"You seem rather cheerful tonight," Molly remarked.

Sherlock hadn't realized he was painting the backdrop with such mirth.

"Have special plans?" she went on.

Sherlock rolled his eye, but allowed himself to indulge in the conversation. "I do, in fact. I'm seeing my friend Hamish after this."

"Oh," said Molly, smiling confusedly. "Old friend? Has it been a while since you've seen him?"

"We've been 'friends' for all of four days. I've had the privilege of seeing him each night since we met."

"Wow… you must have really hit it off then."

Sherlock grinned. He had never felt so delighted to talk about anyone else before in his life, and his mind suddenly ran through the past few nights as he picked and chose what information to supply Molly with.

…

Their second night together, Sherlock had treated John to the nicest restaurant in town that was open late. John had tried searching for the cheapest item on the menu, which made Sherlock laugh. Sherlock ended up deducing his companion's choice of meal by examining the amount of times he swallowed when certain trays of food passed by: lobster tail with veggies and a baked potato, everything on it. Sherlock ate this time too, ordering himself veil and French onion soup.

When the food came, smelling tantalizingly good to both boys, John just stared fixedly.

"Everything to your liking?" asked Sherlock, suddenly self-conscious over his friend's apparent lack of appetite.

"It's just… I really shouldn't let you pay for all this."

Sherlock exhaled. "I have more money than I know what do with. I don't deserve it. I didn't earn a penny of it. But it's still there, waiting to be spent. So I either feed you, which makes me happy, or buy pot or something which makes me only mildly content."

This helped, and John ate what must have been his finest meal in a decade. When he was done, his whole demeanor seemed abashed in a glow of deep satisfaction.

They walked roughly two miles home. Neither of the boys minded the walk because it gave them time to kill together.

"Sherlock?" said John meagerly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock had been distracted, thinking about a case he'd seen on the news.

"How did you… figure me out?"

Sherlock had been waiting for this question. "You seemed familiar. Not in the I've-seen-you-before sort of way. More like, how you felt last night at the park… you know, like when you return to a place that you haven't seen since your youth, and you get this unsettling nostalgia, like part of you is a kid experiencing it all again."

"Poetic," John mocked.

"I've been reading bloody Shakespeare all day, okay?" Sherlock growled. "Now, factually, of course I needed more evidence to draw any assumptions. You act only in the night, and you act on behalf of your sister. You're protective and secretive, which is a sure-fire sign that you and your sister are in a parentless and threatening situation. You cringe at loud noises and unexpected physical contact, and although you hide them pretty well beneath those old jumpers of yours, your scars are a clue as to the environment you live in. Although you're very delicate and neat, your clothing is still old and worn, which tells me you hardly every purchase new clothes. Your trailer doesn't receive mail. When looked upon, it shows no signs of housing children. Sometimes, no evidence is the evidence that someone's hiding something. You said you were homeschooled, but like I mentioned before, you don't have a curfew or show any signs of having a parent caring enough to home school you. What's more, you haven't any friends. You never speak of them, and you wouldn't want to be around me if you did. Trust me. You're sheltered, but not in the loving way. In the abusive way. You smell a bit like alcohol and tobacco, though you don't drink or smoke. Your skin looks as though it never sees the sun. No offense. Someone, then, is hiding you, drinking and smoking around you, hitting you, not feeding or dressing you well, and forbidden you from most normal activities. You've been kidnapped, I figured, by a very disturbed man with unclear motives. I haven't told anybody because I figured you have a pretty good reason to keep it a secret…I… didn't know it was you, the John Watson I went to primary school with, until we sat together on that bus and I had a personal flashback to my youth. You'll recall, the closest we got was once you were forced to sit beside me. When you disappeared, I was enthralled in the mystery of it. You know I do detective work now, but I use to consider you my first case…"

Sherlock had spoken quickly and curtly, and he paused to allow John the time to process it all.

With one long breath, he finally said. "You know about my… situation, then. Please, please don't try to interfere just yet."

"I just want you safe, John—"

"I need you to stop trying to solve this," he cut in firmly, "for now, at least. Please."

For the first time, Sherlock saw tears glisten in the corners of John's eyes. Sherlock had seen children cry, even hormonal teens cry, but it was something different on John. John, who was a man forced to abandon childhood long ago; his tears were something different.

"Okay, John. Anything."

John swallowed, wiped them away, and Sherlock caught his hand on its dissent back to his side.

…

Their second night together, Sherlock had managed to get John and himself into a pub. It was a run-downed place, with flickering lights and poor security procedures. A thick and unappetizing smell of tobacco and ail hung in the air. The boys sat out of the way and ordered one beer to split (which Sherlock ended up drinking due to John's resistance). Mostly, Sherlock entertained his new friend by making deductions about everyone who walked in.

"That man over there comes here approximately three times a week to kill some time. He's hoping that his absence will make his wife assume he's having an affair in order to spite her for sleeping with a coworker. He doesn't really have the gull to cheat, however, because he's still wearing his ring. Presumably, he still loves her and wants their relationship to last.

That drunk in the red will be cut off soon. He drinks as a means of easing the pain over the loss of his four year old daughter. She was sick with cancer. That was an easy one. One only needs to look at his tattoos and drinking patterns.

