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Chapter Text

Sherlock is late.

Again.

He glances upwards, grimacing. The sun has already started to set, midnight blue and purple and pink leaching across the sky. Sherlock would have liked to park his bicycle against a tree and sit down on the grass, have a smoke and admire it, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have the luxury of time.

He peddles faster, hands tightening around the handles, the  plastic bag of fungus swinging madly each time he rides over a rock or a ridge. If he gets caught, it’ll be detention, for the fifth time this week. And even if he doesn’t get caught, he’s going to have to climb the gate to get inside, and he hates it. He always somehow manages to rip through his shirt in the process of swinging himself over the top. 

Dust swirls behind him as he makes a sharp turn. It’s not really the detention that he hates so much (An hour of silence in an empty room sounds absolutely lovely ) but the fact that he has to sit in a room with other people; yes, that. That’s annoying. Sherlock resents the implication that his sins- sneaking out past curfew to harvest this fungus of this- are in any way similar to writing Suck a cock, Mr. Mallory on the bathroom mirrors. 

Oh, well. If he doesn’t hurry it’s going to happen anyway. He needs to be back at six fifteen, because six fifteen is when the warden goes to have a cup of tea and the gate will be blessedly empty for the precarious window of, oh, around a minute.

Sherlock is really walking a tightrope, here.

Trees fly past him, the wind slips its fingers into his hair and makes an absolute tangle of it. It’s getting cold, closer to freezing, and he only has his thin blazer. Coldness seeps through, underneath, whistles up his skin every time his shirt flutters.

About ten more minutes and he’ll be-

Some unidentifiable force sends his bicycle veering off course, and him tumbling off of it. An unmistakable pain twists his ankle as he goes sprawling. Bloody buggering fuck, that’s  a sprain. His cycle falls right on top of his foot, making him hiss loudly.

“Oi, freak, going somewhere?”

Fuck. Sherlock closes his eyes and wishes the heavens would open up and a giant light bolt would strike the owner of the voice .

Someone lifts the cycle off of his foot, but it barely provides any relief, because the next moment fingers grab him by the scruff of his neck, haul him up from the grass and then let go once he’s in some semblance of a standing position. Sherlock stumbles, pain flashing up his foot as soon as he places weight on it. 

“Three against one? Not much of a fair fight, is it,” he tells the three boys standing in front of him. Well, two. One of them is behind him, he can tell from the distinct stink of cheap whiskey. Sherlock’s hands curl into fists at his side, his body already taunt and on guard. Not that it’s going to help. He’s quick and agile enough to fight one- even two- but three sadistic bullies- one of them with a switchblade (Finnegan always carries one)- is a bit of a challenge, even for him. 

“Who said anything about fair,” Peter Finnegan tells him, grinning crookedly, raising his cigarette to his lips and taking a drag. “Heard you told McKenzie that Eric here was the one who locked Elisa in the sports supply closet.” Eric, who’s standing next to him, smiles and lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “That wasn’t very fair now was it, freak.”

Served him right, Sherlock thinks, but wisely keeps his lips pressed tightly together. He’s going to get thrashed anyway, he’d rather not increase the risk of permanent brain damage by provoking them.

Before he can actually defend himself, though, the boy behind him- Scott- grabs both his wrists and wrenches them back. Sherlock can’t help the whimper that escapes his mouth at the sudden pain. Peter smirks at him, enjoyment lighting up his features.

“Very well, then,” Sherlock mutters, tipping his chin up. Really no point struggling. “Do hurry up, though, I’m already past curfew.”

It must be permission, for all the way Eric lunges at him as soon as the words leave his mouth, and goes straight for his gut, raising his knee and launching it with full force into his abdomen. Sherlock gasps, doubling over, and he would have fallen over if not for Scott holding him up. His knees already start to buckle.

He’s going to be really late.

“You know, if you just kept your mouth shut,” Scott whispers in his ear, so close his lips brush against his skin. Revulsion rolls in his gut. “We wouldn’t have to do this.”

It’s much darker now, but he can see the bright white of Finnegan’s grin, the satisfied sparkle in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. I guess Holmes just likes being shown his place,” he leers.

Another strike; across his face this time, the sharp ridge of Eric’s knuckles catching him right at the cheekbone. Christ. He hopes it heals before the weekend, Mycroft is going to throw a fit when he sees the bruise. 

Sherlock tries to duck his head to protect his face from the blows, but that doesn’t really help much, because he can feel Scott gather both his wrists in one hand and use his other to tangle into his hair, use it as a kind of steering wheel to lift his head up, so he can take Eric’s right hook properly, right above his eye. He grunts, Eric hits him, he tries to curl in on himself but he’s not allowed the indulgence. It continues for what feels like hours. 

“Leave off,” Finnegan finally says, and Eric immediately obeys. Sherlock squints at him, as much as his one non-swollen eye can allow, and notices his knuckles are split open. Well, if that’s what he looks like…

His legs are shaky, trembling, and he can taste copper in his mouth. He watches wearily, too exhausted and in pain to even say something snarky (Sherlock never did learn to keep his mouth shut, but considering his mouth is full of blood right now, he’ll make an allowance) as Finnegan stubs the cigarette beneath his foot and then strides over to him, pushing Eric out of the way.

Finger beneath his chin, lifting his face up. He cocks his head and smiles  at him, and Sherlock can smell the alcohol. It fills his nose and makes him want to retch. “Did you learn your lesson yet? Has it sunk in yet?”

“Playing teacher is a little bit beyond your intellectual capacity, I’d wager, even if you are pretending.”

Sherlock will concede it was unnecessary of him to say that, but it’s satisfying, watching Finnegan’s confidence flicker and his grin waver, just the tiniest bit. Small victories.

Satisfying, that is, until Finnegan slips out a knife from his pocket and rests it, edge first, right against his gut, a little above the crease of his thigh. 

“Would you be persuaded to learn,” Finnegan mocks him, using a ridiculous posh accent that he must mean to mimic his, “If I sliced you up, just a little bit?”

Sherlock stills, his jaw tight. Apologise, he tells himself. Just tell him you’re sorry. He has an enormous head anyway, he’ll let you go if you flatter him, just a bit. Appeal to his god complex. 

Instead Sherlock lifts his gaze and stares right back at him, and doesn’t say a word.

Which is evidently the wrong thing to do, because a second later Finnegan’s eyes harden and Sherlock can see exactly when he makes the decision to press the blade in deeper- and he can’t run, because he’s being held- rather tightly, in fact, so he just pins his bottom lip with his teeth and he feels his abdomen tighten in anticipation-

A loud growl pierces through the air, and all four of them still.

He notices the eyes first; glittering, golden, watching them from the depths of the woods. At first he thinks it must be Lestrade’s dog. Sometimes he lets it loose in the woods to get some exercise, but he immediately tells himself that that’s not possible, because it’s past six thirty by now and he brings Roxie home before sunset. 

Growling continues; the thing steps out from the shadows, darkness clinging to its body until the dim moonlight illuminates it. Sherlock still isn’t sure what he’s looking at. 

“Jesus fuck,”  Scott whispers behind him, and if Sherlock was capable of speech, he’d say the same. 

