I had to do a high school AU at some point and you know it. Tell me how you liked it please my lovelies. I realise it's super long, but hey when inspiration hits you, it hits you hard (even if it's a little terrible. It's almost like a bad chick-flick. Seriously. Still proud of the ending though.).

Inspired by What Makes You Beautiful by One Direction and BitterSweet by Spencer Schmidt. So it's a double.

(Also, I did have a tad bit of trouble with all the emotions/feelings. Then again, they are teenagers so...)

3&4/5

It's Sunday. A slow day. No post, no classes, nothing, nothing at all happens on Sundays. Frankly, Sherlock is bored out of his mind everyday, but it's this day he finds most annoying. Perhaps it's simply because all he wants to do is sit in his corner of the library, close his eyes, and think himself into oblivion when all the other kids seem to want to pester him to no end.

But today is different. There's something in the air, something exciting that makes the hair on his arms stand on end. Something is definitely going to happen.

Something does happen. It's nearly noon when a cab pulls up the long drive to the academy. The students milling about the front of the school stop in their tracks and stare. Sherlock gazes curiously out of the nearest window. Who could this be? Surely no one important. A new student maybe? But it's nearly Christmas. Surely they aren't getting another one now.

Warm breath caresses his shoulder, and the boy gazes back to see his older brother. Sherlock scoffs. Mycroft smiles.

"That would be the new boy," he mutters under his breath and walks away, hands clasped behind his back, clearly uninterested in anything other than himself.

Lo and behold, the older Holmes is right. The cab door opens and out pops the blond head of a young boy, roughly Sherlock's age, white-knuckling a large trunk. He looks apprehensive as he climbs out of the taxi, but before he can seemingly change his mind the cabbie pulls away, door slamming shut as he does. The dark-haired boy tilts his head, but walks away. He's not ten paces down the hall before he hears the heavy front doors open and an annoying buzz as the other students whisper amongst themselves. Sherlock glances over his shoulder once and continues on his way. He stops. Turns fully this time.

All sorts of things suddenly bombard his fourteen-year-old brain. Things like notes on how the blond is dressed, and what that says about him, the subtle twitch of his brows as his eyes attach themselves firmly to the tile floor and a small smile quirks his lips. There's nothing funny - must be a confidence booster. "Laugh and the world laughs with you," and such. Rubbish.

Suddenly the other boy's brown eyes manage to detach themselves from the floor and cling instead to Sherlock's sharp grey ones. The blond gives the dark-haired boy a broader smile. Sherlock blinks once, twice. Then he proceeds to turn down the hall, uninterested, yet heat is rising in his face all the same.

Sherlock is pacing barefoot around his dorm now - it's dark out, the wind howling eerily. It's small, and it's cramped, but his (former) roommate decided to ditch him, so now at least he has the space to himself. There's a bay window that looks out five stories (there's six, dorms start after the third) high over the dull landscape, a closet, two dressers, and a bunk bed. Over three-hundred dorms in this damn place, and he's stuck with the one of maybe ten that doesn't have two double beds. Not that he's complaining. Sherlock has claimed the top for the times he actually manages to sleep, and the bottom for his books, and his trousers, and other various things he likes to throw about.

It's hot with the furnace blazing - heat rises you know - and being on the next to top floor it can get pretty unbearable. The window is cracked slightly, but it's still warm - too warm. Nevertheless, with all the snow getting in the sliver he has open, he doesn't dare open it any farther. He's already shed his tie and his black slacks - all part of their uniform - and his shirt is messily hanging about him, unbuttoned. Sweat drips from his brow slowly. Mid-December and he's sweating. Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, who freezes in the summer, is dripping sweat half-naked, while the rest of the school wanders about with their scarves and coats. That, he thinks, is the definition of irony.

