The Easter holidays soon came and went. John hadn't told Sherlock about his brother visiting him, but he was still mulling over the conversation, and recently he had started to feel anxiety in an almost physical way, as if uncountable ants strolled up and down his torso and his legs, without any real hassle, just being there, but the feeling was driving him slowly crazy. At school, he was under the impression that everybody had their eyes on him, and that every gossip had him and Sherlock as the centre of the talk. Hence he couldn't be more glad when the two weeks break arrived.

Of course every moment spent with Sherlock was worth it. He had progressed a lot with the self-defence practical lessons in the gym, and now he could throw John easily or pin him down on the floor with no effort. For sheer luck, it seemed that Adrian's clique had been too busy, or too watched over by the teachers, to approach Sherlock during that period of time, for which John was grateful, since it had given Sherlock time to get ready to face them. John was sure that, the next time they felt the need to show off their physical superiority as a group, his young man would stand his ground and perhaps he would even give them a hard time.

Sherlock. John sighed and messed his already greyish short hair. The thought of his young boyfriend always elicited the same reaction from him, a great deal of sighing and starting to fiddle uncomfortably on his chair.

He already knew the boy was a tease, but hell! That had escalated quickly. One look at those bright greenish eyes, and he was lost. Every day it was more and more difficult to control himself and stop before things got too heated, and Sherlock was demanding and petulant and wouldn't be satisfied with just a couple of kisses. John knew things will end being like this, of course he knew, and it made him feel more sad than sexually frustrated. He decided taking a little break from seeing Sherlock every day was also welcomed.

The teen was infuriated when John told him he was going to spend his holidays with some army friends: they were going to Scotland to visit a member of the old troop, Nick with his only leg, and then they were going camping near a lake. Sherlock pressed his lips together until they were only a white line. They were in the middle of the crowded corridor, so he refrained to say anything and simply started to walk away fast, putting distance between John and himself with his long strides. John watched him go feeling a sharp pain in his chest.

They started the holidays writing each other in a light mood, though, to John's relief. By day four, he missed Sherlock so much that he was tempted to ask him to meet face to face. But in the end, he contented himself just phoning him. Hearing his voice on the phone was calming at first, he could just lie down on his bed, close his eyes and imagine Sherlock right there, sitting with him on his bed and looking at him with that enthusiastic gleam he had when he started to talk about chemistry, or crimes. After a while, the amount of innuendos ruined the amusing mood, and John, already half hard, had to hang up before Sherlock suggested having phone sex. This boy will be my ruin, he thought as soon as he was off the phone, dipping his hand inside his underwear with Sherlock's slender neck on his mind.

By the second week of holidays, though, the whassapp messages started to be scarcer, to John's concern. Although being in the countryside, he insisted on texting Sherlock every time they stopped to rest (to his friends' amusement, who had started to tease him until he confessed he was "dating a very special person"). But Sherlock's answers started to take longer every time, and instead of a steady conversation, they were having a total of three messages a day, separated by hours. He didn't pick up his phone calls, either, and if John wouldn't have been in the middle of Scotland that last week, he would have given up in his resolution and would have run to Sherlock's house at once, so worried he was by his change of behaviour.

When he came back to London, though, he hesitated. He felt calmer and more right on his mind being in his city, and he tried to focus on his resolve: he wasn't going to see Sherlock until the next Monday, at school. It was only a weekend away. He sure could survive two days more without seeing his boyfriend, right? Besides, this break was a test of sorts for them, or at least he had planned it as one. It wouldn't be a good idea to stop it now.

The phone call made him jump. Sherlock!, he thought, running up the stairs to retrieve his mobile before the ringtone stopped. The number on the screen wasn't Sherlock's though, but an unknown one. Swallowing down his disappointment, John answered, trying to calm down his laboured breath.

"Yes?"

"John Watson? Doctor John Watson?"

The voice at the phone was raspy and completely unknown to John. At the other side of the line there was a great deal of noise, especially voices, like if they were calling from a busy office. John's heart missed a beat when he recognised one of the voices in the background. Sherlock!

"Yes, it's me! Who's that?"

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. I am under the impression that you are well acquaintances with a young man called Sherlock Holmes…"

"Indeed I am. What has he done?"

The raspy voice chuckled.

"Why don't you come over here and I start to give you a list?"

And, of course, John found himself stepping in a small office inside the New Scotland Yard premises less than half an hour later.

The office had glass and metal walls, so once inside it seemed like if they were still in the middle of the big and airy common office, and the door remained open, so it was still as noisy and lacking in privacy… But once he saw Sherlock sitting down at one of the two guest chairs, pouting and staring stubbornly at the wall, John couldn't give a damn about their surroundings, so concerned he was.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" he asked at once.

The man at the other side of the desk cleared his throat to attract his attention. John met his eyes with an apologetic look, and sat down at the empty chair next to Sherlock when the man prompted it with a head gesture. The cop (D.I. Lestrade, as his desk plate and his voice on the phone stated) was a man on his late forties, tan and grey-haired, with an active and good-natured air around him, highlighted by the amused grin with which he was watching them.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson! You know, I was really curious, after hearing so much about you…"

John's head turned on its own to look at Sherlock, who in turn kept staring at the wall and just huffed.