It’s enormous. That’s the first thing his mind seems to register. Sheer size. This is definitely not Lestrade’’s dog. It’s probably not a dog at all, but if it’s not a dog, what is it? A wolf? There aren’t wolves here. And yet, the presence of the creature seems to prove otherwise. 

“It’s just Lestrade’s stupid mutt,” Finnegan snaps, clearly irritated that the three of them are diverting their attention away from the evening’s entertainment. He lowers his blade, twists his body to look behind himself, if it was Lestrade’s dog, he’d probably pick up a stone and throw it at him to get her to run off. Pity a stone would prove ineffective in this case.

“What the fuck, ” he whispers instead, and then he steps away from Sherlock, backwards until he’s next to him. Sherlock risks a glance and finds that Finnegan is holding the blade in front of himself like some kind of talisman. His hands are trembling. 

“That’s not going to work,” he tells him calmly, quietly, and then drags his eyes back to the wolf. It hasn’t come any closer, but its head is lowered, ears lying flat against its skull. Teeth bared, yellow eyes fixed unwaveringly on them.

Tension in its haunches- the rigid line of its tail-Sherlock has been around enough canines to know it’s going to pounce.

“What are we waiting for,” Eric hisses. 

No- no no, they’re not possibly thinking of running, are they? This thing could cover any distance they attempt to put between in a minute. If they run it’ll attack them for sure. If they could just walk backwards slowly, try not to startle it or make any sudden movements-

But obviously Sherlock is in the company of idiots. 

“Holmes?” Scott whispers behind him.

“Leave him,” Finnegan says, quickly. “Fuck, let’s go.”

The wolf takes a half-step forward, and Scott quickly lets go of him with a frightened curse. Shit- this leaves him without any support, and he puts weight on his injured ankle on instinct.. Predictably, he stumbles and falls backwards, right on his arse. 

And then the three of them run. Sherlock can hear the dull thudding of their feet against grass. There’s a split second where he thinks- fantastic, this is how I go, eaten by a giant bloody dog-  but instead the animal’s gaze fixes itself on the moving targets, and it takes off after them with a gutteral snarl. 

Well. Expected. You don’t entice a predator into chasing you. You won’t outrun it. 

Sherlock figures  he has about thirty seconds to somehow pick himself up, grab his bike and attempt to ride it out of this spot of the woods. He doesn’t know how far it’ll chase them, and he can’t stay here to find out. He puts his weight on his palms, tries to haul himself up with one foot. It definitely takes him more than thirty seconds, but soon he’s up, sweaty and shaking, but still on his feet. Well, foot. Now, where is his bike- he turns around to look for it, spinning around on his one good foot like a pivot, and then he stops dead for the second time this evening.

He hadn’t even heard it coming back.

But there it is, sitting on its haunches and regarding him with those sharp, glittering eyes. Sherlock’s heart pounds against his ribs, so hard he finds it difficult to breathe. Did it just chase them away and return? That’s a positive sign. Maybe it isn’t interested in attacking.

Maybe if he just stands still long enough, it’ll get bored and leave. 

Animals have short attention spans anyway.

But at least a minute passes and it doesn’t move. 

“I just need to get to my bike,” Sherlock finds himself saying. What is he doing. Why is he talking to an animal? “And then I’ll be gone, and you can go back to doing whatever you were doing. But I will be requiring a minute.”

Something happens to the wolf’s gaze as he speaks to it.   

Prolonged eye contact with a canine is unadvisable. Sherlock knows this. The wolf might perceive him as a threat (although how, he doesn’t know. It could break his neck with  a mere brush of its paw). He’s not sure if that’s why it’s looking at him like that. Topaz around black pupil, glinting in the late evening darkness. Sherlock must be going into shock because that gaze looks almost intelligent. Like it understands exactly what he’s saying. Like it’s thinking about something other than how it could snap Sherlock between his jaws without even trying. 

But that’s not possible. This is an animal. A terrifying, dangerous animal with teeth the size of butter knives, but an animal, nonetheless. Animals can be passably clever (sometimes cleverer than people, in Sherlock’s experience) but this is...different.

And then it uncoils itself, movements smooth and graceful as it stands on all fours. Sherlock’s chest tightens in fear once again at the size. This is not a normal wolf, he thinks again. It must have drank some contaminated water...and...mutated...or something. Paws the size of his entire arm. Limbs of pure corded muscle. It's practically eye level with him. Must be six feet, if not more, on its hind legs.

 Maybe he’s the one who drank something off. Maybe the fungus he’s been carrying around has hallucinogenic properties. Maybe he just imagined the past thirty minutes, and he’s imagining this too. 

Fuck, he needs to move. Instead, as soon as the wolf takes a step towards him, Sherlock startles ( idiot) and trips again. Forward, this time, right on his knees. The wolf doesn’t even flinch, pads closer. Paws practically silent against the grass. 

Sherlock can’t move. He’s frozen still, ice instead of blood running through his veins. He’s startlingly aware of a bead of sweat crawling down the back of his neck.

He’s also aware of how close the animal is now. It stands in front of him, head cocked. If Sherlock lifted a hand, his fingers would be brushing its muzzle.

It’s kind of beautiful, he thinks, absently. Fur that can’t decide exactly what colour it wants to be, brown and gold and black all mixed togther. The face is long and elegant and his snout- oh, which, he notices once he looks carefully, has a scar weaving a path over the muzzle. Starting from one furry eyebrow (or whatever that patch of fur is above its eye), ripping through its eye, it’s nose, finally stopping above its jaw. The jaw full of razor sharp teeth that could tear into him any moment.

“Good dog,” he whispers. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t eat me.”

Scintillating last words. 

The wolf gives no indication of understanding this, past a huff. Its ears flick something. A fly, maybe.

It, Sherlock has been calling the wolf in his head. He doesn’t even know if it's male or female. And he doesn’t think he could really hazard a glance between its legs to check.  If this is a female, well. He doesn’t want to think about how big a male would be.

He’s shaking, he realises. Oh. Well, natural. His amygdala is responding to this highly stressful situation by increasing the production of adrenaline. Fight or flight.  Working on the receptor cells in his muscles.

The wolf lowers its head, and suddenly Sherlock can feel its snout inches away from his throat. Warm air flutters over his skin. It’s...sniffing him. He can feel the cold, wet press of its nose right underneath his ear. Teeth a hair’s breadth away from his carotid artery. 

Sherlock used to have a dog, as a child. What the wolf is doing right now is not dissimilar to what Redbeard would do, when he’d be asleep. Climb over him in his bed and stick his snout into the warm junction of neck and shoulder. Curiously lick him. It doesn’t smell unlike him, either. The familiar, musky scent of unwashed dog. 

Is this what it does before it kills? God, he hopes not.

A second later the wolf pulls away. Sherlock nearly collapses in relief. Its mouth is open, tongue lolling out, and it would have been an amusing picture if not for the sharp, extremely long and pointed teeth lining the inside of its mouth.

Sherlock is taken aback when he suddenly feels wet warmness against one side of his face. What the-

Is it licking him?