There's a knock at the door, which startles the dark-haired boy from his thoughts, and he grumbles irritably. Who is this? Well think Sherlock. Three soft, tentative knocks. Surely not any teachers. Not the headmaster, either. There were footsteps before the knock, yes? Yes, of course, there's always footsteps. Everyone's shoes click on this damn floor. They were soft too, and timid. Sherlock's beginning to piece together who this might be, one of the students, surely, but which one? Generally no one can stand him for over five minutes, ten if they're forced, hence Sherlock's dorm being minus one. And why, why would someone be calling on him at this hour?

It's at about this point that Sherlock has his pale fingers wrapped around the doorknob, uncaring that he's wearing only his dark blue pants and a white dress shirt, before he turns it and opens the door half-way.

"Yes, what is it, I have no time for your nonsense, now go away please," he enunciates quickly and clearly, not really paying attention as to who is at his door.

There's a pause as Sherlock waits, one hand on his hip, the other grasping the door firmly, well-ready to slam it shut. He almost does before a small voice stops him.

"Umm... Hello, I- uh- I seem to be your new roommate...?" the voice murmured, almost fearfully, the statement ending as a question.

A thin, pale arm whips the door open fully as his left hand rakes through his unruly dark hair. "Is that a statement or a question?" he asks, but before he gets an answer he frowns. Hm, the boy from earlier. He's timid. Much too timid.

"Let me see that," Sherlock grunts before ripping the sheet of paper this nuisance was reading out of his finger-tips.

"H- hey!" the blond starts to protest, but a quick look silences him.

It's a plain piece of paper, hurriedly ripped and scribbled on, and slightly damp and crumpled. He took the stairs then. Bravo. On the paper is simply Sherlock's room number, '221', with the note 'fifth floor'. Well, to be fair, the numbers on his door should read '521', but the bronze five had fallen off a little over a month ago. And by "fallen off" he really meant, "was destroyed along with most of his door due to a 'minor' fire" caused by two bloody prats. Sherlock had replaced it about three weeks ago using the two on Anderson and Moriarty's door, leaving them with room 6-9.

The blond boy swallows suddenly, drawing Sherlock's attention. The pale boy is leaning heavily against the door frame, mouth forming a soft pout in concentration. He finds brown (though now that he's closer and paying more attention, he notices the other boy's eyes are hazel, with dark blue undertones) eyes flicking from his pale face, to his bare chest and unbuttoned shirt, to his lack of trousers, down his long, pale legs, and back up to his own (bored) eyes. Sherlock takes this opportunity to observe the freckles sprinkled across this boy's tan nose, the brown highlights now becoming apparent amongst all the gold hair, soft lips, wide doe-eyes, a short, slightly stocky but muscular frame, a faded red jumper, scarred hands, and a small name tag on the boy's trunk claiming it belongs to a 'John H. Watson'.

"Hm," is all Sherlock offers before he turns on his heel and begins clearing things off of the bottom bunk. After a few moments when he's managed to successfully stack his things in a more-or-less haphazard heap at the foot of the bed, it occurs to him that 'John', he assumes, is still standing outside.

He scoffs. "You can come in, I don't bite. But I do hope you don't mind the violin."

John takes a tentative step forward. "Violin?" he asks, mildly curious.

A dark brow rises as Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, I play it when I'm thinking. I'm Sherlock by the way."

"Oh," the shorter boy says lamely and sets his trunk down just inside the door. "Nice to meet you... Kind of a cramped space, don't you think?" he prompts, eyes trailing around the room to rest again on Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Just... don't try to make conversation, John."

The blond looks slightly taken aback and tilts his head. "Why...?" There's a short pause before his brow furrows. "I didn't give you my name... How-?"

" - The same way I know you have an older sibling, your family's on the poorer side, you're much smarter than anyone gives you credit for, your dad's long gone, won't be coming back - my condolences, by the way - and your mum is trying to keep the family together... and failing. My apologies again," Sherlock finishes, keeping the same droning tone and bored expression throughout. He offers a small smile, just a small twitch of the lips, at the end. He doesn't get anything back.

