Mrs. Hudson is a BAMF.
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"Sherlock?" John called softly."Sherlock, you have to get up."
The boy currently sleeping in his bed spooning his pillow for dear life grumbled and shoved his nose further into it.
"Come on, Sherlock." John said a bit more forcefully. "Mrs. Hudson will be here shortly."
He reached out to shake the boy lightly when Sherlock grabbed his wrist and almost pulled him down onto the bed.
"Shit!" John called shocked.
At the loud noise, Sherlock's eyes cracked open and he groaned at the brightness. He released John and turned away taking the pillow with him.
"I'm not kidding," John said. "We have to get going."
He sighed as the doorbell went and he ran downstairs to let Mrs. Hudson know that he would be a bit longer when she just strode right past him and into the kitchen.
"Where is he?" She said tersely.
John led her up the stairs and pointed to his door. John stood agape as Mrs. Hudson strode toward the bed, pulled out a bullhorn, and turned it on right next to the sleeping boy's ear.
Sherlock practically leapt off the bed and grabbed at his pounding head and Mrs. Hudson growled, "Now, Sherlock. In the car."
Sherlock grabbed his shoes and avoided John's gaze as he made his way quickly down the stairs and out to the waiting car.
"So sorry, dearie." Mrs. Hudson said, patting his cheek. "Ready? We get to stop and get some coffee for you on the way."
They drove quickly through town with Sherlock in the back clutching his head. Mrs. Hudson stopped at a coffee shop drive-thru and got them both a jolt of caffeine. Sherlock quickly shut up after he demanded one as well and was met with a dark glare from Mrs. Hudson. They pulled around to the back of the house to find Mrs. Holmes waiting for them. They climbed out of the car and Mrs. Holmes's glare stopped Sherlock short.
"In my office. Now." She said menacingly.
Sherlock walked into the house without another glance at John.
He watched as Mrs. Holmes visibly deflated once Sherlock closed the door behind him. She turned a sad smile towards John and sighed heavily, "I am so sorry, John."
"It really is fine, Mrs. Holmes." John said attempting to be reassuring.
"No, it isn't." She said simply. "It isn't your responsibility to look after him. Oh, goodness. What did your mother think?"
"Oh," He said awkwardly. "She wasn't home…"
Mrs. Holmes tilted her head to stare at him appraisingly for a bit before continuing. "Anyway, thank you again."
Mrs. Holmes turned quickly and walked into the house and John watched as she braced her shoulders as she went to deal with her son.
"Best to stay out of the house today, John." Mrs. Hudson said quietly. "Why don't you work on trimming the walkways in the south garden?"
"Alright." John said happily. Staying out of the house today seemed like a fantastic idea. John worked steadily through the morning stopping only to have lunch before going back out in the hot summer sun to work. He looked around nervously before deciding to slip off his sweat-soaked shirt letting the sun tan his naturally golden skin. He tossed the shirt over by his work kit and spent the next two hours using it as a sweat rag as he trimmed hedges, pulled weeds, and regraveled the walkways. He stopped for a few minutes to lie under a nearby tree and drink a bottle of water letting his eyes drift closed for a few minutes.
"I brought you another bottle of water." A voice said causing him to jump suddenly.
"Back with the whole sneaking up on people thing?" John said with a grin as he pulled himself up to look at the other boy.
Sherlock's lip quirked up in the corner and held out the water. John accepted it gratefully and downed it in one go.
"So, how much trouble are you in?" John asked.
"A fair amount." Sherlock said evenly. "You disapprove?"
"I can't really file 'getting high as a kite' as one of the most intelligent things I've ever witnessed, no." John said with a shrug. "But it's your grave, mate."
"Oh, please." Sherlock said. "I'm brilliant, John. I can certainly figure out the proper amount without fear of an overdose."
"I'm not saying you can't." John answered before walking back out in the sun to get back to work. "But those chemicals fuck up a person's good sense."
"Are you referring to your father as well as your sister in that little analysis?" Sherlock bit off darkly.
John leveled a blank stare at the complete arse standing inches away from him. "Thanks for the water. Now, please, go away."
He turned back and got to work determined to ignore the presence of the other boy. He could practically feel those pale eyes watching him. Sherlock must have stood under that tree for another forty-five minutes watching him before John finished up his project, grabbed his work kit, and strode back to the house. He was washing his tools and hands before he realized that he'd left his shirt under the tree.
