Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He was distracted, off course, unnerved, unsettled, erratic, unsteady – he couldn't bloody concentrate and whether that was simply because his mind just liked to watch him suffer, or his transport needed sustenance, or because a certain someone was on his mind he would never know. But he was, in fact, worried that, for the most part, he leaned toward the latter.

Ignore him, Sherlock Holmes, he told himself.

Ignore the blue eyes that were practically mini oceans – withholding so much mystery, so much wonder, so much unknown and unshed beauty. Ignore the shape of those plush lips, and the curve of those rugby trained calves, and the joyous harmony of that laugh, or the sun stroked surface of that blonde hair, or that – oh, for fuck's sake.

Sherlock slammed his secret notebook shut, and shoved it to the side, his pens rolling away in fear as he let his elbows rest against the mahogany surface of his desk, his hands scratching, shaking, pulling at his curls in earnest. He was losing his edge. How was he supposed to compose a brand new style, a brand new vision, if he couldn't focus? He needed to forget about John Watson.

John Watson and his stupid YouTube videos, his stupid rugby practice and his stupid, rather adorable, love for classical music and Sherlock's own videos. Stupid. He was an idiot. He was a popular kid, a jock, a people-pleaser, kind on the outside, manipulative on the inside. He was ordinary. Wasn't he?

Ping!

Sherlock jolted out of his thoughts and glared down at the distraction, a small message bubble appearing across the screen of his phone.

How's school?

With a snort, he rolled his eyes and looked away from the device, grabbing for his pen again and reaching to throw his notebook open, aggravation swelling within him, his shoulders tense as he inhaled sharply, eager for everyone, in his thoughts as well, to leave him alone.

Ping! He growled, turning to glare at his mobile and narrowing his eyes.

I'm trying to be civil. Can't you tell?

Scoffing, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, running an erratic hand through his curls and tapping his pen against his bottom lip, the crevice that usually stored his many ideas simply blank, a dull emptiness, aside from the reoccurring, unforgiving image of a blonde with blue eyes.

Something intense. Something different. Something popular and likable. Something "not boring." More upbeat, more exciting, more modern. More, more, more.

Ping!

Make any friends?

Sherlock leaned forwards once more, placing his pen to paper and scribbling rapidly across the page. He knew what he would do. It had been done, but not by many, and not like this – and he would, of course, make it better.

Ping!

Teasing. Obviously.

He wondered what John would think. What if John hated this specific project? What if he uploaded his video and John loathed it so much he stopped watching? What if he unsubscribed? Sherlock's pen stopped moving and he swallowed, looking down at the messy script doodled across the page. No. If John were anything like his friends, he'd probably agree that Sherlock needed a change, needed to "spice things up a bit." But John wasn't like his friends, was he? John had liked Sherlock's videos. He'd liked the classic instrumentals and the soft melancholy compositions Sherlock stayed up all hours working on. John appreciated him.

Ping!

How's Uncle Siger?

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes. He'd do this. It was one video. One. He'd change things a little and then go back to how things were – classical and boring, according to the ingenious James Sholto.

Ping!

Stop ignoring me.

He huffed and glanced at his phone, pointedly ignoring the unread messages and checking the time. He sighed, nodding once and grabbing his notebook, shoving the old thing into his black backpack and hoisting it over his shoulder, before slipping over to the opposite corner of his barren bedroom and grabbing his pre-packed duffle bag. He'd call Ms. Hudson on his way to school and see if he could reserve the studio for an hour or two - he could do this. Since when did he care so heavily about what John Watson thought of his videos? Before yesterday, he hadn't even known he watched them. So, what did it matter? He had 4,909 other subscribers who were waiting for something new, another video to watch, another composition to listen to.

Ping!

Fine. Be petulant, brother mine.

Deep down, however, as much as he hated to admit it, it was John Watson's opinion he held above all the rest.

...

John leaned back in the single, yellow, floral chair of the narrow dressing room hallway, staring blankly down at his phone, scrolling lazily through Twitter and holding back goofy smiles as he checked his notifications. He chuckled at a few of the more amusing "tweeters" and blushed at the sweeter ones, expressing how much they enjoyed his videos and how he "gets them through the day." This would always be his favorite part. Not the videos, not likes, not the number of views, but the people; the people who commented on his new content right away and followed him on Twitter whenever he mentioned he had one. Those were his highlights, things he looked forward to. The fact that there were real people out there who looked up to him, who he inspired, who relied on him; that was the best part, that was the most amazing feeling.