John simply gives him an odd look and shakes his head. "I'm tired," he mumbles before he turns his back to the taller boy and opens his trunk, searching for pyjamas. The dark-haired boy frowns, but climbs onto his bunk and stares at the ceiling. This won't last long at all.

When John awakes early the following morning, bleary-eyed and with a bed-head like a bird's nest, Sherlock is lying flat on the floor with his heels resting lightly on the window sill. The boy is clothed in nothing but a white sheet draped casually around his thighs and resting just below the hips, pale skin glowing in the fading moonlight. Sherlock's arms are resting over his head, fingers curled, some tangling in his dark hair.

A sudden yawn startles the boy on the floor from his thoughts. He turns his head enough to focus on the sitting figure of John Watson before returning his gaze to the whitening sky. Dawn was coming.

Out of the corner of his eye, the blond boy ruffles his hair and stretches. "What time is it Sher?" he asks, voice clogged with sleep.

'Sher', that's new. "Almost six."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There's an awkward silence and Sherlock can feel eyes on him. He supposes he should feel subconscious about his lack of clothing, but frankly he doesn't give a damn about what anyone thinks.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John finally asks after a pause.

The dark-haired boy takes a minute to answer. "No."

"Oh, okay..." the blond murmurs, fingering his blue striped pyjamas before he gets up to get dressed.

"If you need the showers, it's down the hall and to your left. Bathrooms are there too," Sherlock calls as the other boy grabs a pair of slacks and a red button-down, yet to get his uniform. John nods and hurries out the door, red-faced.

Sherlock doesn't see John for the rest of the day. It's not because they don't share any classes - they share all but one, John has Art while Sherlock has Advanced Mathematics - it's because he has better things to do than go to class when he's passing with all A's. Well, for the most part.

It's nearly 20:30 when John gets back to the dorm, clutching an armful of books and juggling two mugs of what appears to be coffee.

"I smuggled it out of the cafeteria," he explains calmly to the inert lump still laying in front of the window.

Sherlock offers a small grunt of understanding before he holds up a hand. John, not one to be slow, hands him the mug, not bothering to warn him that it's hot.

The other boy manages to sit up in one fluid movement, keeping himself covered with the sheet as he does so, and takes a sip of the beverage.

Sherlock smiles. John grins easily back and sits across from him, their knees almost touching.

Two weeks later it's Christmas Eve, but almost nothing has changed. It's still hotter than hell in their dorm, but the two boys have devised a way to keep it relatively comfortable without being snowed in. They've erected a sheet in front of the open window, which keeps the snow and some of the worst cold out while allowing some heat to escape too.

Sherlock is still sitting in his sheet, but after some prompting from his "friend", as John calls him, often with a few reassurances of, yes, they are in fact friends, the pale boy is wearing a pair of John's cotton pyjama bottoms. John's hair has grown out slightly, and in so little time. He has to continually swipe it out of his hazel eyes, batting dark lashes unintentionally at the boy sitting across from him. Sherlock doesn't know why, but he likes the way John does this. There's something about the casual, innocent manner of it that gives him a warm feeling that has nothing to do with the room temperature or the hot mug in his hands.

"So I've been meaning to ask you, but I never found the right time..." John says out of nowhere, tilting his head and sipping his coffee.

Sherlock frowns. "You've had all the time in the world. I don't sleep and we see each other all but one hour out of the day."

The blond chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, fingers caressing an invisible circle at the nape. "Yeah, but..." he trails off and stares down at his bare feet, curling his toes against the rug. "Um... how did you know all that about me when I hadn't said two words to you when we first met?" he rushed, and Sherlock noticed the other boy's ears turning red.

