Hello everyone! So, thanks to the kindness of Charlie300895, I discovered that in England mid-term is actually called half-term (who knew?) and thusly it has been changed to half-term from here on out. Thanks for reading, everyone! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters.

Chapter Eleven

And so half-term break began. It was a glorious week, a week during which John found himself swept up in the blazing, wonderful happiness of having an actual relationship. The days dawned cold but sunny, lending Newcastle's campus a colorful beauty that it had previously lacked.

Of course John had certain reservations about engaging in a relationship with Sherlock. Of course he did—how could he not? How could he not lay in bed at night and wonder what on earth had urged him to kiss Sherlock back the first time? To say 'yes' to going out together? What insane idea had told him to reveal himself as gay in a place like Newcastle?

"We can't tell anyone," John said seriously one brisk afternoon as he and Sherlock walked across the windy football field. "It would be suicide."

"Of course not," Sherlock kept his pale eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "We won't tell anyone. No one will know." Then, as if an afterthought, "You're afraid of them, aren't you? The other students?"

"No!" John said, a little too quickly. He coughed, covering up. "I'm not scared. It's just that—they'd kill us, Sherlock, if they found out. Kill us."

Sherlock did not respond. He appeared at once stony-faced and saddened. John felt guilty: it was cruel to talk about their relationship like it was some sort of political scandal. But in all truth, being gay at Newcastle was a social crime. It just wasn't done. In the whole of his Newcastle education, John couldn't recall hearing about a single gay student. There had been a few unfortunates who had been accused of leading such a lifestyle, of course: an older boy who liked theater and art more than sports; a girl who wore her hair cut boyishly short and never had a boyfriend. Horribly stereotyped, of course, and they most likely hadn't really been gay at all. But John had never paid much mind—he'd been young, young and afraid of being outed himself. After all, students who led "alternative lifestyles" (the not-so-delicate wording of a few fellow students) were not welcome at Newcastle.

But being with Sherlock—just being around him—it was unlike any friendship that John had ever experienced. The ice-cold, impersonal boy disappeared when he and Sherlock were alone together; Sherlock became someone else entirely. He was warm and kind and a really good person. John couldn't fight off the stupid giddy feeling that he got whenever he saw Sherlock's face. It was childish, really, but unstoppable.

It was, John thought that Tuesday afternoon, as if being around Sherlock made the strong-but-silent football captain disappear, and made a far more outgoing boy take his place.

He and Sherlock began to enjoy their break in full. Days were spent fooling around the campus, or walking Lerwick's sunny streets. Sometimes, when they were alone, John would find himself caught up in a whirlwind of happiness. He would seize Sherlock's arm, or his coat, and kiss him. And kissing Sherlock felt right, right in a way that very little else did.

...

"So many stars," John breathed, sprawled on Newcastle's sloped shingle roof. "So many."

He and Sherlock had discovered a remote stairway in the back of the school that led up to the building's roof—obviously intended for repairmen—and had availed themselves to this unique feature. Sherlock folded one arm beneath his head, his other hand wrapped around John's.

"Billions," He said softly. John's warmth beside him was comforting. So was the fact that while Sherlock had failed at maintaining personal relationships for the past sixteen years, he had now succeeded. He and John often stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, talking aimlessly. Sherlock had discovered much about John's hometown—London, like Sherlock, but a very different part of London—but had found out very little about John's past and home life. The other boy had a sister, Sherlock knew, with whom he often argued. She was in Europe now, apparently. His mother had worked as a dental assistant, his father as a construction worker. But John rarely elaborated, and Sherlock guessed that there was trouble beneath those calm, bright blue eyes. He could have easily deduced everything about John, but somehow Sherlock felt that doing so would be morally wrong.

Still, he couldn't help but notice small details, like the fact that John's mobile phone had been a gift from his sister (an apology gift, at that), and that he never answered his father's infrequent calls.

"I wish that we could spend the entire year like this," John said, sounding wistful.