"Fans?" Molly smirked, arching a brow as she exited the fitting room, twirling cheerfully in a little red dress and posing in one of the hallway mirrors.

John nodded and swallowed before reciting, "Someone told me to 'steal Coach the Roach's TARDIS and vlog the entire thing.'"

Molly let out a loud giggle and slapped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in amusement and grinning down at him, "You asked for it, making jokes like that. Now they all know you watch Doctor Who."

John scoffed and smiled down at the screen of his mobile, exiting Twitter and tapping onto Instagram, "And that's a bad thing?"

Molly snorted and twisted a bit more in her dress, observing how the color and body of the garment fit her before turning to glare playfully at John, "Do you even know me? Of course it's not a bad thing."

With a laugh, John nodded and touched onto the small icon at the bottom of the screen, opening up his camera and taking a quick picture of his shoes and the hall's pale, pink tiled floor, "Hey, at least I have practically everyone speculating that my rugby coach is the next Doctor."

Molly threw back her head as she guffawed, chestnut brown hair sliding off her shoulders to hang behind her before she composed herself, smiling shyly and turning away from the mirror to better face John, "As enlightening as that idea is, I need your opinion."

John quickly typed in a caption, informing the public and his followers that he was reluctantly helping a friend with a post-birthday, clothes shopping spree, before turning back to Molly and shrugging a shoulder, "It looks nice."

Molly dropped her hands from her hips and let her jaw hang open, feigning utter astonishment, "Nice? That's the best you can do?"

Sighing and letting out an exasperated laugh, John put down his phone and observed Molly, eyeing how the color compared to her eyes, how the bodice fit her figure, how the shape of the dress suited her thin frame.

"Too loud," he began, shaking his head and biting his lip, getting to his feet and running a hand swiftly through his hair, "I wouldn't go with red. Try something yellow, maybe? Yellow fits you."

Molly smiled timidly and nodded, slipping away and back into the dressing room to remove the dress, sliding the curtain across behind her.

Happy with himself, John leaned back once more, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a sigh, "Hey Molls?"

The small, gentle voice emanated from behind the thick fabric door, "Yeah?"

"How about dress advice for boy advice?"

Molly's head immediately appeared at the edge of the fitting room, her pale, bare neck extended as she arched a brow at John, "Boy advice?"

"Not like that," He huffed, rolling his eyes and looking away, a blush tinting his features, "As in, Sherlock."

Molly smirked and disappeared once more, fumbling further with the clothes she'd been wearing when she walked into the overpriced store, "Sherlock Holmes?"

John nodded and stared blankly down at his hands, fingers messing blindly with the fringe of his hooded, rugby sweatshirt, "The one and only."

"Don't know much about him except that he's sculpted like a bloody Greek statue. Why?"

John felt his cheeks redden at the statement and swallowed, shrugging to himself and placing a hand on the back of his neck.

"I wanna," He began, sighing shyly, "I don't know, be his friend, I guess."

The small girl reemerged, expertly tying her hair up in a brown ponytail, dressed now in blue jeans and a pale pink, baggy sweater that hung limply just past her waist.

"I was wondering what you were up to," Molly chuckled, checking herself in the mirror, "I saw you two having lunch together."

John scoffed and nodded, scowling at the floor and shaking his head, "Yeah, Wilkes thoroughly buggered that up for me."

Molly hummed sympathetically and grabbed for her purse, motioning for John to follow as they slid out of the dressing room hallway and back into the calm of casual shoppers meandering around Molly's favorite store.

"He's a bit mysterious," She added, approaching a rack of clothing and flipping through the hangers.

"I guess," John cleared his throat, leaning up against one of the large shelves, of which held folded, multicolored skinny jeans, and placing his fists in his sweatshirt pockets.

"Not in a bad way, just as in, no one knows all that much about the lad," She shrugged, "only that he's super smart and does that deduction thing."