"Bollocks." He muttered. He turned to go back out but stopped when he saw his grimy shirt hanging on a peg in the workroom. He glanced around but didn't see Sherlock anywhere. He pulled the shirt over his sun-drenched skin and wished desperately for a shower.
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Sherlock walked quickly through the house and up to his room trying to shake the image of John from his mind. It was captivating. He had watched John's lean muscles bunch and flex under that golden skin as he worked. He thought about those lovely little indents that sat directly over the curve of his arse.
"Shit." Sherlock breathed angrily.
He threw himself on his bed and stared at the missed texts from Jim.
Coming over tonight? JM
I'll expect you at 9pm. JM
Sherlock? Answer, damn it. JM
Sherlock felt anger flare in his stomach as he typed back,
Fuck off. SH
He threw the phone across the room and wandered over to his laptop. The IM screen was up and Jim had sent him a message.
Jim: What the hell is wrong with you?
SH: You left me there. By myself.
Jim: I'm sorry, I didn't realize you needed a keeper.
SH: I don't need a keeper! But did you seriously have to leave just as I took a hit?
Jim: Stop whining. It's not my job to babysit your arse. It's my job to fuck it.
SH: They were going to call the cops, Jim! I could have been arrested.
Jim: Don't ever tell them where you got those drugs, Sherlock. I mean it.
SH: Do you even care that my parents would send me to some sort of treatment facility?
Jim: I'd find someone to keep me company in the interim.
SH: Fuck off.
Jim: So, what did your mother say when she picked you up?
SH: She didn't.
Jim: Did you pass out in an alleyway or something? Well done.
SH: No, I went home with someone else.
Jim: Excuse me?
SH: Is that jealousy, Jim?
Jim: Hardly. Who was it?
SH: John.
Jim: Your new house pet? That's hilarious. That uptight git could use a good fuck. I hope you gave it to him hard.
SH: That's really none of your business.
Jim: Which means you did nothing. What? Did your mother call him to pick you up? Maybe you do need a keeper after all.
SH: Fuck off.
Jim: No! I think it's adorable, the crippled little house pet looking out for its Master.
SH: You're boring me.
Jim: Ya know, I heard that his father was a raging alcoholic that used to beat him senseless so you could even get a little rough.
SH signed out.
Sherlock grabbed his violin to try and channel his anger. He ignored the twelve more texts that were obviously from Jim. He just needed to think. He played for several minutes before throwing his instrument on his bed in disgust. He couldn't focus and he had a sneaking suspicion about who was causing the problem.
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John had to crawl out of the shower and into his bedroom that evening. He was so tired he barely registered his mother shoving a sandwich in front of him and inhaling it. He dropped heavily against the sheets and breathed in something spicy and intoxicating. He felt warmth flood his body from the smell of Sherlock Holmes on his sheets and pillow.
"Shit." John breathed.
That's not helpful at all. He was pissed at the arse. He didn't want anything to do with him. He never wanted to lay eyes on those stupid, captivating eyes and those dumb, delicious curls.
"Fuck." He said angrily.
He threw the pillow off the bed and then shortly afterward, the sheets. He lay back on his completely stripped bed trying to shove away the thoughts of Sherlock curled on this bed just the night before…and failed miserably.
He'd figured out last year that he was bisexual after an interesting night at Rugby camp with a bloke from one of the other schools. They hadn't done much but it was certainly enough to convince John of his preferences. He'd told Lestrade and was happy with the result. Apparently, Lestrade could care less about your interests as long as you didn't let it interfere with Rugby practice. He hadn't really done anything with the information after that. There was no one at school that he had an interest in on either side of the fence. It's hard to be attracted to people that you watched eat paste when they were younger. Besides, he'd just been too busy really to engage in anything except regular wanking sessions. He let his mind suss out what was really involved in this little attraction.
Okay,
Sherlock is the first bloke my age that I've had extended contact with that I didn't grow up with.
Sherlock is objectively attractive.
Heightened emotions that seem to be created by the mere presence of the boy would amplify anything, even just a passing acknowledgement of his attractiveness.
Sherlock smells nice, but that smell on any other attractive bloke would affect me as well. It's probably just the cologne.
Sherlock notices me. Not just in a "good boy, John" way either.
See. That wasn't so hard. He rolled over to go to sleep…after having a wank, of course.
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Finally! These boys are so fucking dim!
And Jim is still a complete arse.
Thanks again for reading and reviewing!