"We'd never learn anything," Sherlock said, almost automatically. He couldn't imagine a world without education. Then he pictured spending an entire school year with John: walking through the woods, laying on the damp football field watching clouds drift in the sky, staying up until three o'clock in the morning, theirs the only light burning in the dormitories. There would be no cruel, homophobic footballers to taunt them, no Anderson to make snide remarks about Sherlock, no Sally Donovan smirking every time she passed him in the halls. Just Sherlock and John.

"Me too," Sherlock added. He wound his fingers through John's, still surprised by the spark that the other boy's touch gave him. Sixteen years old, and he had never felt anything like this before.

...

They returned to the dormitory at midnight. It had grown very cold by then, and a thin scrim of frost dimmed the windows. While John put on another jacket and huddled by the room's old metal radiator, Sherlock took out his violin and played a jig.

He was very good, good enough to compose his own music. Sherlock played third chair in the school's orchestra; John was sure that he could have been first chair, but Sherlock had the bad habit of avoiding rehearsal. Music was, to John, a language that was all but foreign. He understood and liked it, but open one of Sherlock's music packets, and he was lost. To hear the other boy talk about tremolos and bow lifts and preludes was like hearing someone speak Latin (which, incidentally, Sherlock was also quite good at). John had once failed to understand how someone could enjoy something so complex so very much, but he now understood. Music was to Sherlock as football was to John.

When Sherlock was done playing, John applauded, and Sherlock pretended not to be pleased with himself, and they sat up on the gray carpet, talking, until the sun crested the distant hilltops and the sky paled.

...

"You've got beautiful eyes," Sherlock said, and then nearly blushed. He raked his fingers through John's messy blond hair, trying to keep a cold smirk on his face. He felt like a giggly schoolgirl, saying things like that, but it was true and they were alone, and Sherlock couldn't not say it.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John's cheeks reddened (adorably, Sherlock thought) and he shut Sherlock up with a hasty kiss. They were walking away from Newcastle, on a remote area of road. Sherlock was confident that nobody would see them here (he was also confident that if someone did see them, they'd be good as dead). Friday, mid-morning, with half-term nearly over. Sherlock was eager to enjoy the rest of their short break, because come Monday, Newcastle's halls would be full of students who, quite frankly, didn't like him and therefore would despise the idea of him and John together.

Not that anyone would know, of course. They would not know. It was a pity, Sherlock thought, that they had to hide their relationship; but after all, what was the fun of having a relationship if there wasn't the threat of being found out and expelled from school?

They took the long route into Lerwick, and traversed the entire town by foot. Along the way, Sherlock saw a familiar face: the handsome, rough-looking boy with cold eyes that Sherlock had previously seen stealing from Bert's grocery shop. He was walking into a shabby, sagging row-house now, a sad building with peeling paint and dirty windows. Weeds grew high in the front yard. He shot Sherlock and John a narrow-eyed, suspicious glare as they passed. John returned this with a vague smile. Sherlock stared up at the cloudless sky, wishing that school would not start again.

...

Sunday night was cold. So were John's spirits. While he was looking forward to the start of school again, to seeing his friends again and going to football practice and enjoying being team captain, John was also dreading school.

There would be no more wandering about with Sherlock, certainly no more kissing unless they were utterly alone. There would also be the daily torture of listening to Lawrence's homophobic remarks, to the other boys' cutting comments about people who might be gay.

He and Sherlock spent the night wandering the campus, enjoying the last of their freedom. The sun set, and the stars blinked overhead. They cut across the football field and went into the woods. There was grass underfoot, and a blanket of dead, brown leaves. John leaned close to Sherlock, glad of the other boy's warmth.

Sherlock spouted off an obscure botanical fact, something that John wouldn't know in a million years. John seized Sherlock's hand tightly, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. He felt light and dizzy with happiness, almost lovestruck in the way that romance movies described the feeling.

Sherlock, looking as severe as ever in his dark coat with the high collar, turned to John.

"Are you happy, John?"

And in reply, John kissed him. They walked on through the dim woods, back towards the lights of Newcastle. And John thought that this was the happiest that he had ever been.