One stripe from chin to temple. Sherlock stares at the wolf. The wolf blinks back, gaze inscrutable. What could you possibly be thinking, Sherlock wonders. He doesn’t get an answer. The next moment the wolf abruptly turns, whacking him in the face with an enormous, bushy tail, and bounds off in the opposite direction, right from where it came. Long, loping strides. Surprisingly elegant for an animal of its size.

Oh, he notices detachedly. It’s male.

Which is the last thought that passes through his head before darkness fills his vision and he loses consciousness.

***

Something slimy licks over his skin. Wet. Hot breath wisps over his face. What is that smell- kibble? Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he’s greeted with the sight of an open maw, pink tongue and teeth. Bright, dark eyes looking at him questioningly. 

And then he gasps, flings out an arm and swats at its head. “Fucking hell!”

He sits up, hands lifting instinctively to guard his face. Scrabbles backwards on his bottom, panic flaring up and spreading in his gut. The movement sends his abdominal muscles screaming in protest, but he needs to get away, run-

“Holmes! That’s enough!” someone is grabbing him by the shoulders, hauling him up. Sherlock is unable to keep his balance and he almost pitches forward, but their grip is strong. “Christ. Look at you. Anything broken?”

Sherlock struggles automatically against the grip, but only for a second before he realises who’s holding on to him. He stills, looks up, blinks. Oh. 

Something pants against his trouser leg. Sherlock risks a glance downwards and it’s finally, blessedly, Lestrade’s dog. Roxie. She whines, sits down on her haunches and looks up at him imploringly. She knows him well. Sherlock sneaks her treats whenever he sees her.

Not the terrifying wolf-dog-thing he’d seen last evening. Just a regular Labrador retriever.

“Roxie found you. You been here all night? Someone should have noticed you on their rounds,” Lestrade continues to speak. Sherlock only registers half of what he says. His body is still trembling with the remnants of adrenaline. How long had he been unconscious? 

He looks around himself. He appears to be in the same spot. The sun’s not up completely. Conclusion- three hours maximum. Still a very long period of time. 

“There was a- there was a wolf.  Lestrade, I saw it. Where the hell-” he tries to squirm out of his English teacher’s grasp. “Right here, last evening, I-”

“Wolf?” Lestrade repeats sharply. “That’s impossible.”

“Extremely possible, because I saw it,” Sherlock insists, between clenched teeth, and it shouldn’t matter to him this much, except he hates it when people don’t believe him. As if Sherlock would do something as ridiculous as lie about seeing a giant wolf. Wouldn’t exactly help his negligible popularity at school, now, would it.

Lestrade slackens his grip and Sherlock slips out of it, limping further away from him, wildly turning this way and that. Tracks. There should be tracks here, somewhere- it must have left behind something. Roxie jumps about excitedly around him. He wishes she could speak. He could ask her if she smells anything different.

“Holmes. It’s four am. Please come with me so I can take you to the nurse. I think you’ve hit your head.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” Sherlock snaps, spinning around to glare at him. “There was a wolf. And it was...not a normal wolf. Much larger than it should be. I saw it.”

Lestrade looks unperturbed. He crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side, as if Sherlock is having a tantrum and he’s only waiting it out. “You know as well as I do that we don’t have any wolves here.”

Sherlock makes an impatient nose. “I am well aware of the geographical trivia, thank you. It doesn’t change the fact that I know what I saw.”

Sighing, Lestrade runs a hand through his greying hair, and walks towards him. Sherlock stays still, his jaw tight. He’s aware of how it looks. He’s a walking bruise, limping, and spouting gibberish about a wolf. But he can’t have imagined it...he can’t have.

“Look,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. He claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you thought you saw it. But it was probably just someone’s dog, yeah? Broke its chain and ran off. You’re a clever kid, you know a wolf wouldn’t have just left you here, unharmed. I mean, these, ” he gestures to his soiled clothing and his twisted ankle with his free hand. “are clearly the work of actual human beings. Finnegan and his friends?”

“I fell,” Sherlock lies easily. He doesn’t want Lestrade getting distracted. “Don’t be tedious. And don’t change the subject. There’s a wolf somewhere here, and it’s dangerous. Shouldn’t you get someone to send it to a national park or something? What if it attacks someone else?”

“ Sherlock, ” Lestrade finally bites out, as though reaching the end of his tether. Sherlock frowns at him. He lowers his head, catches him by the shoulders and fixes him with a stern gaze. “There was no wolf,” he says, very firmly, with an odd sense of finality. Don’t argue with me about this, it says. For a second Sherlock almost decides to obey him. He’s right, he’s being ridiculous, and he shouldn’t argue with an adult. 

“Either you imagined it, or it was just a dog. Now come with me. You’re hurt.”

What? No. What is wrong with him? Sherlock knows what he saw.

He’s about to argue, except his body chooses to betray him at that moment, and he shivers violently.

“Right,” Lestrade says, apparently delighted that Sherlock is freezing. “It’s cold. Let’s get you back in school, yeah? And then maybe we can tell the principal who did this? Looks like you took quite a beating. Again.” 

Roxie clings to him as Lestrade curls a hand around his bicep, encouraging Sherlock to lean against him so they can walk to his car, which is parked on the dirt road. Sherlock sees his cycle a little further away, lying on its side. His bag of mould is nowhere to be seen. Damn it. More setbacks. He’ll have to come back here again.

 “My bike,” he says between chattering teeth, drawing his blazer tighter against his body.

“I’ll get it,” Lestrade reassures him, now much more willing to accede to Sherlock’s demands. Damn it. If he leaves now, the trail will grow cold and he’ll never figure this out. He feels like pulling at his hair. What if he comes back here and that thing returns as well? What if someone else-

“ Finnegan,” he gasps. “Finnegan, Eric and-

“They did this? I’ll get those little shits suspended,” Lestrade growls, opening the door of his car. 

“No, no- I mean- where are they? They were here. Last evening. They’ll tell you. They saw it, too.” Of course. That’s it. He has three witnesses, they’ll take the first opportunity to spin a story and make it sound like they tried to save Sherlock from the giant monster wolf, or something. “You could ask them.” God, he’s extremely slow this morning. He’ll blame it on getting mauled by bullies and then almost getting ripped to shreds. 

Lestrade narrows his eyes. “Fine,” he allows. “I’ll ask them. Get in the car, now.”

The ease with which Lestrade agrees seems to indicate that he either has no intention of doing so, or he’s confident that Sherlock’s claim will amount to nothing. He wants to say something else, provide further evidence, but the exhaustion seems to be catching up with him. His entire body aches. And he really needs crutches. 

He finally obeys, climbing gracelessly into the car. Roxie follows, bounding in after him and settling herself on the ripped leather seats, clinging to him. Absently, he brushes a hand over her head as Lestrade fits the bike into his trunk and heaves it closed. 

The next moment he’s inside, locking the doors and turning on the heat. Sherlock stares outside the window, watching the trees fly past. They’ll be on campus soon. 

Perhaps it doesn’t matter if Lestrade believes him or not. The wolf didn’t hurt him. In fact, it hardly seemed inclined to. Maybe it’s...friendly?