"Oh, that's it?" A nod. "Well, it's really quite simple," Sherlock says, bringing his knees up to his chest. "Well, you're timid and shy, and quiet. Submissive, almost servile. Low self-esteem. So either you're just really ungodly nice and such, or you have a dominating sibling, probably older. Most likely a brother. Demanded things were done his way and his way alone. You have to stay out-of-the-way of people like that. Be almost invisible until you're called upon. You never really got your way when you were younger, so you just got used to submitting to others' wills, making sure they're happy instead of making sure you are. But you don't see the difference.

"As for finances, the jumper you were wearing the first day, obviously hand-made. Jeans, worn. Same goes for your shoes. Your trunk is ages old. You get the idea, yes? Plus, you hadn't gotten your uniform - all students receive them before they get to the school, and are usually required to wear them unless one can't be afforded. Anyways... about your dad, that was all sorts of little things put together, you wouldn't understand. All about body language and such. Same goes for your mum. Though that was more by your face. And the fact she let you come here, away from home.

"And the comment about you being smart, not only have I discovered you are in fact brilliant - maybe not the most brilliant, maybe a little dim at times, but as a conductor of light-"

"Sher," John interjects, a reproachful look on his face, smile hiding behind his eyes.

"Right. Well, I was right, your mum doesn't have much money, so in order for you to be here, it would have to be a scholarship - which I'm surprised we even offer them, this is only high school. Oh well, the point is, it was all obvious. As for your name, it was right on your trunk."

The blond takes another swig from his mug, then raises a brow. "Fantastic."

Sherlock jumps. "What?"

John smiles. "That was... amazing."

"Hm."

"What?"

The dark-haired boy shrugs. "It's just... that's not what people normally say..."

"What do people normally say?" the other boy asks, brow furrowing, reading into Sherlock's faraway eyes, how he's clutching his mug, the nearly imperceptible twitch in his jaw.

"Piss off." He tries to offer a smile, and John smiles painfully back.

The blond nibbles at his lip - this really bothers him. Sherlock is literally bothered. He's staring into his empty mug like it can make everything go away, whatever hurt he's feeling, which feels odd to John. He finds it hard to think of this other boy as hurting or wounded. More calloused and separated from the world around him. But, maybe he's not as hard and cold as he seems to be. Sherlock definitely seems more jovial when they're alone in their dorm, or are just sharing a quiet moment.

"Um... well, I do have a sibling. Name's Harry," John says, trying to get the happier side of Sherlock back. He can't stand seeing the other boy like this.

Sherlock seems to perk up immediately. "So I was right?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Grey eyes immediately brighten. "Hm, normally I miss something. I really got it all right this time? Brilliant!"

"Yeah, cheers, but-"

The dark-haired boy freezes, smile fading. "But what?"

John gives him a cheeky grin. "'Harry' is short for 'Harriet'."

"Harriet, oh it's a sister! You have a sister!" he exclaims, spitting out the words like they're burning his tongue. He throws a hand into the air over his head and sighs.

The blond can't help but grin and let out a high-pitched giggle against his will.

"A sister, it's always something, always something!"

It's the day after Christmas and they have a whole week of break before classes start again. It's late, nearly three in the morning, and John is sitting comfortably against his bunk reading while Sherlock plays his violin - softly. He doesn't want another warning from the headmaster about keeping the other students up.

The tune is light and happy, and John can't help but feel cheerful, tapping his foot along with the music. Sherlock seems to be in high spirits, which is a rare sight, the blond has already learned, and he enjoys it.

Suddenly there's something missing. He looks up from his novel to see his friend gazing outside, violin hanging limply in his left hand, the bow in his right. In those few seconds, the atmosphere in the room seems to have gotten heavier, closing in on them menacingly. Something's coming, but what?

John opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes forward. He settles instead on the figure in front of him, really focuses this time, studying him carefully. The dark curls, prominent cheekbones, the long lashes framing bright, ever-changing eyes. The feathery, furrowed brows over them. His eyes rest for a moment on that soft cupid's bow mouth, then move to a long, alabaster neck and slim, but strong shoulders. Skilled musician's fingers twitch imperceptibly, as if they feel the intense gaze on them. John moves on to the long legs of his friend, covered in baggy flannels - John's own - and back up again, subconsciously wetting his lips.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" John asks out of nowhere, making the other boy jump.