John nodded and let out a sharp, degrading laugh, "Yeah, and yet they still torment him."

Molly sighed, shooting him an apologetic look of empathy before continuing her search for something appealing and yellow.

"What is the deduction thing anyway?" John asked, narrowed his eyes as he frowned. Mike and his friends had mentioned it before, always saying how he knew things he shouldn't, and that he saw things no one should be able to see. Hell, the whole school was practically terrified of it.

Molly turned to him just slightly and shrugged a small, bony shoulder, "Well, apparently he looks at you and picks up on little details no one would really think to notice, ya know?"

John hummed and bobbed his head in understanding, his brows furrowing as he thought about it; it made sense, why people wouldn't particularly like that, but it merely made John all the more excited - Sherlock Holmes was a wonder, a puzzle he wished to solve.

"I don't think he trusts me," John began, looking at Molly with a genuine, open expression, eyes somewhat saddened as he explained, "at least not enough to truly be himself."

"Well you can't blame him," Molly stopped flipping through hangers and turned to him, crossing her arms and biting her lip in thought, "I'm sure with how most people treat him he doesn't necessarily take to strangers."

With a bit more determination, John nodded, moving steadily around Molly to continue her search while the two talked, fingers gliding past uninteresting garments, "I need to show him. Somehow, you know? That I'm not an arse, that I'm, I don't know, an average human being."

Molly snorted and grabbed at a dress John skipped past, yanking it from the metal rack as she smirked at him, "I don't think he necessarily wants average."

John rolled his eyes and followed as she turned back towards the dressing room, guiding the both of them once more into the little hallway where she yet again disappeared into the fitting area.

"But really, Molly," He laughed exhaustedly, "any ideas?"

He heard Molly hum from behind the curtain as she began slipping on the yellow cocktail dress, "Alright, well, how much do you know about him?"

John scoffed and chewed on his bottom lip, "Basically only that he watches my videos and -"

"Hang on," Molly interrupted, giggling to herself, "He's a fan? Of you?"

John blushed, looking down as he listened to her laugh across from him, feeling his lips curve upwards in a proud smile, "Yeah, well. I'm just that good I guess."

Molly snickered, poking her head out again and giving him a cheeky grin, "You're irresistible, it seems."

John flushed and turned away, shaking his head and feigning a scowl, "Shut up, Hooper."

"You're such a worry wort," She squeaked in amusement, ducking back into the changing room, "Just give him your mobile number."

"Isn't that kind of," John bit his lip, "flirtatious?"

Molly reappeared draped in the petite, yellow dress, its skirt flowing out behind her, whilst the blouse stuck tight to her figure. "Only," She spun around in the mirror before turning to wink at him, "if you want it to be."

With a huff, John slammed back against the wall, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Molly giggled and twirled, admiring her reflection carefully. When she caught her breath, running a finger behind her ear to tuck away loose strands, she faced John, biting her lip and shrugging, "So?"

John nodded, "Definitely yellow."

...

Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror, scowling at the softening blues and purples and the emerging greens and yellows of his black eyes. Disgusting, he thought to himself. Bruises didn't exactly help his freakish looks, or diminish the attention he didn't want. At least it was fading.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he yanked his backpack up from the bathroom floor and hoisted it back onto his shoulder, only to lean back down again and drag his duffle bag upwards as well. He was officially shooting his video today. Luckily, Ms. Hudson found an empty session for him. She'd been happy to oblige his needs, of course only after scolding him on the sleep he didn't get last night.

He had been brainstorming - and that meant he'd had no time for sleep - and he had told her such, which was why he could practically hear her frown through his mobile phone. But he continued to express to her that the sooner he got his new video done - his new scheme, his new sound, his new design - the better, and she had reluctantly delivered him a stamp of approval for the use of her dance studio.

Ms. Hudson didn't exactly know about what he did. She knew he recorded his dances, and she knew it was important to him, but she didn't know to what extent he used said videos for. He was almost certain she thought he was using them as footage for recruiting universities or dance programs. He did however, as a 'thank you' for allowing him to use her studio, send her small portions of his original dances, sometimes by email or on a disc in the mail, seeing as how Ms. Hudson wasn't exactly a very tech-savvy human being. She loved them endlessly and would continuously express just how talented he was, admiring his footwork and movements in the most admirable of technical manners possible. If there was ever one person Sherlock would admit to loving, it would certainly be Ms. Hudson.