No, Sherlock thinks, remembering the way it had looked, growling so low he could feel it in his bones. Glittering topaz eyes fixed on them, body poised and ready to attack. Not friendly. 

But maybe they had interrupted him. Maybe it just wanted them gone. If that were the case, Sherlock can surely sympathize. 

It’s just a wolf, he snaps at himself. An animal. Don’t get attached to it. It’s dangerous and it shouldn’t be here. If it does end up hurting someone, you’ll blame yourself. You won’t like it, but you will. What if it has a mate? Pups? The possibilities are endless. 

“You’re not going to shoot it, are you?” he suddenly asks. His voice sounds scratchy, must be the cold. “I’m not asking you to shoot it. I just don’t think it-” he clears his throat. “He. Should be here. If you don’t get him out, someone else might shoot him.”

The thought is surprisingly distasteful. Sherlock thinks of the wolf’s crumpled body lying on the grass, fur matted with blood and yellow eyes unseeing, and recoils. 

Lestrade catches his eyes in the rearview mirror. “He?”

“Yes, it was a male. That’s what you choose to fixate on?”

“If there’s a wolf on the grounds, I’ll have someone look into it, alright? But there is no wolf, Sherlock.” He adds the last bit gently, meeting his gaze in the mirror. Sherlock scoffs. Lestrade should know by now that that doesn’t work on him. 

He stays silent for the rest of the trip. Arguing beyond this point would only reduce Lestrade’s inclination to listen to him. 

He’d be doing the creature a favour. This is not the kind of place it should make its home. If someone saw it, they’d be terrified. Unfamiliar things make people angry, Sherlock would know. 

The sun starts rising beyond the clouds. Bright yellow. Sherlock stares till it hurts its eyes.  

    ***

He’s put on bed rest for a week. The nurse had originally advised two, but Sherlock had told her that nobody wanted to see what hed do if he was confined for so long, and she’d relented. 

He doesn’t see Finnegan or his gang, but that’s probably because he stays in his room for most of the time and keeps his door locked. He only leaves occasionally for food and to filch specimens from the chemistry lab to experiment on so he doesn’t tear his room apart in a fit of boredom. People mostly steer clear of him. Unsurprising. Sherlock is prickly and abrasive at best but being unable to walk has made him downright unpleasant. 

Lack of mobility means he has a great deal of time to lie in his bed and think about Wolf. 

(He takes to calling it Wolf in his head: the Wolf sounds like it's some fictional beast, and he can’t quite bring himself to give it an actual name- it’s not a pet. Wolf is both accurate and efficient.)

***

The knock on his door comes before the week is through. Clear sharp raps: not another student. “Come in,” Sherlock says, not putting down his violin. He needs to finish applying the rosin. He knows it’s Lestrade, of course; he carries a very distinct scent of cigarette smoke, dog, and faded cologne. 

“I got you the work you missed,” he says, coming inside, leaving the door ajar behind himself. Sherlock turns to give him an unimpressed look. 

“Dull,” he pronounces, even as Lestrade puts the sheaf of papers he’s holding on his desk. “Tormented someone to take down the notes for me, you mean.”

“Well, there weren’t a lot of volunteers, as you’d expect.”

Sherlock’s pull into a wry smile. “You’re here for something else. What is it?”

He places his violin gently on his desk, turns around and leans against it so he can grace Lestrade with his undivided attention. Crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow. Lestrade gives him a brief appraisal; must be mentally checking his injuries. Once he’s satisfied that Sherlock is apparently going to survive another day, he closes the door. 

“I spoke to Finnegan and his friends.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “And?”

Lestrade purses his lips, slips his hands into his trouser pockets. Fixes him with a shrewd, careful look as if weighing the consequences of telling him. He always was slightly more tolerable than the rest of the people in his immediate vicinity, even displaying something akin to kindness on a few notable occasions. For this reason Sherlock doesn’t snap at him to hurry up.

“And,” Lestrade finally continues. “They said it was just a dog.”

He probably expects Sherlock to explode in response, because he doesn’t flinch when he makes a loud, frustrated noise. “Well what you expect from them, ” he shouts, gesturing wildly with his hands. “They couldn’t tell a wolf from a dalmation. Or their left foot, for that matter!”

“A very large dog, they said. But a dog nonetheless,” he continues evenly, and Sherlock wants to throw something at him. His violin case, perhaps. It’s right behind him. It’s heavy and blunt enough. “They were adamant.”

Well, then. There go his star witnesses. Now what? 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, and steps closer towards him. Sherlock hates the careful expression on his face, as though Sherlock has just recovered from a long bout of insanity and anything he could say might set him back. “You were hurt. One of your eyes was swollen shut. Be logical.”

“I am always logical,” Sherlock hisses. “You know that better than anyone else.”

“Exactly. Which is why I expect you to be smart and let this go. This is hardly something to get hung upon. What about that robbery that happened in the next village over? Why don’t you get obsessed about that instead.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “It was the butcher. Obvious.”

Lestrade sighs, shoulders slumping. He tilts his head and sends him another one of his pitying/indulgent glances, and cups him around the back of his neck in what he probably thinks is a comforting, fatherly gesture. “Look. Forget about it, alright? You’re safe now. Get some rest, and try not to faff about in the woods after dark again. I expect to see you in class Monday morning, 8 am sharp.”

With a last manly clap on his shoulder, he turns and walks out his door, closing it shut behind himself. The sound rings loudly in the room. 

Sherlock turns around to stare outside his window. Late afternoon sunlight illuminates the fields, the lightest wind ruffles the trees. It’s out there, he thinks. Somewhere in the woods. It must be. Where does Wolf go, during the daytime, where no one can see him? He’d hidden himself well so far, what could have possibly encouraged him to show himself that evening? Had Sherlock ventured deeper into the woods than he should have? Had he somehow chanced upon its territory and Wolf was trying to protect it? His mate? Could be anything, really. If it had a mate, that is. What if it was the only one if its kind? Sherlock had never seen anything like him before.

He hadn’t imagined it, because there had been a few stray hairs on his trousers, clearly from its pelt. Sherlock had carefully removed them with a pair of tweezers, placed them inside a labeled plastic bag, and hidden them in his closet to experiment on at an opportune moment.

Or maybe it was just someone’s dog, like Finnegan had said. The idea doesn’t sit right with him, but he’s unsure of how to proceed further. If he has no witnesses, and he’s the only one who saw it, he’s doubtful anyone would be willing to believe him. 

He decides to put it away for now, at least until he hears of it again. Best to avoid that part of the woods, though. The wolf may, for all intents and purposes, have saved him from getting knifed by Finnegan, but he doesn’t know if it’ll be quite so altruistic next time. He hopes, for the animal’s sake, it hides itself. People do not show kindness to things that they don’t understand.

Chapter Text

Bit different from the Centre, this. 

Red brick instead of cold grey concrete, for one. Smaller, definitely, and thus less imposing. The lack of an electric fence around the perimetre. (So he could actually walk up, right to the edge and touch it, if he wanted to.) Too much green- far too much grass than he’s used to. He sees the open field and something sings under his skin. It’s been a while since he’s run on anything other than a treadmill inside a glass cage. 