"Excuse me?"

Setting down his book beside him, cheeks burning, where the hell had that come from?, the blond wipes his mouth. "Uh, do you have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock frowns even more. "Not really my area..."

John nods. "Ah. Um, boyfriend?" Damn, why am I even asking?

This time his friend gives him a long look, and the blond can almost feel those piercing eyes boring into his head. "No."

"Oh good, so you're unattached, like me?" John chuckles awkwardly, stupid grin spreading across his face as he picks up his book and buries himself in it. All sorts of things are flashing through his mind and he likes none of them.

Setting his violin on the dresser, Sherlock sits against the wall, curious eyes on the blond.

"Um... John..." Sherlock starts, not quite sure where to go from here.

Intense grey eyes fix themselves on the boy across the room, making John stare fixedly at page fifty-two of his novel. He doesn't want to look up, he can't look up, and meet those eyes because he knows what's going to come next and it makes his stomach churn for no good reason.

But he has to look up. He always has to look up, because every time he looks away, those eyes are always drawing him back in with some sort of gravitational pull.

"John." The word comes lightly and unsure, rolling softly from his tongue. Sherlock tilts his head slightly to the left, brows pulling together. He opens his mouth to say something more, then stops. He's never been short of words before. After a long moment he looks back to the blond, sitting completely still against the bed. His (now) grey-blue eyes are questioning and flustered. "So, you really aren't dating anyone?"

Very nearly jumping at the question, John rubs the back of his neck gently, taken aback by the befuddled expression on the other boy's face and the abrupt question. "Ah, no. A little young for that, yeah?" He offers a calm smirk, then goes back to his book, somehow feeling more relaxed at his normally More-Intelligent-Than-Thou friend's bewilderment.

On the other hand, Sherlock is feeling far from calm. There's a flutter in his chest that confounds him and a warm bubbly feeling in his stomach countered by an annoying buzz in the back of his brain. "Yeah," he murmurs and goes back to his violin, returning to his earlier carefree tune. His heart isn't quite into it, however.

John really has no idea how handsome he is, Sherlock realises one day after overhearing a group of girls giggling about the blond from the other end of the library. John doesn't seem to hear them, or at least he accepts that they aren't talking about him. Always so insecure. And not even Sherlock is exactly sure why.

It surprises him, actually. Not the insecurity, he's already figured that one out. It's the sheer lack of confidence - though... technically he supposes the two go hand in hand.

The thing about John, however, is that he doesn't fret about his appearance, or what others think of him. He simply accepts the fact that he's inferior and that's simply the way things need to be. John Watson isn't handsome, John Watson isn't attractive, John Watson isn't intelligent, or brilliant, or special in any way and he just accepts that and goes on his merry way through life just accepting it.

But he's wrong. John Watson is all of these things - and more. Well, at least to Sherlock Holmes.

"Sher what's up?"

The dark-haired boy looks up suddenly, just now noticing he was staring keenly at the boy next to him. His cheeks feel hot to the touch, and John confirms this when he presses the backs of his fingers to Sherlock's flushed face. "You alright?"

Sherlock nods briskly, a little annoyed at his friend's self-image. Why can't you just see that you are special John? Why are you always lowering yourself?

"Huh?"

Shit. Sherlock hadn't realised he'd said that out loud. John's hazel eyes widened with curiosity. Oh thank God. According to his expression the blond hadn't quite heard his little outburst.

"Sher, what did you just say?"

There he goes with that damned nickname again. He feels weak in the knees momentarily, then frowns. Why the hell does he care about what he had said? Why does he care if John heard?