Ignoring his gruesomely hideous face in the mirror, he held both bags by their straps, one on each shoulder, and made his way out of one of Baker's ever-so-not-clean restrooms, angrily hauling the heavy door open, only to run directly into another human being, sending himself suddenly tumbling backwards. He caught his balance on the white bathroom wall and looked up, glare in place, ready to snap some arduous insult and be on his way, only to freeze on the spot, John Watson standing there, blue eyes apologetically wide as he lifted his hands in a playful surrender.

"Easy there," he chuckled, a warm smile on his face, "Alright?"

Sherlock blinked; there was the bronze hair again, and the pink cheeks and the plush lips and the white teeth, all put together in one utterly complete masterpiece atop a canvas of perfection.

He was losing it, Sherlock Holmes was losing it. Someone call 999 before it's too late.

Realizing he was expected to say something, he cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, looking down and away from those oceanic irises and trying to head towards the door once more.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, readjusting his bag straps before stepped forwards and around John, only to feel a hand grip his shoulder, sending him into a nearly violent flinch, his entire body tensing for what his mind shouted as, 'John is just like them, he's going to hit you, watch him hit you, and he'll enjoy it to, here it comes, freak.'

He shut his eyes tight, only to feel the touch slowly soften to a simple placement of hand, skin warming him through the soft fabric of his white dress shirt. He glanced up at John of whom was staring down at him in concern, blue puddles of distress shining down upon his pale, blank expression.

"What happened to your eye?"

Sherlock blinked; he didn't know? Clearly he knew. Was he teasing him? Probably, maybe, yes, no? It angered Sherlock, as much as he never wanted to be angry at those blue, innocent eyes or that warm, currently missing, smile.

Was John completely oblivious? Or did Wilkes tell him what he'd done and ask John to go pester him about it? Or perhaps, which couldn't possibly be logical, John was concerned? No. John was kind yes, caring sure, polite of course, but that didn't mean he was concerned. And certainly not for Sherlock's well being, right?

Unable to think of a decent answer - did he want to be rude, honest, in-denial? - Sherlock simply shook his head and tried to push past the other boy, eager to get out of the uncomfortable and terribly tense situation, but John only reached out and grabbed his shoulder again, those nimble fingers searing like hot metal against his skin.

Sherlock froze, facing the handle of the bathroom door and swallowing his outrage and fear, the combination of both sticking thickly in his throat as he heard John take a step closer, breathing shallow and almost uneasy.

"Sherlock," John's voice beckoned, soft and careful and gentle, "hey."

Sherlock instantly shrugged his hand off at the piteous tone and scowled, glaring over his shoulder and snapping, "Ask your friends," before yanking the door open and exiting into the busy corridor of secondary school students.

He bit his lip hard as he practically sprinted to his next class, half of him heavy with regret, the other grasping on to some form of self-pride. He shouldn't have even said anything. He never should have said anything.

Fuck it all.

...

"John!"

The rugby captain jolted in his seat, his head spinning to meet eyes with James Sholto, of whom was currently watching him with a somewhat confused and wholly irritated expression as he huffed, "Are you even listening?"

John hadn't been, whatsoever, because, to him, at this very moment, watching a skinny, ethereal boy with curly hair huddle up in his thick sweater and scribble in his odd notebook, was far more intriguing than listening to another one of Sholto's mundane ex-girlfriend stories.

Swallowing thickly and glancing up at James, John took a sip of his water bottle, leaving his school lunch untouched, and hummed to himself, muttering a soft, "'Course."

Sholto rolled his eyes and continued on with his sob story of how she - Christie? Rachel? Jessica? - never even gave him a blowjob during the six weeks they were dating.

John knew about the majority of his friends, though sometimes he didn't enjoy calling them that. He knew that they were rude, and arrogant, and untrustworthy. He also knew that they were judgmental, and close-minded, and, he did in fact know, that they were bullies. The worst kind, verbal and physical; the kind you see on television that practically keeps you from wanting to attend secondary school. And he'd known for a while that Sherlock, mysteriously calm and collected Sherlock, was one of their victims. Hell, honestly he seemed to be everyone's victim. And as much as John hated it, he didn't exactly know how to stop it.