That younger looking guy in the corner is only here because he hasn't enough courage yet to go to a gay bar. But, as a flaming homosexual, he's been eyeing you since we walked in. He doesn't have the confidence to act on his desires, and he happens to think that you and I are a couple anyway."

"Now that's unbelievable," said John, turning pink.

"It's all true, really, those deductions were elementary," said Sherlock, pretending to sound more bored than he really was.

"Incredible," John breathed.

They continued on, and even after John went home, his compliments still left a ghost of a smile on Sherlock's lips.

…..

On their third night, John really wanted to visit this 24-hour sea-side arcade his mum took him to as a kid. They rode a cab to the town, only to find out the arcade had been torn down years prior. Therefore instead, the boys walked across the shore.

The moon reflected bright and auburn on the turning water. The air and mist created a chilly slap to the skin, and Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, wanting to offer John his coat. But John would only say no out of a combination of consideration and pride, and Sherlock figured the act would be cliché anyway.

"Tell me a secret."

"What?"

John smirked. "Tell me a secret. It's only fair. You've figure all mine out."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. I'm an open book."

"Bull shit."

Sherlock laughed and stared across the water. "Oh, fine. Fine. I see…"

"Dead people?" John guessed after Sherlock's long pause.

Sherlock let out a snort-like giggle he didn't know he was capable of. "Oh, yes, because I'm not bizarre enough already."

"You and me both," John added jokingly. "So you see…?"

"A psychiatrist," he exhaled. "As a kid, I went into silent spells that lasted months on end. They worried my parents, which was silly, because honestly I just didn't have anything to say. I was just noticing, beginning to develop my skills at deduction, so I didn't talk much."

"That might be why I hardly remember you as a kid."

"Yes, well, their incessant need for labels led to my diagnosis as a high-functioning autistic. The whole ordeal sort of out casted me, but I don't mind it, to be honest. I never wanted friends anyhow."

"You don't seem… erm, to have any problems being social with me."

"Because you were a part of a case, and I don't have trouble with those."

"Oh," said John disappointedly. Sherlock bit his tongue.

"I didn't mean… I said were. I'm quite taken by you now. Then again, you're not exactly normal company."

"I suppose not. So do you still see your psychiatrist?"

"Last year, I began up again upon my brother's insistence."

"Why's that?"

"Apparently, I'm emotionally unstable with near suicidal tendencies." Sherlock said this almost proudly. "Tack that on with a disinterest in societal functions, childhood trauma, and a lack of empathy for others, and they'll be trying to dissect my brain for years."

"Huh, okay, so you're a nutter then, nice to know," said John. "What was the childhood trauma?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was teased relentlessly in boarding school, which is why I switched. Wouldn't have met you if I stayed, so there's your silver lining," he mused. "Honestly, you're a better poster-boy for childhood trauma."

"Thanks. You can be the poster child from charmingly weird stalkers, if you want."

"All I heard was charming," said Sherlock. This made John laugh. Something about John's merriment, mixed with the dark churning of the waves and peacefulness of the night, made Sherlock realize he was more content now than he'd been in ages. Even on the dull and littered shore, Sherlock felt a profound sort of happiness.

Sherlock was never the sort to leave well enough alone, so instead, he thought long and hard about John's pleasurable company. The thing was, Sherlock didn't like people, but for some reason he liked John. Quite a bit too. Quite a bit more than Sherlock knew he was ever capable of feeling. Sherlock had long-since written himself off as a different breed than other teens, but John Watson was refreshingly unique. He was simple by nature, odd by situation, but incredibly and beautifully fascinating by… well, by himself. By being John, the boy with the jumpers and the sandy hair. Why the averageness of John felt so different and new, Sherlock couldn't describe. He found himself hating all these contradictions that he couldn't make out.

Is this how normal people feel at a constant? Sherlock wondered.

"If you think any harder, your brain just might explore," said John, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts and back onto the tangible sand.

"I'm capable of a lot of thinking, if you haven't noticed."

"What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"What…erm, what about me exactly?"

"Your lips."

"My lips?"

"They look rather blue from the cold, and, erm… I'd be a willing participant should you desire to warm them through friction and—"

But Sherlock lost his train of thought when John stopped walking. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said quietly.

"Right. Of course. I mean, it was merely an alternative prevention to frostbite but I—"

But Sherlock was unable to finish, as he was caught off guard by John's sudden disregard of his own advice. He pressed forward, pulling Sherlock closer by the collar of his coat.

More contradictions.

But John's lips were cool, firm, and salty from the sea air, in what turned out to be a fleeting, nervous kiss.

When John withdrew, his cheeks were noticeably pink, even in the darkness.

Sherlock swallowed. "Ithinkyou'rebrilliant," he mumbled quickly.

John let out a relieved breath, then pulled Sherlock in again for a proper kiss. Their pace was slow, and Sherlock tried to commit every bit of John to memory. But eventually, he lost track, drowned in the sensation of tongue pressed to tongue and his companion's hands running up the length of his arms and shoulders. John's smell, the softness of his hair, and the strength of his hold made Sherlock's brain stop, a sensation that was all together new and exquisite to Sherlock.

They kissed like they were starved of affection and, at long last, getting their fill.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Lots of fluff. Please review.