"Dad?"
He looked up from his computer. His father's eyes (which might as well have been a wrinkled reflection of John's) peered up at him. "Yeah?"
"Listen, I know I'm supposed to babysit Harry tonight, but Sherlock has these two concert tickets and…"
"John," he began. "You know you have a responsibility to your family while I'm at work."
"I know, I know. But this is our favorite band, Dad, and Sherlock surprised me with the tickets. But I can hire a babysitter and I swear we'll pay for every penny. It'll only be a little while, I swear. Three hours tops."
Mr. Watson eyed him for a long while. Finally, he said. "Alright, but only this once."
John exhaled, relieved beyond words. "Thank you," he managed. "Also, is it okay if Sherlock crashes here after?"
His father's eyebrows rose a bit. "Another overnighter, John? Don't you two, I don't know, get a little tired of one another?"
"Not really," John answered, shrugging despite his slight confusion.
"You've been spending an awful lot of time together since we've moved here. Just him. You use to make lots of friends, John, and lots of them were pretty girls too. What ever happened to that?"
John stood there, still as a statue in the doorway. It was true that he usually made friends quite easily, but that always varied depending on the school he'd transferred to and the amount of interest he was able to generate there. But hadn't they always been short-lived friendships? Hadn't they all revolved around baseball teams or silly teen movies? None of his "buds" had bothered to keep in touch once it came time to pack-up again, he knew. None of those "pretty girls" had held any special place in his heart either.
But Sherlock, of all people, proved to be the exception, hadn't he? He'd promise John that their friendship wouldn't fizzle into nothingness; he'd even planned out a common future.
But he couldn't tell his Dad that, that this boy he'd barely known for a few months had quickly become his closet companion, that they were each other's exceptions. So instead he just stood there, tugging awkwardly on the sleeves of his jumper. "He's my best friend, Dad."
"I had best friends growing up too. That doesn't mean we spent every goddam minute together."
"Do you dislike Sherlock?"
Mr. Watson exhaled and looked down at his computer screen for a long moment before meeting John's eyes again, the apprehension in both their gaze mirrored by one another.
"I just think he seems a little possessive over you and you don't seem to mind."
"So?"
"So it's not right," he said, his voice finally betraying him and raising in frustration. "It's not right for two boys to only want to see one another all the time."
"Dad!" said John, finally understanding. "I'm not gay!"
"Now, I did not say that."
"You might as well have," replied John. He had begun pacing the room with his palms pressed against his temples. "Sherlock's my friend and we just want to see a concert, okay?"
"Okay," he said. "Okay, be safe."
John nodded and walked numbly out the room.
…..
She arrived promptly at nine thirty. She wasn't wearing gray this time, only a blue San Dimas Varsity Volleyball sweatshirt. It hid her figure, which didn't matter, because John found most of her beauty to be in her round, dark eyes.
See Dad, he thought, I still notice girls.
He looked over at Sherlock. Now that his mind was on the subject, Sherlock's eyes couldn't be more opposite. The crystal blue surface looked like the clear water of a swimming pool that had been lit at night with a greenish glow. Not like I care, he added as an afterthought. Then he pried his attention away.
"Elena? Nice to meet you," said Sherlock, smiling. It was so believable; Sherlock could have a very successful career as an actor. "Wait a… Don't I know you?"
She eyed him. "I think we met at a party," she said almost instantly. Figures no one could forget Sherlock.
"Ah, yes! A few days ago!"
"Small world," said John.
"How are you? How are things at your school?" asked Sherlock, crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorway.
Her face dropped just slightly. "I'm okay but the school is crazy. Everyone's always cautious of each other. For good reason though, right? I mean, somebody had to do it."
"Man," said Sherlock, "Sounds horrible. Any suspicions in particular?"
Her gaze fell to the floor, her blonde hair hiding her eyes. "No clue," she said.
Sherlock nodded. "Well, I sure hope everything works out—"
Sherlock was midsentence when a small figure interrupted him. "She's here? Why didn't you tell me she's here, Jawn?"
She ran to Elena, smiled up at her. "My name is Harry."
"Hello there, Harry," she replied.
"Do you like Disney movies?" she asked. Soon later, Elena was being beckoned toward Harry's movie collection and Sherlock and John were heading out the door.
The night was warm, buzzing. For a moment, John imagined that he and Sherlock actually were normal teenagers, they were really heading out to an awesome concert, hoping maybe to get some girls' numbers or sneak backstage. But no. They would never be classified as normal, so instead John turned to Sherlock. "What now?"
Sherlock grinned. He pulled a pink, zebra print wallet from his back pocket. "How inconvenient that Elena left her wallet at your place. Guess we'll just have to pay her a visit to drop it off tomorrow."
"You really need to stop stealing," said John, but he was laughing regardless. "So you think her ex-boyfriend did it? That's why they broke up and her face totally fell when you asked about suspects?"
"Absolutely. The bottom of her jeans had mud stains because she took the long route here, through the hiking trail. She's avoiding his house, avoiding him."
"Brilliant," John said.
Sherlock beamed. "But now we have two hours to kill."
