The sun slowly peaked over the horizon, waking up the birds. Cars rushed to get people to their jobs, the whoosh and squeals of the tires on the road woke John up, who got a whole of three hours' sleep lying in the ditch. He sat up, squinting against the bright rays and yawned.
John was relaxed until the flood of yesterday washed over him. Instantly his heart started racing and the bags under his eyes deepened further. Exhausted, sorrowful, regretful, worried, dreariness, and an overall dislike for life tormented John along his walk back to school. Honestly John didn't want to go at all, he wished he had taken the pill back from Sherlock, he wished he never lied and he wished, for once in his life that something good he had would last.
Only after he tripped over a lump of grass did John notice how heavy his backpack felt. John pushed himself up and seriously thought about ditching and just going to jump in a lake or something, but eventually decided to sit through the day and try not to think about him.
John walked into the school with his head down and headed straight to calculus. He sat in the seat beside Sherlock's, wondering how the other would react. He was answered when the boy in question walked in the classroom and immediately went to the back of the class to sit in the corner.
John's heart dropped, Sherlock's eyes were sunken and tinged red. His hair was loose and uncombed, his clothes rumpled and creased. He did not look at John. He did not talk or lift his head up.
John was deflated, and stayed silent himself for the remainder of the class.
Science was a similar affair, Sherlock avoided John and John didn't protest. Mr. T sent worrying glances his way on multiple occasions but John refused to make eye contact. At the end of class Mr. T called John but he had already run out of the classroom.
John ignored most of English, and found himself sitting in a corner of the library with his head in his hands at lunchtime. To put it bluntly, he was alone and frightened and flat.
…
Sherlock wanted John back. He knew John was in the library, curled up in a ball. He wanted nothing other than to run to him and wrap him in his arms and tell him it's alright, he doesn't have to cry. But John lied to him. Why would John lie if there's nothing to worry about. Did Sherlock do something wrong? He gave him a bed, and food, and a more-than-friend, why would John do that? What if John didn't do anything wrong though, what if he just didn't want you to know for his own reasons? But he still lied!
Sherlock was at war with himself, but his broken heart and logical reasoning told him that he wasn't good enough for John. And with Molly gone he was truly alone. Sherlock decided he didn't want to go to fifth period, and instead called his mom on his phone and told her he wanted to go home. She didn't argue.
Sherlock looked out the window of the passenger side and watched the rain drip down the glass.
…
John didn't feel like playing football after school on the muddy turf in the pouring rain but he does it anyway. Maybe it will distract him or some therapy crap like that. Derek seemed to pick up that something happened when Sherlock doesn't show up to the game.
Sherlock always comes to the games, no matter the weather or temperature. He may multitask by working on homework or something but he's always there. And this is the last game, which determines whether their team will move on to the playoffs. And Sherlock's not here.
Derek walked up to John, holding his helmet under his shoulder. "Hey buddy, you alright?" He said and lightly punched John's shoulder.
"Yeah, fine," John sniffed and slid his helmet on to cover up his dreadful expression. Derek tried to cheer him up a bit.
"Well, if you wanna talk, I'm here. Anyway we gotta game to win! C'mon, we need you at your best." Derek put on his own helmet knocked it together with John's. He jogged away to join the team huddle, John sighed and slowly followed. The rain washed him of his sorrow and strengthened him. The thrill of the game distracted John and he played football like he's never played before. He played with a new determination and passion, which the fans could only cheer on.
The final score was 49-8 for London's 5th. The team all clapped John on the back, and pushed him around. John laughed and shoved back playfully, knocking helmets and high fiving one another.
But as soon as John took off his helmet his dread returned. The thought of sleeping on a wet bench or damp concrete put a damper on his mood. John didn't want to spend the night thinking about his mistakes or regrets, so he changed, stuffed his backpack in his locker and walked into the city.
"Hey, Angelo?" John walked into his boss's office.
"John? It's ten o'clock? Whatcha doing here? What's wrong?" Angelo stiffened at the sight of John.
"Um, do you have a couch I could spend the night on or something? Uh, Sherlock and I are in a bit of an argument." John responded, quietly. John was a teenager of pride, and being resorted to asking his boss didn't appeal to him.
Angelo seemed… happy? He smiled and gestured to the door leading somewhere John did not know, out of his office. "Of course, anything for you. There's a couch in there, help yourself to a meal on the house, you look like you haven't eaten in days! Have a good night," Angelo nodded to dismiss him.
John had, in fact, not eaten in at least a day, but he only realized now when it had been brought to his attention. "Thank you, so much, I really appreciate it." John awkwardly nodded back and backed into the kitchen to grab a bite.
Alonso, the head chef, gladly gave him a serving of pasta in a takeout container after John had explained the situation. John appreciated that Alonso had not asked any questions, and trusted John's word. John avoided eye contact with Angelo as he was crossing the office to get to the door. Angelo seemed invested in his computer at the moment, clicking away at the keyboard. John peeked at the screen before slinking into the unknown room. It seemed he was writing an email to someone, but he couldn't make out who.
John rubbed his eyes and surveyed the room, there was, as Angelo said, a plush red couch along one wall. It was a fairly small space, but still like 5 times the size of his space. There was a sink, a trash can, and a rug. Simple, but more than John could have asked for. Although the walls were painted a dark brown, and the floor was stone, the room was cozy and John quickly ate, washed his hands and fell asleep.