"Thank you, I wished I could say the same…" John said, feeling clueless and slightly awkward. "Ah… Mind to tell me why I am here?"

The Detective smirk grew wider as he leaned back on his chair. At least one of us is having fun, John thought with a grudge.

"I don't know if you are aware, Doctor Watson, of the fact that this clever young man here, Sherlock Holmes, has been nosing into our crime scenes for some months now… He started sending me emails with his thoughts about some crimes that had made their way into the press; that was a bit after Christmas, I think?"

"It was almost February", Sherlock mumbled, still refusing to look even remotely at them.

"Thanks for your input. February, then. Soon followed the whatsapp messages; to this day I still ignore how the hell he managed to get my personal number, and he refuses to tell me… I can't deny he is as resourceful as stubborn…" John turned to study Sherlock's profile again. The teenager insisted on his petulant behaviour, but John knew him better. Along with his haughty body language, he could also see the way Sherlock's shoulders trembled and how he tried to hide whenever he gulped. "It started to feel like being stalked, to be honest. But his observations were clever, and when last week he approached me at a crime scene to introduce himself, I was thoroughly shocked to find out he was an underage!" The Detective chuckled as if found this whole mess really funny. "Well, he sneaked away after that, but today he hasn't been as lucky. Eh, Sherlock?" The boy shrugged, stubbornly silent. Lestrade sighed and turned serious, straightening in his chair to look John in the eye. "So this is what we have here: a schoolboy who is sneaking out of home at night, without his parents' knowledge or consent, to stalk a Scotland Yard Detective; and we might add trespassing and obstruction of a police investigation to the charges we could press on him."

Sherlock's head shot up, with a betrayal look so honest on his features that John might have laughed at in other circumstances. He managed to stay serious, though, and kept watching the interaction.

"I was helping with the cases, not obstructing!" Sherlock whispered with anger.

Lestrade intertwined his hands, offering Sherlock a polite smile that felt half faked and half a winning grin.

"Messing with the crime scenes is considered obstruction, Sherlock, you surely know that". The man sighed again and leaned back. "God knows you know a lot by now. So don't ever try to pull an 'I didn't know, I am too young' excuse, because I'll know that's bullshit".

"But I have helped you! You would never have found that hairpin if I hadn't directed you to it. And you believed the feeble excuse of that Wallace man before I took it apart!"

Lestrade frowned and raised a hand to stop Sherlock's tirade. John, in turn, was speechless. When had all of that happened? Since late January, they have said… That meant when Sherlock and he had been already dating… but the boy never said a thing. They were so many implications that John didn't even know where to start worrying.

"Enough, Sherlock…" the cop cut him, and then he addressed John again. "You see how thing are? What I am supposed to do with him?"

John shook his head. He wanted to say that he was only his teacher, but his voice wouldn't come out.

"You are going to keep me around and let me help, of course", Sherlock added, uninvited. "Half your Department is made up of idiots, and some of them are even useless idiots who can't do much apart from preparing coffee and fill in reports."

"Shut. Up. I'm talking to Doctor Watson here. Unless you prefer I summon your parents." Sherlock made a show of closing his mouth, folding his arms. "Right. Just as I thought. Doctor Watson, look: Sherlock refuses to phone his parents and insists the only adult he would allow as his guardian for this case is his Chemistry teacher. You. He seems to be very fond of your teachings, both inside and outside the classroom." John gulped, trying to keep a straight face. What the hell have you tell him, Sherlock?, he wondered. "It seems you are teaching him self-defence as well; good job! Although I really hope those teachings are put to good use only against your usual bullies at school, and not out there trying to fight real criminals… Because that's where you enter, Doctor Watson. Are you willing to be responsible for Sherlock's acts while he collaborates with Scotland Yard? He says you will be in for it. If that's the case, and nothing, absolutely nothing is said out of this office, I will turn a blind eye on Sherlock if he wants to come to take a look at our crime scenes. I won't even tell his parents. But. I need to know there's an adult taking good care of him and facing the possible consequences."

"Do I have to go with him to the crime scenes?"

The Detective nodded.

"It would be advisable. I can't let an underage saunter by Scotland Yard on his own, you know. Still less come running at night where a crime has just been committed."

John watched Sherlock with the corner of his eye. The boy was staring at him with a face full of undisguised hope. He was tempted to smile, but licked his lips instead, trying to look thoughtful.

"I will."

"You are in?" Sherlock exclaimed. "I knew it! Didn't I tell you, Lestrade? It has to be him, or nobody!"

"It's D.I. Lestrade for you, boy", the Detective mumbled, annoyed. "Alright. This is all completely unofficial, of course. If something unexpected happens… I don't know any of you, I'll just do the official thing to do, calling his parents and stuff."

"That won't be necessary, I swear", Sherlock said at once.

"You keep an eye on him, then. And I mean it; this kid runs away really fast."

