A/Note: Enjoy two chapters almost in a row (last night and this morning). A little surprise this time, as the plot thickens. ;)

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7. Lovers' lane

The following month was hellish for Sherlock. The date had gone extremely (excruciatingly) well and John was in love. Sherlock covered his ears and yelled that he didn't want to hear the details, "too much ugh-y information John!" Maggie was always at John's side, so he really didn't have time alone with him anymore. More often than not John would cancel their training so he could spend more time with her on the weekends. Who had he been kidding? John would always be in demand, either by a girlfriend or his numerous other friends. He was only Sherlock, the freak, the loner.

And to make matters worse, Sebastian was back to being annoying. He hadn't tried anything ever since the fight, but now had adopted the tactic of making remarks regarding Sherlock's sexuality, while the others laughed and joined in. As usual, he simply ignored them. As long as they didn't try to beat him, it was all fine.

Rugby season was in full gear, so Sherlock found himself with no other alternative but to attend the boring games, usually in cold and miserable weather, just so he could see John (desperation, more like it). He wouldn't admit it, but he was actually enjoying watching them. John looked adorable in his kit, he was very skilled and his thighs were magnificent. He almost wished he could play, just so he could tackle John himself.

He didn't like seeing John getting hurt and always struggled with the urge of running down to the pitch whenever he got under a pile-up. Yet, Sherlock felt a strong surge of pride whenever John showed minute signs of being in some amount of pain on the following day, but never complained or asked for pity. Most people didn't even notice it. He just took it stoically.

What impressed Sherlock the most though, was that by watching the games he understood why John was chosen to be captain. It wasn't just because he was liked; clearly he was the best player in the team. With a second's glance around the pitch he was able to make quick decisions and call out plays that led to tries and those, more often than not, led to victories. But more than anything, rugby brought out a different side of John he hadn't seen before. He had leadership skills that showed on the field. He had a commanding presence that came out naturally.

He liked that.

...

A few weeks later, Sherlock saw something disturbing: Allan was in the audience, in camouflage uniform. Ironic how a pattern supposed to make one blend in with the environment and disappear only made Allan stand out like a red flag.

Allan looked even stronger now, more grown up and, Sherlock had to admit, dashing and handsome in his fatigues. He attracted a lot of attention, everybody still remembered his time as the team captain. There were a lot of people who wanted to talk to him, especially the girls. Yet, he kept his eyes on the field. John had also seen him, and would glance in Allan's direction from time to time with a furrowed brow.

Afterwards, Allan spent some time in the locker room, talking to the coach and the team. It angered Sherlock to think he was using this opportunity to watch John undress and shower. He had never been that blatant and disrespectful himself (that one time was unintentional). Then everybody gathered outside and talked of going out to celebrate the win and catch up with Allan. John held Maggie's hands, but she was smiling and shaking her head. They exchanged a goodbye peck as Allan watched them surreptitiously.

Sherlock saw John clearly looking for him too, in seemingly a plea for help. He was torn for a moment, all he wanted was to go to him. But something rooted him to the spot, something that twisted his insides. Instinct kicked in and somehow he understood he would regret having to face his rival (but can you call him a rival when you are not a contestant yourself?). He would never be able to just sit and watch Allan eating John with his eyes without exposing him - and therefore his own best friend - to the whole team. He would never be able to keep his mouth shut. John would never speak to him again.

Most of the team went to a café nearby and Sherlock followed and watched from the outside. John lingered a bit, waiting for the others to sit, so he could take a spot farther from Allan (good!). All of them spoke animatedly, while John would smile and even chuckle a bit from time to time. He kept trying to distract himself, but his eyes always landed back on Allan. Who in turn laughed and told stories, joked with his former mates, but always kept his head turned towards mainly one direction.

The others slowly trickled out, until there were only the coach, Allan and John left. Eventually all three stood up, said their goodbyes and parted, the coach going in the opposite direction, alone. Sherlock was right behind them, in the shadows.

They talked and laughed, strolling with their hands in their pockets. They walked up to Allan's car and something changed in their postures. There was an awkward air to them. John leaned against the car and Allan faced him. John's chest visibly moved, and he kept looking to either side as they talked, his forehead crinkling. Allan stood motionless, his chest also moving, his eyes never leaving John's face. After some time, John lowered his head, swallowed and nodded. Both got in and drove off.

Sherlock panicked, he hadn't counted on them driving away. So he did the only thing he could think of: it was time to put some of the other skills he had learned with Mr. Bart to use. This was an emergency, after all. First he looked around for an older car with the right kind of lock. Then he ran to it, ripped one of his shoelaces off, made a small loop in the middle, inserted into the door like dental floss and pulled the lock up. Once inside, he pulled out his multi-purpose tool and unceremoniously broke the ignition - there was no time for fiddling with the wires. Using the flat screwdriver, he started the car.

He drove quickly, and soon spotted their car in the distance. Allowing a discreet space between them, he followed. They seemed to be just driving around aimlessly and slowly.

After about fifteen minutes, the car started driving out of town. His stomach dropped when Allan slowed down and parked in a dark area between the trees. He drove past them, but couldn't see anything. He parked a bit further down the road and got out. It took him a while to walk back to their car; his shoe kept coming off - there was no time to put the shoelace back in place - and yet, he had to move carefully so as to not make too much noise. This only increased his sense of urgency and despair: the distance, the time, the separation, the not knowing.

It was nauseating. He hated not knowing. He had to know.

He crouched. His eyes were used to the dark by now, but there was nothing to see: all the windows were fogged up. He jumped; John's hand had just slammed against the rear passenger window, and the car was shaking ever so slightly, in a clear rhythm. The hand's position indicated that John was reclining on his back, alongside the backseat. He didn't know how long it lasted, but it felt like an eternity. The hand had come down, and after another interminable wait, the car started and drove off.

Sherlock stood there in the dark, shivering. His hands shook as he lit up a cigarette.

...

The following day the police found a stolen car abandoned in a deserted area just outside town. 'Most likely teenagers taking it for a joyride,' they said. 'Buggers ruined the ignition.' No fingerprints were found.