And then there’s the smell. John breathes in; deep, lets it rush into his nostrils and settle into his chest. Grass- freshly mowed. Wind. Fresh. No harshness of disinfectant, or the pungent tang of old piss. No this is- Warm blood, clean sweat; the scent of calmness. People. He can see them, students milling about on the field, some of them lounging on the huge grey steps leading up to the main entrance. Talking. It sounds mostly like meaningless chatter to him, though he can catch a few words. The high sound of their voices fills his ears and something unexplainable twists his gut.

A phantom sensation whispers along the back of his neck. He touches the palm of a hand to his nape to stifle it; but it’s just skin there. Nothing to stifle. 

He doesn’t belong here. This exceedingly normal place, with the- the trees, and the girls in short navy-blue skirts, and the flower gardens on either side. 

There’s something about the cold, open air that makes something that feels awfully like nervousness settle in the pit of his stomach. There’s no forest cover here, nowhere to hide. Everything is bright and airy and cheerful and John feels vaguely ill. 

He’s not sure who wants to turn and run back into the woods more; him, or the Wolf.

***

Humans are, if nothing else, perceptive. Their bodies are, at least. Reminding them of danger before their minds intercept it. That’s probably why they glance wearily at him as he walks down the corridor, steer out of his way when he passes them.. Maybe they sense his inherent wrongness and decide it’s better to not venture too close. 

The inside is all panelled oak, maroon carpeting. Enormous paintings on the wall. It’s dizzying to not be in the midst of gleaming glass and metal. John shifts the strap of his duffle bag further up his shoulder. It’s slipping. Probably because it’s so light. He’d considered not bringing anything with himself at all; (not that he had a lot of possessions to begin with) he didn’t want to see the starched grey sweatpants and the thin white cotton t-shirt ever again, if he could help it. But that would be idiotic. He can’t stay in his uniform forever. 

It’s uncomfortable, though. The collar is too tight, the blazer too warm, (he’s going to take it off the first chance he gets, he doesn’t even need it) the cuffs around his wrists make him feel like he’s tied down somewhere. John tugs at the high collar and decides to undo another button. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

Damn it, John is going around in circles. Where is he? He suddenly feels angry at the high ceilings, the endless staircases. At least back at the Center there was some measure of logic. Although, admittedly, he didn’t really get around all that much. 

Eventually, a student finds him wandering aimlessly around in the cavernous corridors, asks him if he’s lost, and John says yes. She introduces herself, smiling politely, looking resolutely into his eyes and not at his scar. She even offers her hand to shake, and John has to take care to keep his grip gentle.

John can hear her heart pounding from here, can taste the barest hint of metal on his tongue. Fear has a very distinctive scent. But it’s not as strong. Apprehension, probably. Tiny bit of desire. Normal. Humans confuse the signals their brains send them all the time. 

“You’re the new student,” she surmises, as she leads him to Greg’s office. “Where did you transfer from?”

He gives her a carefully worded, practiced answer. She looks suitably  interested, listens to his fake story, and then, laughing, says she didn’t catch his name.

“John Watson,” he tells her, his own name sounding ill used in his mouth. He smiles to put her at ease, but it could be a grimace for all he knows. It has, after all, been a while.

He talks to her, because it’s expected, because it’s a standard social nicety that he has to adhere to if he doesn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. She giggles when he makes a joke, touching his arm, and John almost flinches. 

That. That he’s not ready for. He feels frustrated with himself, because when a pretty girl touches you, you’re supposed to lean into it. Encourage more touching. John feels like she’s just branded him with a hot poker. It’s a good thing sometimes, their lack of perception. He shakes off the feeling and lays on the charm, smiles at her flirtatiously and it all feels so wrong and unnatural. He should feel something. Anything. Even the tiniest spark of want.

But there’s nothing there. He feels empty. 

The corridor is dimly lit. Warm and comforting. A brief memory flashes across his eyes. Harsh, fluorescent lights, cold metal at his back. A searing pain in his abdomen. Voices, buzzing all around him like angry bees. He has to blink several times to exorcise it. 

“It’ll be a bit difficult for you to start in the middle of the term,” she tells him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you need any help, just ask.”

Ah, John thinks, noting the heat in her cheeks. She’s flirting back. All it does is make him vaguely uncomfortable. He gives her a quick once over and says, “That’s very nice of you,” his voice pitched low, just because he doesn’t really know how to fend off her advances and he’d like to pretend to be normal for as long as he can. Because it does feel good, being wanted. Still knowing his way around a pretty girl. The return of muscle memory. But he doesn’t think about her mouth, or her slim waist, or if he’d like to shag her. He resents her, her smooth, unscarred arms, the normalcy clinging to her skin. 

With time, he reminds himself. It’s supposed to come back with time, the want. Desire. Normalcy. (Sanity) 

Familiar patterns of behaviour will, naturally, re-assert themselves. It won’t take you long to fit comfortably back into the routine of adolescence. What’s the thing that children say- go with the flow? Yes. Go with the flow, John. You’ll be fine.

Which objectively, sounds terrifying.

***

“Come in,” he’s told, even before he’s knocked on the door, his fist poised in the air. Show off, John thinks. He turns the knob and opens the door, steps inside his office. 

“John Watson,” Greg says, almost lazily, legs up on the desk and his face behind a sheet of paper. “You’re the new student, I believe?” There’s an enormous window open behind him, overlooking the grounds. Patched maroon curtains, fluttering in the breeze. It should be freezing, John knows it is, but neither of them would feel it, anyway. The wind brings in more confusing smells. It makes it difficult to concentrate on the rest of the room.

“You can drop the act,” he mutters, looking around. Bookshelves, so many bookshelves. A rug on the floor, cupboards on the wall. It’s a small space, but cluttered. How does Greg stand it? John already feels slightly suffocated. “We’re alone here, aren’t we?” He finally drags his eyes back to him. Greg lowers the paper from his face. He’s grinning. His hair is a little shorter than the last time he saw him, cut to more proper standards, probably. John thinks he should recommend he shave, though. Still, it’s good to see him. At least there’s something vaguely familiar in this place.  

He feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Nice office. They let you sleep on the bed?”

Greg stands up, slips out from behind the desk and walks up to him. He claps a hand on one shoulder, and his eyes are soft, despite his usual sarcastic smile. “I’m very well trained. So. What do you think of the school?”

John raises his eyebrows and lets out a breath. “It’s very…” he searches for a word but can’t seem to find it. Stimulating? No, that’s weird. Alien. Strange. Uncomfortable? No, that’s too close to ‘scared’ for his comfort.   “It’s different,” he finally settles on, and from the flash of concern in Greg’s eyes, he seems to understand what John actually means. 

“Well,” his hand falls from his shoulder and he turns around, picking up the sheet of paper he was looking at (or pretending to, at any rate) and scans through it once again. “John Watson, seventeen years, ten months. You transferred here from Baskerville,” he perches on the edge of the desk. “So far, so good.”

“Yeah, well,” John lets his duffle bag slip from his shoulder and onto the floor. He fiddles with his collar again. “What am I supposed to do now?” Greg looks at him vainly trying to loosen the constriction around his throat with a small, amused smile. 

