(A/N: Wow, this story has surpassed 2000 hits! I'm impressed! Thank you all for reading this! I am so grateful for the reads and the follows and the favourites! It means so much to me that people are actually reading my crap!

If anyone has any ideas or suggestions for things they'd like to see, feel free to message me! I've already appeased a couple of friends, because it seems everyone's ideas are better than my own! ;p

Hope you enjoy this chapter of crap!)

It started out that Sherlock followed John around. However, John, fascinated by Sherlock's deductions, soon became the one trailing Sherlock around. Very convenient, as Sherlock was not finished with John. "Brilliant!" "Fantastic!" or "Amazing!" John would always marvel.

This was strange to Sherlock. Most people told him to piss off. It was awfully nice, though, the change.

John had this scent. Sherlock couldn't quite pinpoint it. It reminded him of home, for some reason, even though Sherlock's own home smelled of leather and books and wood polish. John smelled comforting. Everything about John was comforting. It was almost totally alien to Sherlock. He always knew Greg as blue jeans and t-shirts, rugby and bad jokes, not to mention whining and crap telly. He knew everything there was to know about Greg, and, although they were still friends, Greg became boring.

John was ugly jumpers, ratty shoes, jam, neat hair, and, above all, mystery.

So one day at school, while ignoring the shouts of "Gay!" "Homos!" and "Freak!", Sherlock made a proposition.

"John, you've been to my residence. Why don't I visit yours?"

"Sherlock, that's crazy!" John practically shouted. Well, "spluttered" is more accurate.

"Oh? And how is that?"

John blushed. "Well, er, my home is very small, and uh..."

Sherlock snorted. "Like the size of your home, presumably a flat, is going to deter me? Preposterous. Even you should be able to come up with a better excuse than that, John Watson. Are you really that ashamed of what you have- or what you don't have, might I say?"

"Hold on there, Holmes! "

Sherlock ignored the comment and said, "Oh, come now, John, do you really think it's fair?"

"Ha! Fair? Do you really care about it being fair?"

"But Jaaaawwnn..."

John sighed. "Fine, but please try and be less of an arse to my mum. And no breaking shit. Seriously."

"Hey, you two!" another voice chimed in. Greg. "Having a lovers' spat?"

"Greg, would you please quit that shit? It is getting so old, and frankly-"

Greg held a hand up. "Slow down, John. I was only kidding. So what are our plans lately, hmm?"

"Actually," Sherlock started, "I was planning on visiting John's abode after school today."

"After school today? Sherlock, I never agreed to to-"

Greg cut John off and said, "Oh-ho! Meeting the parents, then? Finally getting to that stage? I thought we'd already reached that one!" Greg raised his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Christ, Greg, quit being a twat, and get your dirty nose out of-"

"John, please, calm down," Sherlock said. He noticed John's face was getting quite red. "Temper, temper. We mustn't waste our energy before our chemistry test. Come along now, John. We can't be late. Greg, you should probably get to your class too. Which was it, Care and Feeding of Sharp Wit? I'm sure you'll need it..."

"Whatever," Greg mumbled, and rushed off to class, leaving Sherlock to tug John down the hall by his arm.

"Sherlock, fuck, quit gripping my arm, that kind of hurts, you know."

And Sherlock ignored him.

(..)

Sherlock was breezing through the dull chemistry test (he'd learned this stuff when he was eight) when he felt something pelt his back. And another something. And another. He rolled his eyes and turned around. A sharply folded bit of paper promptly hit him in the nose. And another on his cheek. And another on his forehead. Sally Donovan was the perpetrator. She had a sneer plastered across her face.

"Read them, freak!" she hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and gathered all the projectiles. Unphased, he unfolded them, one by one. Written on each one was some sort of an insult in bubbly handwriting.

Freak.

Gay.

Homos.

Don't forget the condoms!

Does your mum know?

Didn't think he was your type.

Sherlock snorted and pushed the notes aside. The instructor glared at him. He gave her a big, fake smile. He finished the test and spied on John. John's brow was furrowed as he wrote out what seemed to be a novel. John jumped when a paper projectile hit his mid-back. He looked around, and then huffed. He opened the note, read it, and his eyebrows shot up. He blushed, and then pushed it away. He went back to his paper but Sally kept pelting John with the projectiles. Sherlock merely looked on with amusement. John tried to ignore the projectiles hitting his back, but every time one hit him, he twitched. When John was finished with his test, he read all the notes, his eyebrows raising more and his blush deepening with each one.

After class, John caught up with Sherlock. "The hell was that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Sally Donovan."

"Bitch. She does this often?"

"Afraid so. What did she said to you?"

John blushed, yet again. "'Don't catch an STD.' 'Be safe.' 'Are you top or bottom?'" His voice got softer and softer. "'Does your daddy know?'"

Sherlock patted his short friend (Are we friends now? Sherlock wondered) on the shoulder briefly and awkwardly. "I find it best to just ignore people like her."

John sighed. "I guess. Not really easy."

"Oh, it gets easier. Now, about your mum. What's her name? I want to say it's something related to nature."

"It's Violet. Look, can we not discuss my mum right now? I need to get to class. Meet me at the quad after the final bell."

Sherlock smiled. "Sure, John. Anything."

(A/N: Oh my god. If you have reached this point, I am sincerely sorry. That was absolutely awful. Again, thanks for tolerating me. And feel free to contact me!)