John nodded and shook Lestrade's hand. It seemed the interview had finished, so he stood up and Sherlock did the same. The teenager had a great smile on his face and his petulant manners of a while ago had completely vanished. Oh, this little bastard…, John sighed while walking out of the office and the building, with Sherlock walking briskly at his side.

"So", he started to say once they were at the street.

"So", Sherlock replied, grinning.

"That's what you were doing these two weeks, and that's why you were too busy to answer my messages or my phone calls."

The boy didn't say anything, and looked away. John stopped walking after a few steps, slightly annoyed, and when Sherlock noticed stopped as well, turning to look at him briefly. Glancing around, Sherlock suggested:

"There's a Starbucks over there. We can sit down and talk, if you want. That is, if you are not too scared that someone see the two of us together."

"I've just accepted to be seen with you in front of the police, remember?" John said with a smirk, and headed for the coffee shop door.

They ordered and waited for their coffees in silence, and then they chose a table at the end of the shop, hidden from the shop front. As soon as they were sat down, Sherlock started to talk.

"You are not mad because I didn't tell you about me helping Lestrade?"

Stalking would be a better word, John thought, chuckling.

"No, I'm not. I'm even a bit proud of you. No, scratch that: I'm a big deal proud of you". Sherlock beamed at these words. "But I'm also awfully worried. Sherlock, you are too young to go out at night on your own!"

Sherlock huffed and made a dismissing gesture.

"Oh, come on, John… I'm not a kid. I tell my mother I'm going to a friend's house, or to a disco, and that's fine for her. If I'm grown up enough to go to a disco, how am I too young to go to examine crime scenes at night?"

"That's… different. Your mother thinks you are going to a disco with other friends of your age… and doing things according to your age. I bet she would be horrified if she knew what you actually do!"

Sherlock leaned in, bumping his knees with John's under the narrow table.

"But you won't tell her."

"I won't. Because from now on, you will call me every time you go to a crime scene, or to Scotland Yard."

The teen leaned back again, perching his arm around the back of his chair.

"Yay. It was not what I intended for our dates, but it will certainly be perfect."

John laughed.

"Oh, shut up!" he exclaimed, grinning.

Sherlock smiled back, but soon a shadow passed through his features.

"I'm sorry that I'm forcing myself on you", he muttered softly. "That's not how I wanted our relationship to progress."

John's gaze softened and, after a quick glance around them and checking that the few customers were busy and not looking at them, he put his hand on top of Sherlock's and ran a thumb over his knuckles.

"You are not forcing yourself on me, don't think like that. It's okay."

Sherlock studied their linked hands for a moment, and then he dropped his hand to his knee with a downcast look.

"But you are still ashamed to be seen with me", he whispered.

John gasped, and fought the sudden need to hold Sherlock's shoulders and force him to look at his eyes.

"That's not what it is! Please, Sherlock, you can't believe that!"

The boy raised his face again, and stared at John with a sudden coldness.

"What's it, if not that, John? I understand that we need to be discreet at Greenwood, but you don't want to see me out of the school. This is only the second time I've got to have coffee with you out of the canteen! I'm not asking to hold hands or kiss in public, I'm not that stupid, but not even wanting to have lunch together or come to my house?"

"I can't go to your house, Sherlock! Your brother already knows, he came to see me at the school; I can't afford that your parents also…"

Sherlock cut him raising his hand.

"What? Mycroft? Mycroft came to see you? Why the hell you are telling me this only now? When did it happen?"

"Ah… A month ago, maybe? I… I didn't want to worry you."

The boy frowned and studied the contents of his empty mug.

"And what exactly did you talk about? I want the exact words, if possible."

Sherlock's voice was icy, his anger barely contained. John wetted his lips, concerned. He knew Sherlock's relationship with his brother was slightly strained, but it seemed that he loathed Mycroft's intervention still more than John had anticipated.

"He asked me to break up with you and threatened to tell your parents about it if I didn't."

"And you answered…?"

John gulped. Sherlock was still avoiding his eyes, for what John was glad. He didn't think he could face his piercing gaze at that moment.

"I told him that wouldn't be necessary. Because I was sure you would break up with me as soon as the school is over."

The teenager raised his face at hearing that, shocked, and this time it was John who stared at the table with intent.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, with a trembling voice. "Why did you tell him that? Do you really believe it?"

"I do."

"I repeat: why?"

Sherlock's voice was harsh and cold, and John felt a lump in his throat. He really didn't want to have that conversation, but perhaps it was for the best to have it as soon as possible and get rid of the issue.

"Sherlock… you are young, gorgeous and a genius. I don't have anything to offer to you outside the school. In a bunch of months, you are starting college and will make new friends and will have new experiences… as it should be. I would only weight you down."

The boy fisted his hands. John ventured a look in his direction. Sherlock was looking at him, but he doubted the teen was really seeing him. His gaze seemed far away.

"That's what you really think, John?"

The doctor nodded.

"Then I was wrong about you. I thought you knew me better than that."

And without a further word, Sherlock stood up and walked away. John almost called his name, but in the end he just closed his hands and stayed there, not even turning to watch him leave the shop. Sherlock… he called in his mind. But it's better this way, isn't it? Isn't it better?