“Now,” he says slowly. “Now, John, you tell me why exactly you were seen last week.”

John stares back at him, honestly thrown for a second. He raises an eyebrow. “Seen? Last week? I just came here today morning.”

Going by Greg’s tilted head and withering look, this was the wrong thing to say. “Uh,” he narrows his own eyes in an effort to remember. Seen? Seen by who? John is hardly ever seen by anyone, save the white-coated wankers at the Center and on occasion, the other Inmates. (They’re not really prisoners or anything. They were reminded of this everyday. John still calls them that. And himself.) “I don’t really- oh. ”

Greg’s mouth twitches at his realisation. There you are. 

It’s difficult for him to remember his experiences in detail when he’s not in his human form. And this one was especially...strange. He doesn’t remember it entirely now, either. Bits and pieces. A flash of silver eyes. Rage. A protective instinct that rarely, if ever, rears its head. Good dog. That specific phrase was seared into his head, though. He’d heard it before. Usually it was laced with contempt, amusement. Not this time.

“What were you thinking ?” Greg snaps, good humour gone, startling John out of the recollection. He finds himself bristling in response.

“Three blokes against one, and one of them had a knife,” he hisses, his hands curling into fists at his side. Temper, Watson. Control it. In any case, Greg doesn’t seem to be satisfied with this explanation. He continues to look expectantly at him. John clenches his teeth.“What could I have done?”

“Left him there,” he replies easily, as if it’s so obvious. “They wouldn’t have done any lasting damage. They’re too cowardly for that.”

John tries not to let disgust curl in his lip, but it happens anyway. He shakes his head. “You sound just like them, you know that, right.”

Greg sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like John is being immature and tedious. “John,” he says. Just that, his name, and John feels his jaw tightening. Teeth grinding against each other almost painfully. There, phantom buzzing along the tips of his fingers. “You were supposed to stay at the Center until your cycle was over. Why did you need to go and have a run in the woods, anyway?”

John breathes deeply through his nose, looking anywhere but at Greg’s disappointed face. Outside, the grounds. He feels the same mixture of uneasiness and anticipation at the sight of it. Of course Greg wouldn’t understand, would he. “They let me,” he says tightly.

“Then you should have been responsible.”

“I was, ” he growls, glaring at Greg.  He hadn’t left anyone bleeding, had he? He hadn’t even bitten anyone. John hasn’t bitten anyone, ever, and he wasn’t going to start now. All he’d wanted was some fucking fresh air, and they’d let him out because they trusted him. Of course, he was supposed to have stuck to the compound. But he knew what he was doing when he’d decided to stray further. 

“You don’t have to be a hero,” Greg crosses his arms over his chest. “You have nothing to prove.”

“ Jesus, I was just trying to help him,” John throws out an arm. “I wasn’t going to do anything. And it was instinctual. I didn’t think it though, alright?”

It’s only partly true, but Greg doesn’t need to know the rest of it. He wouldn’t understand. John isn’t entirely sure he understands, himself. Why had he done it, anyway? It wasn’t safe, technically speaking, he could have hurt them. He’d be lying if he said if he hadn’t considered it. Or the wolf had, in any case. 

John thinks of those silver eyes, bright and wide in terror. The sickening scent of fear. Protect. That part was instinct. He could have ignored it. After all, he ignored most of the Wolf’s instincts. Right now, for example, he feels like sinking his teeth into Greg’s throat. He could have ripped their throats out, too. They would have deserved it. 

Greg runs a hand through his hair. “You terrified him. Usually that happens someone sees a great, ruddy mutt like you.”

“Don’t call me that,” John says, voice low.

Greg holds up a placating hand. “You caused problems for me, John. I had to use Suggestion on those three kids. Couldn’t have them running around and telling everyone they’d seen a monster wolf in the woods, could I?”

People have heard worse rumours, John wants to say, but keeps his mouth shut. He’s already exhausted, and he hasn’t even had his first class. He turns away from Greg, not really in the mood for any more conversation. So what if they tell someone. The Center will shut them up soon enough. As if one measly breach of protocol could hamper them at all.

He runs a finger along the spines of the books in the shelf next to him. He pulls one out, reads the cover. East of Eden. He flips through it aimlessly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to slip into a bed and go to sleep. The overwashed sheets from the center that always smelled strongly of fur and disinfectant sound lovely right now.  

“Three,” John repeats, suddenly registering the words. He frowns at the page in front of him. “There were four of them.”

Silence.

John puts the book back and turns his head to face Greg. “And what did you do with the fourth one?”

John watches as his jaw works feverishly. He doesn’t meet John’s gaze. “Didn’t work on him.”

He can’t help the delighted smile that curves his mouth. “It didn’t work ? Christ, that must have been something. So does he still think he saw a giant dog?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “I managed to convince him to forget about it. Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, John.”

“Oh I am rarely off the hook,” John drawls, leaning to his side to pick up his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder again. “Anyway. Are we done here? I promise I won’t do it again, alright?”

They both know John is just lying. Given the opportunity, John will most certainly repeat that. And here? Christ. What’s the point of all this empty space if he can’t even use it? There’s nothing comparable to the wind in his face, the grass underneath his paws. When he Shifts, he needs to run. It’s like an aching in his bones. He’s not going to be ramming himself against anymore reinforced titanium walls anymore.

“You won’t do it again,” Greg repeats. He purses his lips thoughtfully. “And if you come across another innocent victim?” He says ‘innocent victim’ as though there never was any real danger. John doesn’t bother to challenge this assumption. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t smelt the boy’s fear, or seen the knife glinting maliciously in the darkness. 

There are parts of himself that he’d rather not keep. But he wants to keep that bit that saw the boy in the woods and decided to protect him. He didn't want to hurt him, at all. And that must mean something. He’s not sure what kind of consolation he’s clinging to, but whatever it is, he’d like to keep clinging. 

“I’ll just leave them there, won’t I?” John hitches the bag higher up on his shoulder and smiles brightly. 

Greg isn’t fooled for a second. He shakes his head, resigned. “Idiot pups, the lot of you,” he grumbles, edging around the desk and back into his seat, falling into it with a huff. “You’re going to kill me this term, I can just tell.” He opens a drawer underneath the desk and brings out a clipboard, a sheet of paper pinned underneath the clamp. He takes a deep breath and scans it. “Let’s see who you’re rooming with, then.”

John’s heart stops. “With? Fuck, no, I’m not rooming with anyone.”

“There aren’t any empty rooms, we have no choice,” Greg replies mildly, turning over a page and looking at the next.

John’s chest feels very tight, suddenly. He covers the distance between himself and the desk, though admittedly, there isn’t. much. “Greg,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m not sleeping in the same room as another person.”

His hands are shaking, so he balls them into fists. Greg lifts his eyes from the clipboard and regards him calmly. “You’ll have to, John.”

Oh fucking Christ. John takes a rough, shaky breath. Is he insane? He’s clearly insane. John isn’t ready for this. Does Greg somehow think he’s ready for this? Or maybe he hadn’t seen his bed in the mornings after, (the days when they’d keep him locked in the lab all day)- the ripped, bloodstained sheets, and-

“This,” he taps a finger into the wood surface. There’s a razor thin scar that runs along the skin. He doesn’t remember how it got there. “This is a catastrophically bad idea. Do you know that?”