"Hello fags," Wilkes' voice shot up over Sholto's ridiculous tale, as he slammed his tray of food down and smirked at the other boys sat before him. John glanced up for only a moment, taking his the sour-faced boy, before he stared down at his lonely grilled cheese and oddly shaped apple, trying his best to ignore the disgusting mouth of someone he unfortunately was forced to share his space with.

"Sebbo," James laughed and clapped him on the back, Mike and Sebastian Moran doing the same, whilst Greg seemed thoroughly caught up in something on his mobile.

"Guess who just scored in the library," Wilkes grinned wickedly, pointing his thumbs at himself and cackling under his breath, low and unsettling.

Lestrade lifted his head, eyes narrowed at the dark-haired boy and one brow arched in confusion, "What, is there some kind of sale going on?"

John smiled to himself, shaking his head and lifting apple to his lips. Gregory Lestrade - always sweet but terribly oblivious.

"No, wanker," Sebastian Wilkes snapped, his nose scrunching as though the very idea of books insulted his integrity, "as in Abigail Walker. You know, the slut with the pigtails?"

John closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, and looking away, trying his best to remain cool, his chest practically swelling with red, hot rage as he listened to the cold, ignorantly arrogant voice of a boy he'd very much like to beat to a pulp.

"No bloody way," Sholto wheezed, face crinkling with amusement as he stared up at Wilkes, expression almost awed by his presence, "I've been trying to convince her since the start of the semester."

John put down his apple and swallowed thickly. Were his ears steaming? Felt like it.

Mike Stamford shook his head at their conversation, leaning across the table and scoffing loudly, "What'd you do, Seb? Sway her with your good looks and charms?

Wilkes snickered and spread his arms wide in an audacious gesture, grinning wide and arching a dark eyebrow, "Obviously."

John stood up, grabbing his tray of food and school bag and leaving the table, heading directly for that special booth tucked away in the back of the cafeteria where a special someone sat arched over the same, tattered notebook he seemed to always be scribbling in. Within a few seconds, John was placing his school lunch down directly across from Sherlock Holmes, and sitting with a huff, removing his red backpack and shoving it on the floor beside him.

Unreadable, multi-colored eyes shot up to gaze widely at him, and that same notebook was once again thrown shut. Neither of them said a word as John quickly began eating his apple again, forcing down his irritation as to not scare Sherlock away, the boy currently watching John with a rather terrified and confused expression.

Swallowing, John smiled, as warm and as friendly as he could at the curly-haired boy, the bruise between his brow and eye practically taunting him, tingling his nerves with self-hate and pity, knowing deep down that one of the people he spent most of his school hours with put that mark right there, on those pale, innocent features. John inwardly shook his head - Molly was right. He was worrying too much; why couldn't he just do it, say it, speak it out, loud and clear?

"Do you want to hang out?"

John watched as Sherlock practically paled at the question, brows nearly disappearing behind that hairline of curls, and mouth opening just slightly as he narrowed his eyes.

"I," He began and them seemingly started to change his mind, shaking his head and pursing his lips, "Sorry?"

John shrugged, eager to keep himself together, and cleared his throat, "It's nearly the weekend. Most people do stuff on the weekend, ya know?" He took another bite of his apple.

Sherlock swallowed and looked down shyly at his closed notebook, a red tint blooming across his cheeks and somewhat boosting John's self-confidence - not to mention how adorable it was.

"I'm not most people."

John smiled widely and lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, "I know."

Sherlock glanced up with open eyes, the strange nature of their color swarming in both confusion and uncertainty before he inhaled sharply and shook his head, running a hand through his curls, "I can't."

John was most definitely on to the shy, anti-social boy, and he quickly smirked, "Why not?"

Sherlock blinked and noticeably swallowed, glancing away for a moment as if to think before turning back to John once more, "Chores, homework, other such plans."

John grinned, and watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if the other boy couldn't see straight through his facade, as if he wasn't aware Sherlock was eager to dodge the bullet of socialization.

