He had always fascinated John the way he was so detached, how did he do it, how could he not care. But for all John knew he might care. He had only ever seen him from a distance. Seen him leaning against the wall of the corridor, seen him sitting at the back of class, seen him at another table at dinner.
Sherlock looked down the long gloomy corridor. God he hated his place. It was full of idiots, fools all of them. Laughing happily, didn't they understand? John was the biggest idiot of all. Walking around like there was nothing else in the world. Like he didn't exist. Always smiling, he didn't understand the pain that existed in this world. He didn't know what Sherlock knew.
I wonder if he is lonely, he doesn't seem to have friends. But he was never far from Johns thoughts. It wasn't as if John wanted to think about him, or, or maybe he did. There didn't seem to be a moment sleeping or awake that his face wasn't in Johns mind. His brooding expression, what was it hiding, what didn't he want everyone else to see.
There he was again, with his friends. Oblivious, that's what he was. Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that came over him when he saw John. A kind of aching, was it longing. It couldn't be, Sherlock had never felt anything or anyone, ever. He prided himself on his detachment from sentiment, his lack of emotion. But John was ruining that.
Isolated. That was how john would describe him, but he couldn't help but wonder if he longed for something more, for someone to share something with. John didn't like to admit it but he wanted to be that person, to be the only one he connected with, the only one he allowed in. God he would have given anything to stop feeling like this, or would he, what if he wanted to feel like this.
He was clouding his thoughts, his judgement; he was slow and sluggish, like there was something stopping him. Every time Sherlock tried to shake the feeling it came back stronger tightening its grip on him. It was no use denying it anymore, he wanted to know more, know what it felt like. Curiosity.
Was it just his imagination or was he seeing Sherlock lurking around more often. Leaning on John's locker, staring at him across classrooms. No he was seeing things; Sherlock had never shown any interest in anyone before. Why would he start now and why would he pick John.
The metal was cool against his skin. Not long now. Eyes fixed on the door Sherlock tried to control his breathing. God, what was this feeling in the very pit of this stomach. How much longer could it take, the seconds slid slowly by, torturing him. His every sense seemed amplified, every noise made his heart flutter. Was he really going to do this?
John pushed open the door, that when he was him. Leaning against the lockers, just a few meters away. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on him, like he was prey. John found himself walking towards the tall, lean form of Sherlock Holmes. His footsteps echoed thought the empty hall way each step taking him closer.
Sherlock waited and watched. Watched as john made his way slowly towards him. He couldn't believe what he was a about to do. As john reached him Sherlock stepped forward blocking John's path. The shorter boy looked up at him rich blue eyes locking with his own.
That was when it happened. John had never thought it would, but here he was staring straight into those ice blue eyes, those lonely eyes. Up close Sherlock was even more captivating up close, with his high cheek bones and perfect bowstring lips, he was almost too beautiful to look at. John was so mesmerized that he hardly noticed as Sherlock carefully placed his hands on his face. His grip was strong but gentle at the same time and before john knew what was happening Sherlock pressed those perfect lips to his.
It was like an explosion in slow motion, like his whole body had been lifted. It was everything he wanted and more, John's lips were warm and soft, their pressure against his made Sherlock's knees week. John's hand were on him now moving from his shoulders up his neck every spot his fingers touched tingled with pleasure.
John wound his finger into the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck his grip tightening as Sherlock's lips moved almost frantically against his own. Those strong hands cupped his face like they never wanted to let go. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, he was gone. John opened his eyes but he wasn't there the only sign that Sherlock Holmes had ever been there was door swinging closed at the end of the corridor.