“I trust you,” he reassures him, and now he’s writing something on the paper, clearly not realising that John is seconds away from a full blown panic. He feels like tearing his hair out.

“Well I don’t trust me!” he shouts, and this startles Greg into paying him more attention. His eyes widen a bit as they take him in. “I’m not- the wolf isn’t-” he takes another deep breath, trying to send more oxygen to his brain. “The nightmares, when they happen, I can’t-”

Ripped curtains.

Scratches-

blood under his fingernails-

“The last fit was months ago,” Greg argues, exasperated. “I’ve read your reports. Do you think I would put another student in danger if I wasn’t absolutely sure?”

“You were ready to let a student get knifed by a bunch of twats-”

“That was different. They wouldn’t have killed him.”

And that is supposed to reassure him? John wonders which of them is the uncontrollable, vicious beast here. 

Although Greg seems to think he’s half-way tame, or something.

“So it’s fine if I just scratch him a bit- you know, break a few fingers, as long as I don’t kill him,” John touches the tips of his fingers to the side of his head. He’s already getting a headache. He doesn’t care. He’ll go find somewhere to sleep on the grounds. Reports, Greg says, like they mean something. Just because it hasn’t happened in months is no guarantee it won’t happen again. But apparently statistics matter here.

“John,” Greg calls his name sharply. “You have to control the wolf. You know that. That’s the only reason you’ve been allowed out.”

“ Allowed. ” John snorts, his hand falls to his side again. “That’s rich. Alright. Fine. I’ll share a room with whichever poor sod you’re foisting on me. Hope he’ll live to see the end of this semester.”

Greg doesn’t respond to that, save for rolling his eyes. He ducks his head again, peers at the clipboard for a few seconds. “You’ll be rooming with...oh.”

And then he looks up at him, eyes sparkling, mouth quirked up in a smirk. John frowns at him. “What? Who is it?”

Greg just smirks at him, sweeps the papers back into place and sticks it inside his drawer again. “You’ll see,” is all he says.

***

His room back at the Center had been sparse. Furnished only sparingly, just the essentials. The bed, with its metal posts, bolted into the floor. The bright white sheets. A chair, also bolted to the floor, placed right near the window that looked over the compound. There used to be a rug on the floor, one of the nicer White Coats had given it to him, believing that a splash of colour might make him feel more at ease there.

This is...nothing like that.

At first John isn’t even sure he’s in the right place. It looks like some kind of storeroom. As it is, 221B is at the end of a very long corridor, no room across from it. Almost as though it had been added as an afterthought. 

The room looks. Well, kind of like it’s been hit by a tornado.It’s a complete tip. There are two beds, but he can barely make that out anyway. Pushed to either side of the room, not much space between them. He steps in closer, lets his eyes track the rest of the room. Desks, two of them. Window; curtains aren’t drawn but the shutters are closed. Where, exactly, is he meant to sleep? One of the beds is buried underneath a pile of dirty clothes; vests, school jumpers, trousers, pants. The other, John turns to see- and holy fucking christ-

It’s covered in some kind of tarp, and on top of the tarp- is that- is that a dead rabbit? Wrapped in plastic ? 

Right. That’s why Greg was being so weird. Because he’s rooming with a psychopath. Probably why he wasn’t afraid of putting John in the same room as him.

The rabbit’s dead eye glints dully.

Feeling a little sick, John looks around the rest of the room, half expecting a corpse to fall out of the closet over there. He steps closer, narrowly avoiding a random potted plant with sickly, yellow leaves. He hadn’t noticed that. One of the desks is covered with passably normal things- textbooks, pencils. A violin case.   A label stuck to the neck of it, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock. Odd name. Different. John lets his fingers trail over the case. Okay, so, he plays music while dissecting dead rodents? The books look thumbed through enough, with dog eared edges and tattered covers. There’s a copy of Macbeth pushed carelessly away to one side, still glossy and untouched. Not a fan of literature, then? On the bed, right on the pillow- Advanced Forensic Science. Huh. He turns around to see the other desk, because he’s going to have to use one of them, at least- trying not to stare at the rabbit. This one is...definitely worse. There’s a fucking Bunsen burner there. And petri dishes, one of them filled with what looks like fungus but John doesn’t feel like taking a closer look.

Notes, scattered pieces of paper, covered in a black, untidy scrawl. John picks up a sheet. He doesn’t understand anything. It looks like chemical equations, but he’s not entirely sure. And then he sees the newspaper clippings; taped on the patch of wall right above the desk

14 year old murdered in Bristol: parents confirmed suspects

Sussex Decapitation Continues: Next Jack the Ripper?

Man found dead in apartment, locked from inside. Maid last to have seen him

John grimaces. Okay. Well, some people are crime enthusiasts, right? 

And underneath it all- there’s a scent that John can’t discern. It’s difficult to distinguish it from the barrage of other smells; there are far too many of them. He sniffs deeply, trying to pinpoint. He can’t. There’s something vaguely familiar here, he can tell. 

The open window lets streams of early afternoon sunshine stream into the room; it falls over his fingers. Dust motes flutter lazily about. 

“What are you doing in my room?”

Fuck. He startles, almost violently, twisting his head towards the source of the sound. People don’t normally creep up on him like that, it’s the smell of this room, it must have clogged up his nose, or something ruined his sense of scent-

Oh.

John’s heart stops, drops down to his feet. 

Faces are difficult to remember, if he’s seen them from the eyes of the wolf. He can’t see very well, for obvious reasons. 

But John knows it as soon as he sets eyes on the slender, pale boy leaning against the door jamb. Arms crossed over his chest, mouth turned down in a scowl. Dark, unruly hair, the thick fringe obscures his forehead but there’s no mistaking those silver eyes glaring at him from underneath it. 

He’s the  boy from the woods. 

The eyes flicker over him, running a jagged path down John’s body, before they settle back on his face. They narrow, the scowl disappears and is replaced by a confused twist of his mouth. “I’ve seen you before.”

John blinks. “No,” he replies automatically. “Pretty sure we’ve never met.” Ah. This must be the one who Greg couldn’t Suggest.The boy-Sherlock?- looks unconvinced. He stares at John intensely for a few more seconds, and John feels like he’s slowly being stripped apart. He’s striking- certainly a face that people would find difficult to forget. Those cheekbones. Hell. And the angle of that jaw. 

“If you say so,” he looks away from him, and he quickly runs a cursory glance over his room as though John might have done something to it. “I’ll ask again: why are you in my room?” He steps inside, moving with a casual grace that has John’s gaze drawing to his long, coltish legs. He slips his bag off his shoulder, it falls into the pile of clothes. His hips swivel and he fixes John again with that cold, grey stare. He’s tall, taller than him. He has to tilt his head downwards to meet his eyes.

John cocks a hip against the rim of the desk, palm against the wood. He tries not to touch the fungi. He’s different, now. In the woods he’d been terrified out of his wits. On his knees, eyes glazed over and pulse jack-rabbit quick. Speaking gibberish. There’s a cut on the crest of a cheekbone. Knuckles. A faded yellow bruise oh the edge of his jawline. Something simmers in his gut at the sight of it.