"Nothing John," he tries, though his friend raises a brow and closes the medical book he was skimming over. Ruffling his dark hair, Sherlock attempts a smile. "No really, it's nothing... just... John, do you think you're special?"

A rather loud 'shush' sounds from across the room, making both boys jump out of their skins. They had forgotten they were in a crowded library, surrounded by silent people who have no need to be a part of their affairs. With a jolt, Sherlock notices his brother watching him from one corner, a pretty girl named Anthea sitting next to him, brows raised slightly. More towards the center of the room is Moriarty, huge, mocking grin plastered to his face. His eyes are cold and excited.

The dark-haired boy turns towards the blond, an imploring look in his eyes. If this weren't Sherlock Holmes, John might have said 'pathetic'.

He stares into those bright eyes momentarily, though they reveal a small amount of information, and rises to his feet. Sherlock follows suite, tilting his head.

"Let's go," he says, not quite in a whisper, and heads towards the door, abandoning his book.

Letting out a sigh of relief - though from what he isn't sure - Sherlock trails after him.

John's heart is thumping as he leads them up the stairs to their dorm. The other boy pads along silently, just behind him and slightly to his right.

"So, ah, what did you mean back there?" John asks softly as they make their way down the 520 hallway, a tiny voice in the back of his head mentioning for the umpteenth time that this is an ungodly huge building.

His friend pauses for a moment, as if he's trying to remember what the other boy is talking about. "Exactly what I said. Do you think you're special?"

Hesitating with his hand on the doorknob, the shorter boy sighs. Sherlock waits patiently, not making a sound. He's gotten much quieter since they've left the library, like something is troubling him, bouncing around in that magnificent brain of his. The hallway is empty, they are the only exception.

"No."

There's that silence again. The kind that's filled with a dangerous concoction of emotions, things unsaid, the want to come up with words, any words at all, anything that can be said to break this dreadful lack of nothing, but nothing acceptable ever comes to mind. The kind where no one moves, and everyone waits on bated breath. The kind that bears down on you like a heavy blanket, the kind that balances precariously between the need to convey something and common sense. It's been happening on an alarming scale lately, ever since the "girlfriend" conversation a month back.

John swears he sees something in Sherlock break. Just a slight twitch of his jaw, the slant of his mouth, the light flickering in his eyes.

"Why?" comes the demand, in no way a question. His voice is soft, but has a sharp edge to it.

The blond doesn't understand. "I'm just not. I'm not brilliant - and don't bother trying to argue, the only good I am is in the classroom. I'm plain and shy and ordinary." Sherlock flinches, the word clawing at is ears. John's hand drops from the doorknob as he turns to face his bewildered companion. "I'm just not," he repeats, hazel eyes wide and sincere.

It's said the eyes are the windows to the soul. Up until now the latches had been locked and the blinds firmly drawn behind those mysterious grey eyes, exceptions coming few and far between. But now... Now those clever eyes are brimming with a host of different emotions.

"John Hamish Watson," the taller boy whispers, looming over the blond, voice dangerously low. John takes a half-step back and finds his back pressed against the door. "You honestly have no idea... you stupid clod..."

At this point John feels like his heart is in his throat. He's standing nearly nose to nose with his friend. His grey-green gaze is becoming more and more anxious as the seconds drag on. The blond lowers his own gaze to his shoes, unable to meet those eyes any longer.

Soft fingers slowly reach up to gently sweep the blond hair off his forehead. Innocently enough, and very, very unsure of what he's doing, Sherlock places a gentle kiss to John's forehead, his ears turning scarlet. The shorter boy freezes, eyes wide as warm breath caresses his skin. "God, you have no idea how special you are..."

A few seconds go by before the dark-haired boy backs away, dropping his hand to open the door. Footsteps are beginning to sound down the hallway, the other students are returning to their dorms just in time for curfew.

Sherlock enters their room silently while the other boy waits outside for a few moments longer, eyes still locked on his shoes.

