. He figured it would take a couple weeks of diligent work and cleaning proficiently for his boss to give him one-on-one time to discuss more personal things.
John had relayed different scenarios in his head, possible conversations reeling around inside of his head, both unrealistic and plausible at the same time. Some were so unrealistic, they would make teenage novelists shake their heads in embarrassment.
The end of the day came by at a snail's pace. Never had five hours seemed so drawn out before. By seven o'clock, John was ready to just sit on the couch in the lobby, curl up with a magazine and sleep. Afternoon shift was so boring, the salon had cleared out fairly fast, by five the only stylists left were Sherlock, Jenn, and a chubby punk rocker stylist named Angie.
She was nice enough, he thought. They had talked for some time in the back room as he refilled the colour boxes that were stacked on the very top shelf. She told him all about some of her work, and, coincidentally, gone to the same hair school he had gone to. She was only four years older than he was, so he didn't feel so out of place. When he asked her why Sherlock hired someone so young, she seemed flattered, not interested, but that seemed to get the shy blonde into her good books.
John didn't feel so out of place at that moment. He was friendly, his coworker seemed to like him enough to joke with him, and his brain didn't revolve around Sherlock and his-albeit gorgeous-untouchable arse.
Now, however, the sky was dark outside, the huge windows displaying only the streetlights and shadows from passerby's. No definitive shape or outline of an object, just a misshapen shadow across the light tiles of the salon.
Jenn had just left the salon as her clients were all finished for the day, and that left Angie, who was washing up her last client of the day, Sherlock, who had two on the go with back to back colour and highlights, and Jamie, who was sitting at the front, tapping away at some unknown document. More then likely she was really on Facebook or some fool thing, since her job meant she just sat behind the desk all day to answer phones and work schedules. She didn't talk to John much today, she was rather busy trying to revise Sherlock's weekend bookings and an appearance at a conference in Vancouver for Sunday.
John had finished all of his daily tasks, he even did some of them twice just to alleviate the boredom. He wouldn't have minded doing the tasks so much if Sherlock bothered to mention it. Or if he got paid. Money was a huge incentive to do work, and being the sole salon janitor was too big of a job to be done for free, work experience or not. He felt like rioting, on his second day. 'Yeah, that's a wonderful way to make friends, by complaining about having the damn job in the first place.'
"You don't have to stay until we close, you know." Jamie noticed the way John sulked through the lobby, looking wistfully at the deep pillowed couch that wrapped around the entire space. John looked up sharpy. Busted.
"If I don't stay now, I'll have more days to show up, right? Just getting it over and done with. Besides, this place needs all the cleaning help it can get." He laughed, glad to be able to joke about certain things. It was astounding how much really did need to be cleaned in a salon the size of a small apartment.
Jamie looked at him skeptically, possibly questioning his motives for wanting to work so late into the night, he was very enthusiastic about it.
"I just don't want you to over tire yourself so you end up hate working here. It's only your second day, you don't have to prove anything to us, just show up. Heck, you're the first person since this place opened that actually tried to get the stains off the counter. You have done more cleaning in two days than any of our other work experience people combined in their entire times." Jamie noticed him eyeing the couch in lustful disdain, he needed rest, work on top of school and the prospect of having to do homework still before the promise of dinner and bed was too much for the boy. One day was alright to see how it would work, but maybe if he left at six it would be easier.
"Well, I could stay until six on weekdays if I have homework." John looked exhausted, he deserved to, he single handed dusted the many crystal chandeliers, candle holders, and vases in the entire salon. Even Jamie, who started working here the same time Sherlock had, had never seen the place look cleaner since the first time it opened. John was very disappointed though; he went through all this work, and Sherlock still hadn't said anything to him. He was starting to feel like a brat-well of course! He doesn't appreciate me, and neither does anyone else except from Jamie, but she doesn't count. He thought in the same grumpy tone a child would give their mother when told to wash up.
He glanced at his watch again. 7:12pm. He let out a sigh. 'Oh well' he thought, 'The floors could use another scrubbing.'
"John, do you want a ride home?" Sherlock asked him, making John jump slightly. It was the first thing the stylist had said to him in over three hours, and the only personal comment made all day to him. John shook his head, trying to meet the older man's gaze.
"No thank you, I have my own car." He smiled back, things were just wrapping up, within minutes they would be separated again, John made a desperate attempt to save any sort of conversation he could.
"But thanks for the offer, but besides, I live across town." He mentally pinched himself several harsh times for pulling such a stupid line, he knew better, it was just the first thing he thought of. The apprentice thought Sherlock could smell his desperate plea for communication, which, in reality, wasn't too far off from the truth. Sherlock, however, couldn't resist indulging the boy.
"Where do you live?" Smirking behind his deadpan expression, this was too easy.
"By the lake, small townhouse really, but it's a fairly far way." John's heart skipped several beats, he was having a true, honest to goodness conversation with Sherlock alone. Finally!
"I'm not familiar with this town too much, I just work here when I'm not doing competitions in Vancouver, and even that's too small for my taste." The older man allowed himself to smile, his accent thick and laced with a touch of sadness. Mourning? Did he miss where he had come from? Or was it normal for people to miss somewhere they've chosen to leave?