"So many excuses," John huffed playfully, eyeing the boy with a careful, gentle expression and observing as his entire face lifted in an amused smile, his eyes downcast as he realized he wasn't fooling anyone, and certainly not John.

"Maybe," Sherlock added and timidly glanced down at his hands, chewing on his bottom lip to hold back an even wider grin.

Plan B, then, John mused and grunted softly as he leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table and looking directly at Sherlock's guarded features.

"Can I borrow your phone?" John asked, arching a brow and trying, desperately, to hold back his sneaky smirk.

"My phone?"

John nodded, "Left mine at home."

Sherlock arched a brow and then frowned, reaching into his pocket and handing over the mobile rather uneasily, clearing his throat and shyly refusing to meet John's eye, "Don't run away with it."

John was aware Sherlock probably didn't trust him, but he'd prove to him his intentions were purely innocent.

John carefully took the phone with a bob of his head and a smile and quickly started it up, following through with his ingenious plan, before handing the cell back and grinning openly, grabbing for his backpack and getting to his feet, leaving his tray but grabbing his half-eaten apple.

"Thanks," He beamed and watched as Sherlock gingerly took back the mobile, swallowing nervously and gazing at John with a rather desperate look, as though he was terribly confused and tired of it.

John readjusted his bag and cleared his throat, winking at Sherlock - unsure as to why, perhaps his confidence was simply in overload - and turning to leave, glancing over his shoulder as the bell rang and he began to walk towards the exit, "Talk to ya later, Sherlock."

...

Sherlock swallowed, blinking down at the phone still in his hands, the students around him gathering up their belongings and heading towards their next classes, his heart beating far too rapidly against the confines of his ribcage. What had just happened?

Scoffing to himself, he glanced down at his mobile and tapped the screen, boosting it to life and revealing his text messages. There, before him, portrayed in glowing letters on his phone's screen, was the contact name John, and, within a conversation, one text sent from his own phone to what could only be a certain rugby captain's. A small, winking emoticon.

Sherlock looked up at the doors John had exited through and smiled wide, biting his inner cheek to keep from being noticed as he came to the realization of what John had done. Smirking, he leaned down to put his notebook away, only to hear his phone buzz against the lunch table. He zipped up his bag and stood, glancing down at the screen once more and narrowing his eyes.

Told you you'd talk to me later. ;)

Sherlock blushed and rolled his eyes, tucking his phone away into his jeans' pocket and heading for his next class, hoping, deep deep down, that there was no double meaning to this, that John genuinely had wanted his number, had really truly wanted to spend time with him, and that he wouldn't turn out to be like everyone else.

...

John shut his bedroom door behind him, smiling softly to himself as he put down his school bag and rugby gear and ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He went about his after-rugby-practice routine and headed for the bathroom he shared with Harry, locking the door behind him and turning the shower nozzle to hot, stripping down and quickly sliding past the curtain and under the spray of water. He'd gotten to boss around Wilkes and Sholto today, much to his utmost joy, and on top of it all, he'd been successful with Sherlock - well, somewhat successful. He'd sneakily managed to obtain the boy's phone number, but the part that worried him was whether or not Sherlock had even wanted it.

He ran his hands through his now soap clad hair, and sighed. He was acting like a lovesick schoolboy - which he wasn't, lovesick of course. Sure, he thought Sherlock was rather adorable, beautiful honestly, with those incandescent eyes and curls that swooped like melted chocolate, and the snowy white flawlessness of his skin, but - well, he wasn't gay.

John blinked and swallowed. Hell, he was having trouble even convincing himself.

He finished up in the shower and quickly headed back to his room, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips as he approached his dresser, quickly changing into a pair of baggy sweatpants and choosing to remain shirtless.

He spent the rest of his night pondering, and worrying; thinking about Sherlock, about his mostly horrid friends, about new video ideas, about his channel in general - he brainstormed and considered new things and did every bit of it with theballetbee's compositions on shuffle. And when he got cozy under his bed covers, body exhausted and mind officially worn out, he saw a small message notification appear atop his mobile screen.

Good night, John. -SH

John had never smiled so wide.

Good night, Sherlock.