The next morning, Sherlock finds himself half-hanging out of his bed, his lower abdomen wedged nicely between the wooden beam on the edge and the mattress. He blinks a few times, not used to the late morning light streaming in upside-down through the window. He almost panics, but then he remembers it's a Saturday. A calm sigh escapes his lips.

Stretching his legs languidly, having spent most of the night curled in a tight ball, he notices his left arm is prickling with pins and needles. The pale boy twitches his fingers experimentally, feeling them brush against something warm. Craning his neck, Sherlock sees his friend lazily running his fingertips over the lines in his palm. The dark-haired boy smiles, just a twitch of the lips. "Good morning, John," he purrs, still sleepy, and yawns.

John jumps and immediately looks up, almost like he had been caught nicking the Crown Jewels. "Uh, morning," he mutters, hand dropping to his lap.

A crease appears between Sherlock's brows, but he dismisses it. He knows where this conversation will go.

"What's wrong?" he'll ask after a wary pause, and get an, "Oh nothing," in response. But it's not nothing and every time he'll ask about it - because he is genuinely concerned and only gets like this with his best friend - John will always play it down, looking like there's a dead puppy around every corner all the while.

They're dead silent for a long time, John pulling his knees up to his chest, hazel eyes resting (fearfully? Is that the right word?) on his friend's upside-down face. Eventually, the latter slides his lithe body through the small space he'd managed to squeeze into, and rolls casually into the other boy's bunk.

It's a bittersweet feeling for John, seeing Sherlock sitting calmly across from him, legs crossed at the ankles with his cold feet resting lightly against the blonde's thigh. "You're toes are freezing," he remarks lamely, placing his hand over his friend's toes, pressing them further into his leg to warm them.

"I know," Sherlock replies, wiggling the icicles at the ends of his feet, a normal, blank expression on his face. "It got bloody cold out of nowhere last night." The pale boy shifts suddenly, burying his toes under John's flushed figure. "You seem warm enough though," he mumbles. It's supposed to be a joke but it falls flat in the slightly tense air.

John decides to take it as it was meant to be. "What, all I am to you now is a damn space-heater?" He offers a cautious, playful smile, but it goes right over Sherlock's head.

"No," he says sharply, expression a canvas of mixed feelings. Sherlock shivers abruptly, the blond taking a sudden notice to his friend's bare chest. Wind whistles harshly through the cracked window.

Two hours later, the boys are sitting alone in the library. It's a nice change, normally it's so crowded you can't breathe for lack of oxygen. Sherlock is huddled in one of John's baggy green jumpers, the blond in a blue striped one. The latter is huched over the same medical book as before while the young Holmes stares blankly ahead, mood as cold as the air outside.

John is feeling especially low - the past month has been a harrowing experience, what with hormones and feelings and Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. One second he's telling you off, the next you're the best thing in his world, and a moment later he wants to simultaneously throw you off a bridge and drown you in affection. The blond finds this especially annoying, primarily now when his patience is wearing thin and his emotions are trying to push him over the edge.

To make a long story short, it's been hell for him, trying to figure out what he really wants, what makes him happy, and discerning fantasy from reality. And the bittersweet reality he's come to is:

He is the most important thing in Sherlock's life (besides a good murder), and his friend loves him as much as he possibly can. The bitter thing is that Sherlock will never love the blond like John loves him.

And that will be the thing that kills him.

Yeah, this is pretty much a bloody murder, John thinks to himself a week and a half later. He's half-hidden by a crowd of people, but his view is clear. He's just walked out of the Art room in high spirits - his project of a boy with grey eyes is coming out rather nicely and Sherlock promised to walk him into town later just to pass some time. Across the hall, his eyes are locked on his tall friend - looking rather handsome in his uniform - and a shy girl named Molly. The girl is gazing up at Sherlock shyly, wide brown eyes nervous, but completely focused on the teen in front of her. She looks like she's having a bad day, and just before she looks like she's about to burst into tears, Sherlock bends down slightly and offers her a peck on the cheek.