"Vancouver's small to you? Then you'd hate where I grew up, there were less then one hundred residents and I only met the neighbours twice." John laughed, struggling to find even ground with his boss. He craved this bonding session, needed it, needed to feel like he was more than a child in high school.
"I was born and raised in the heart of London, that's where I built my career, but, let's just say life strikes you with a blunt object and the next thing you know...well, I was pretty much excommunicated from my family and friends, and my entire career went down the loo. This is pretty much directly across the world from where I come from, and I wanted to go as far as possible." Sherlock didn't reveal any truly personal blows, but enough to make John feel absolutely horrible from just listening to the brief retelling. He was immediately ashamed of asking, so he said the first thing that came to mind.
"I'm...sorry to hear that." Stupid, stupid, are you serious? That's what you came up with? What's wrong with-
"Thanks kiddo. It's kind of nice though, not having to worry about all that paperwork and patents and licensing and all that stuff. It's a much slower pace here then what I'd like, but it's comfortable, I like to keep myself busy." Sherlock patted John's shoulder, his fingers lingering slightly longer then was absolutely necessary.
"I don't know how you manage it." John joked, his voice going softer than normal, he looked up at his boss, the twenty seven year old man with more red in his ledger than any other person John knew. The man that had a world renown reputation working in a small salon in rural North Western Canada, the man who escaped public hatred and eyes by running away and hiding. So many secrets lay behind those tired, lonely eyes, and John wanted to discover every single one of them.
"Having someone who listens helps." Sherlock's eyes were two obsidian orbs in the middle of a milky expanse of skin, all within reaching distance of John's face. If he would just lean in closer...he could already smell the unique cologne smell that was so strangely singular to Sherlock. John wanted to breathe it in forever, he wanted to be contaminated with the smell, it felt so comforting, like being home.
Without warning, Sherlock whipped around, snagging his heavy navy coat from the rack, opening the big glass entrance door and holding it open for John.
"Coming?" His deep voice faded by the time it reached John's ears. trying to gather his composition, John raced out the door, he had already been ready to leave for nearly half an hour now, just waiting to be let go, but he didn't want to go until Sherlock had spoken to him, and he couldn't imagine that their conversation would have turned out to be so intimate.
It was still snowing when he left, I was February, it had been snowing since early November and wouldn't stop until mid April, so he wasn't surprised to find when he left the salon that he instantly felt the accumulated heat leave his body. He couldn't wait to get home.
Unfortunately, his car had other plans.
"Come on you piece of shit, start!" He cried, uselessly kicking the floor of the fourteen year old car he owned. He was close to breaking down himself, he had tried multiple times to get his car to run, failing every time as the engine stalled and died. Sherlock, who had parked three stalls down, had been listening for John to leave, not knowing whether or not the kid's car would survive the drive home. Smiling to himself, he got out of his six month old model car and strode towards the frustrated teenager looking on the verge of breaking down, having just been through such a long, tiresome day.
"You okay?" He said, tapping on the glass window, startling John slightly. After he rolled down the window, Sherlock stuck his head inside the vehicle- it was absolutely freezing!
"What's wrong with it?" The older man asked, noticing the tears threatening to fall from John's light hazel eyes. John looked up at him with the same expression as a lost puppy dog, yearning for someone to love him.
"I don't know, I just...I don't know, and I can't get home, but I'm tired and cold and, and...now this piece of crap won't even work for me." He suffocated the urge to cry, for a completely pathetic reason, he just felt like breaking down. He hadn't eaten in over twelve hours, and with all the work he had just done, he was grumpy, tired, hungry and remembering all that homework he hadn't done during the day and still had to finish before tomorrow. Sherlock took pity on the poor boy, who had probably lived a rather lavish life up until now, forced to work, forced to gain time management skills, and here he was after a true days of hard work, on the edge of a cliff, looking down, not knowing what to do next.
"Look, my car's fine, I can give you a ride home tonight, and you can come tomorrow after work to pick it up if it decides to work then." Sherlock reached his hand inside the car and manually unlocked the door, opening it to extend his hand even further in a comforting gesture. John looked up at his boss, he felt accepted by him, like he really did care. A simple gesture exaggerated tenfold because of his feelings. He took the keys out of the ignition and pressed down the lock buttons for both doors, he really wanted to get out of the cold anyway. Following Sherlock to his car, he felt his stomach drop slightly. There he was getting out of a beat up piece of crap car that was older then all heck; getting into a brand new BMW X6 M. That car cost more than he was worth.
"Wow..." He choked out, in awe at how casually Sherlock just opened the door and slid right into the car, whilst John himself couldn't bring himself to touch to handle.
"You aren't going to ruin it by opening the door, you know." He said with a laugh, John felt the blush creep heavily across his cheeks, he felt slightly embarrassed for being so timid with the car, he was aware he wasn't going to break it, it just felt so weird to be sitting in such an expensive vehicle. Sitting back in the seat- heated seat, it should be mentioned, he smelled the inside. It smelled faintly like aftershave tinged with thick musk. It wasn't strangling either, just, comfortable.