"No mysteries to solve?"
"No, unfortunately. I'm bored already." He exhaled. "Well we're doing this because I like to do. I guess it's your turn. What is it that average minds like yours enjoy?"
John squinted. "Careful, you got close to actually being not-an-asshole for a moment. We can go back to your house?"
"I hate my house."
"Okay…" he looked around at the dimly lit streets. "The batting cages are still open."
…..
John snuck back into his room, grabbed his favorite baseball bat and a helmet. He handed them noiselessly out the window. When he took one glance at Sherlock, clad in his button-up purple shirt with the cuffs, he realized that that would never do. He tossed him an old P.E. Shirt.
"What's this for?" he asked.
"It's so your buttons don't burst," John replied. He meant it as an analogy, but mostly all metaphorical concepts go over Sherlock's head. He just stared with a pout.
John ignored him and eased out the room. As they headed back toward the front yard, they passed by the window of Harry's room. Sherlock raised one slender finger up to his lips and gestured that they peek inside.
Harry, in her purple pj's and unmatching socks, was pushing a DVD into the DVD player. Elena was sitting on a beanbag, her eyes on Harry but her thoughts undoubtedly elsewhere. Her lips were curled in, and her filed fingernails tapped aimlessly against her knee in a quick and random pattern.
Sherlock nodded and darted to the front.
The batting cages were entirely clear, considering the season had come to an end and the sun had already set. John began the machine, chancing a look over at Sherlock. He was unbuttoning each little, black button of his slick purple shirt—pale chest exposed between curtains of deep violet.
"I—uh, have you ever done this before?" asked John.
"You mean hit a baseball? Yes, a few times in rather unpleasant P.E. classes."
"I meant use a batting cage," John confirmed.
"Oh," he dropped his shirt to the cement, pulled John's T-shirt over his head. With his arms outstretched, John could see the faint trail of hair traveling down toward his waistband. Then all was covered by grey fabric. "Hmm, this actually fits. But no, I've never occupied time in here before. Why don't you go first?"
John shrugged. He slipped on his helmet and gripped the worn end of his bat. He was extremely conscious of Sherlock's gaze, knowing he'd analyze and imitate each little quirk.
The first ball came shooting out of the machine. John bit his lip, swung. He made contact with a soft click and the ball went soaring toward the other side of the cage.
"Very impre—" Sherlock began, and John caught him stepping forward out of the corner of his eye.
"Stay there!" He barked. The next ball came whizzing forward, narrowly missing Sherlock. John tapped it only barely do to the distraction. "You idiot," he laughed.
Sherlock stepped back, observed.
John made a series of impressive hits and a couple stinkers. When his time was up, he removed his helmet and shook the tenseness from his arms and shoulders. "You ready?"
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.
John sat back against the fence to watch. Sherlock mimicked his stance relatively well, though his rear stuck out just a bit beyond regulation. The helmet smashed his curls against his forehead and he stared forward, his grip tense.
It was so utterly un-Sherlock that John could barely suppress a giggle.
Then the ball launched out. He swung what might have been a decent swing if it hadn't been ridiculously late. His face looked insulted, but not for long. The next ball came. Another swing, another miss. And so it went in.
"John," he said, dropping the bat at the end of his round. "This thing is broken."
"What?" John said, finally allowing himself a fit of laughter.
"It is! It's accelerating! It was much slower for you!"
More laughing. "It feels quicker than it looks. You just don't have any experience. Here, try again."
The second round looked a lot like the first except, on the very last ball, Sherlock managed to make contact. It echoed through the cage and hit the net with relative power behind it.
Sherlock removed his helmet with a satisfied smirk. "There. I've mastered it. Can we quit this now?"
John pulled himself up and rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say."
They had another forty minutes to go, so Sherlock and John settled on a bench in the park. It was night and the dragonflies played tag beneath the beam of the streetlights. Sherlock was visibly tired—his eyes drowsy and his limbs slumped. He so rarely looked like that, so strained.
Eventually, his head found its way onto John's shoulder. John stared outward, wondering what his dad would think.
Silently, Sherlock's hand crept up the John's leg and his fingers started tapping rhythmically against his knee.
Suddenly it was all too much—the nuzzling, the poem, and the ways his eyes lingered on Sherlock's bare chest. It was enough because it was all wrong, not because John was some homophobe bigot, but because it was simple not him. Not the John Watson he'd been for 17 years of life.
Rather roughly, he shrugged Sherlock off. "Must you always lay all over me?"
Sherlock backed away, and John detected a small crease appear between his brows. "I didn't realize it was bothersome."
"It's just… I don't know, and the tapping? It gets on my nerves." He stared across the park awkwardly.
"The tapping served a purpose, if you'd only notice," he said. He made the tapping pattern again, this time against his own leg. "They're piano keys. Elena was practicing her piano keys when we looked in on her through the window. A G…"
"Since when do you play the piano?"
"Since age nine. Then I gave it up because it was far too simple and began with the violin instead." John watched as Sherlock typed into his phone. "Hmm."
"What? What is it?"
"The song she was practicing," said Sherlock. "It was Hush Little Baby."