Everything seems to freeze around him as his friend takes a half-step back and smirks reassuringly, murmuring something John can't hear into Molly's ear before he turns towards the blond, catching his eye for a moment.

John, in turn, spins on his heel and walks briskly away.

When Sherlock finds him, the blond boy in the beige jumper is sitting on the front steps of the school, face rosy and the tips of his ears scarlet from the chill wind.

Cautiously, the taller boy tip-toes around him, then sits a good arm's-length away. He shivers slightly.

"It's cold," he remarks, glancing over, but John doesn't look at him.

Again, there's that bloody silence.

John closes his eyes, relishing the wind on his face. Yeah, it is cold, but there's a fire burning him alive from the inside. Fabric scrapes against the concrete steps, alerting him that his friend had moved closer. The blond can feel the solid heat of another body to his right, but he still doesn't move a muscle.

"John-" Sherlock suddenly tries.

"Oh shut it!" John snaps, hazel eyes fixing on the prat beside him, wide and wild.

For just a moment, Sherlock seems genuinely hurt and confused - and John almost considers apologising - before a flicker of agitation appears on the other boy's face, a feral spark in those dangerous eyes. "What the bloody hell is the matter with you!" he snaps, and the blond cringes mildly.

He opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head. "Nevermind," he mutters, turning away, resting his chin on his knees. Sherlock will never understand.

There's a tick in his jaw as Sherlock tries to keep his calm. What had he done to get treated like this? "John, you can tell me. We're friends, yeah?" the boy asks, something in his voice shaky.

Fingering his jumper, the young Watson sighs. "That's the problem," he whispers, almost inaudibly, but his friend still hears.

An erratic tilt of the head finally makes John look back into those amazing, imploring grey-green eyes. He could nearly drown in them, wasting every second of forever lost in them, and he would probably never know it. He bites his lip. There's that bittersweet feeling again. The blond knows he'll cherish every moment they spend together for the rest of his life, even if Sherlock never cares for him. But, as John is finally realising, sometimes you have to accept defeat. You can't always win, and you can't always get what you want. He's still young - someone else will surely come along, he just has to wait a bit.

Looking out at the falling snow, he feels strangely... peaceful. It's amazing the calm he feels now. Managing a deep breath, John knows he'll be okay. It'll be hard, but eventually he'll be able to let go. Eventually he'll be free.

"Wh-" that enticing voice beside him stutters. He turns against his will for the last time. He honestly could spend forever in those eyes.

And that quick it's all gone, replaced by a need to say what's bound to be said - or deduced - eventually.

"Sherlock," John starts, immediately gaining the dark-haired boy's attention. "You are not my friend. But I am yours. No, no, no, it's not that I don't like you," he rushes as the light in those grey eyes falters, then grows cold and dark, "It's that- oh Jesus Sherlock... it's because you're more than a friend to me. I, uh... I suppose you could say I-" he swallows, "-I fancy you," he ends, gazing boldly at his more-than-friend, shoulders squared, ready for a less-than-favorable reaction.

It takes a moment for Sherlock's brows to rise in understanding. "Oh."

Suddenly very bold, reading something subtle in that unfathomable expression, John's cold fingers sweep curly hair away from the other boy's face, lightly pressing his lips to Sherlock's cupid's bow mouth.

After a bit, grey eyes close. Taking this as a good sign, the blond nuzzles a little closer and shifts his hand to cup his friend's face. As a mouth begins working against his, they are both instantly warmed.

John likes the taste of Sherlock. It's sweet, nothing bitter about it at all.

Sherlock, on the other hand, likes all the damn beautiful noises John makes as they get more acquainted with each other...

The story that never ends has come to an end! Yay!

(I love going to English after I write fanfiction because my writing is all wibbly-wobbly between American and English spelling...haha)