"Do you normally drive this kind of car?" He asked, still in awe. It was exquisitely maintained, regularly vacuumed, and the dials all looked pristine. He shrunk down in the leather interior, not sure whether from the fact that he could feel the ice melt off his body, or whether he felt utterly inferior next to this obvious mogul. Sherlock smirked lightly, tilting his head to check the gauge on the dashboard, his long eloquent neck stretched out, his muscles on display. John swallowed to avoid feeling turned on, but it didn't help at all.
"My brother pays me handsomely to stay unattached to him. He practically has the British Government on their knees at his beck and call night and day, and he figures my failure and past issues tarnish HIS reputation, so him and Mummy make sure I'm always comfortable so long as I leave them alone." He started the car with no issues, backing out of the stall expertly. 'Ah.' John thought. 'So that's how he can afford this.' He had been nearly certain that someone couldn't even afford a tire like this trying to make money as a hair dresser in such a remote area. Even with winning big name competitions six times a year, considering the winnings just barely covered entrance fees, colour costs, model costs, the works. You never realized how much you truly spent doing something until you look at your winnings and say: "Hey, I thought I was supposed to GET money."
"So you can't go back to England?" John asked, hoping he wasn't being too personal, he had forgotten that he didn't tell Sherlock where he lived, he was waiting to be asked.
"I can, I can do whatever I wish. It's easier to avoid scandal if I don't return though. I...messed up pretty bad. Besides, it isn't all bad here. I can still compete, do hair and keep relatively entertained, so I can't complain." Sherlock forced a smile, John could tell it was hiding some dark secrets behind that clenched jawline. John felt immediately sorry he had said anything at all.
"So, where do you live?" Sherlock asked, blowing away any sign that he had been hurt; leaving John no excuse to ask him any more questions about his past, only to linger on what had already been said.
When Sherlock pulled up to John's front yard, John hurriedly thanked him for the ride. They had nearly gone into a ditch near the top of the mountain, the damned snow made it impossible to mark off where any boundaries were. Sherlock had remarked more than once that John lived quite a long distance away from the centre of town. Although in such a remote town; the centre was just a casual term. How Sherlock managed to stay in business, John never knew. People had to drive quite a long distance to see him, although he had peeked at his schedule, and the man was booked all the way through until April. It was more than astounding.
When John sat there without getting out of the car, Sherlock leaned over to him, not so close so he could feel him, but close enough to make him question the reason. Not that John complained, but he wasn't quite sure of what he wanted, if he wanted this to happen, or if he wanted their relationship to remain professional.
"I hope you don't take my intentions the wrong way, John." Sherlock reached out, almost hesitantly, for John's hand, bringing it to his face and pressing a chaste kiss to the younger boy's knuckles. He even managed to make a kiss on the hand an elegant, soulful gesture of passion and grace. John felt his brain spinning, Sherlock's lips were so smooth, so gentle and light. Blinking rapidly, the blonde grinned lopsidedly, not knowing what to say or do. Sherlock sensed that John was confused, and let go of his hand. Although he did not feel rejected or upset; he didn't know how to continue without scaring the kid off. He was just in high school after all. Hell, there was over a decade older than he was! That kind of thing might have been mainstream in the Renaissance ages, but this day and age Sherlock could get in serious trouble if John decided to rat him out.
"I... umm ...Sherlock, thank you for driving me home. I really appreciate it." John muttered, his voice small again as he faced Sherlock, faced the curving outlines of his face and pale, marble-esque skin.
"Yes, no worries. I'll see you tomorrow." Sherlock said, itching so desperately to feel more of his apprentice, but he knew that this was utterly morally and ethically wrong in all aspects, and he couldn't allow it to continue, but he feared that John had already been attracted to him, and he wasn't sure how to continue this odd dance. John opened to door, stepping out into the crisp, sub-zero temperatures of the outside world. Waving through the window, he turned around and walked up the path to his house. Sherlock watched him go inside to make sure he was safe, then drove off without another word, shaking his head at himself.
'Sherlock, he's just a kid, what the heck are you thinking?' He thought to himself, when he started to laugh in his deep throaty fashion, hearing his brother's voice echo in his head. He always found a way to mess things up, without a doubt, things would go awry.
He just didn't see a way to get out of this without hurting John in the process.
A/N: Yes, I know, this was an incredibly long chapter!
It should be noted, as I am writing this in Canada, where the age of consent is 14 in the province I live in; in the rest of Canada it's 16. Anyway, so John is legal, and this is not paedophilia or underage sex, because where I write this, it isn't. Just to clear up any confusion.
To answer some questions, this is a 100% real salon in Abbotsford, British Columbia (Salon Picasso). I worked there for just over two years, look it up. It's really nice, and the owner reminded me so much of Sherlock, only, I wasn't attracted her at in any shape or form, and we did NOT engage in such acts! Her personality was just akin to his.
To answer another popular question, John is 17, nearly 18. He is in high school. Where I went to school, we had the option of skipping a year of academics and doing trades programs (Auto, electrical, culinary, hair design.) and I did hair design, so 95% of what's going on has gone on and could go on.
Next chapter will be posted on the weekend, hopefully.