He clears his throat. “Apparently, this is my room.” 

The boy makes a face as though he’s swallowed something particularly unpleasant. “Impossible, considering this is my room.” He gestures to the violin on the desk without looking at it. “My violin. My desk. My bed. Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

John feels amusement pull at his mouth. He’s kind of cute, in a sharp-toothed, snapping-jaws kind of way. He thinks this might be the beginning of a tantrum, so he quickly pulls out the ID card in his trouser pocket and holds it up between two fingers so he can see. And then he flips it over. “This is 221B, right? Well, I’ve been assigned this room. Looks like I’m your roommate.”

Roomate, Sherlock mouths silently, a frown appearing between his brows. The room is small, he’s just standing at the head of the bed, but he’s close enough that if John wanted to crowd him up against the desk, it would hardly take him a few steps. Not that he wants to. Nor would he, if he wanted to, because he has self control like that.

“John Watson,” he pronounces, shifting, two backward steps, away from John. (He says his name like it’s something interesting.) His head tilts fractionally. It gives him the look of an enquiring puppy.“Which institution.”

John shifts a little on his feet, perches against the desk properly with both hands clutching the edge. “Institution?”

“Juvenile, I presume,” Sherlock continues smoothly, his voice is deep and rich, John finds himself only half-listening to his words. “Physical assault, going by the bruises on your knuckles.”

“You think I had a stint in juvie?” John purses his lips, tries not to laugh. He’s not exactly far off.

“When I came in, I surprised you. Your fists balled up, as though you were going to strike me before you saw me. When it was clear I wasn’t a threat, you relaxed. You’re used to constantly looking over your shoulder.”

John frowns. Had he done that? If he had, it was instinctual. Although clearly this boy isn’t a threat. Tall, but he’s built like a bird, fine boned, delicate. Breakable. The wolf looks at him and decides: easily subdued.

 Sherlock turns around, away from him, and John watches as he pulls his jumper over his head, throws it into the pile of clothes. The action makes his messy hair even more of a riot, curls stand out every which way. Without the jumper he looks even skinnier.

“You can ask for a transfer,” his voice is oddly stilted. John sees his elbow move and for a wild moment he thinks he’s unbuttoning his shirt. But he’s just fiddling with the collar. “I’ll come with you to the office. They’re used to it. Gregson and James on the fourth floor have an extra bed in their room. I’m sure they could fit you in there.”

Eh?

“Why would I want a transfer?” 

At this Sherlock faces him, one dark eyebrow arched. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His arms are even paler than the rest of him. John is reminded of a matchstick with a thick head of hair.  “People rarely want to share a room with me.”

John snorts, and finally peels himself away from the desk. With one step, he’s in the space between the two beds, right next to Sherlock. Oh. Now that he’s closer, John catches a whiff of his scent. Oh. It’s from him. The smell. Hm. “I’m not surprised,” he spreads his arms wide and indicates both beds, both filthy, both uninhabitable. “Where am I going to sleep?”

Sherlock’s gaze darts between the bed, a hint of colour rises to his cheeks. “Oh. Well, if you really want to-I suppose I could-” and then he plunges his hands into the pile of dirty clothes, and with a quick sweep, throws them to the floor. He stretches out one long leg, flamingo like- and pushes them underneath the bed. “Tidy up. A bit.” A bit? A bit is not enough for a mess of epic proportions like this. Sherlock seems to be valiantly trying his best, though. How does he move so elegantly in this space? But there he is, twisting this way and that- he picks up the potted plant and puts it on his desk. John catches another strong whiff of him as he leans over him. Oh, that’s nice. Why is it nice?

Once he’s done, he stands back in front of John, arms clasped behind back. “So you don’t,” he licks his lips. “You don’t want another room?”

John’s mouth pulls into a crooked smile. “Do you want me to leave?”

Sherlock frowns, looking a little affronted. “I just prefer being alone.”

“But?” the word seems unsaid.

He rolls his eyes, and John has a feeling that’s an expression he’s going to see a lot in the days to come. “But you seem passably tolerable,” he allows, sounding like the pale compliment has been wrenched from his mouth. As though irritated with himself for the indulgence, he turns away, starting to uncover the tarp from the other bed.

“Right, I was gonna ask about...that,” John sits down on the edge of the now empty bed, lets himself watch Sherlock carefully pick the plasticked rabbit up and place the cadaver on a chair. 

“Experiment,” Sherlock answers him absently. He pulls the rest of the tarp off, rolls it up. John watches the flurry of his pale fingers and swallows. 

“Experi -what ?”

“It got caught in a trap, in the woods. I attempted to resuscitate it, but I failed. It was healthy. I was bored. Couldn’t let a specimen like that go to waste.” Right, okay, so he didn’t kill a rabbit just to experiment at it.

John wants to tell him that sleeping with a dead rabbit in your room is probably not a good idea, but John has fallen asleep in lots of weird places, this is mild comparatively. 

“You know, most people play sports,” he says lightly. “For, like, boredom, or whatever."

Sherlock sends him an amused glance. “I am not most people.” 

No, you’re not. John breathes in deep again, that is weirdly intoxicating. And then it hits him- the scent is pure, clean. Nothing metallic. No iron and rust, no salt. It doesn’t cut at the inside of his mouth. Sherlock doesn’t smell like fear, not at all. Why? They all do, whenever John is too close, whenever they see the bruises and something tells them that he isn’t normal. Not him. Jesus. Why? Maybe he has no sense of self preservation. Maybe he’s an idiot. Entirely possible, because he thinks John went to juvenile for physical assault and is unconcerned about sleeping in the same room as him. 

Either way, John feels like pulling him closer so he can smell him properly. Just to see. 

“Yeah, clearly. It’s fine. Most people are boring,”  Sherlock turns to him sharply at that, eyes narrowed, as though he thinks John is having him on. John only quirks a smile at him, and it doesn’t feel forced at all. 

“I share similar sentiments,” Sherlock finally says, a little awkwardly. He clears his throat. “I’ll take this bed, if that’s alright with you.”

John gets the distinct impression that he wouldn’t really care if John said that it wasn’t alright with him, especially since he flops sideways into the bed without waiting for his answer. He does it with a kind of practiced air that makes him think that this is something he does alarmingly often: fall dramatically into his bed. One foot hangs off the edge of the bed. His shoelaces are untied. It’s all a bit swoony-Victorian-heroine.  “I assume the state of the room is satisfactory now?” 

Sherlock says this to the ceiling, chin tipped up. The curve of his throat looks very  vulnerable suddenly. 

John takes a look around the room. “It’s...fine,” he allows, reluctantly. “I mean, I would suggest you keep your clothes inside your wardrobe, but, um, it’s fine, I guess.” 

“Ugh, dull,” he runs a hand through his hair, already looking as though the conversation has  started to bore him. His ribs look very prominent under his shirt. John turns away, lets his gaze travel again over the room. The poisonous-looking plant, the yellowing newspaper clippings, navy blue trousers peeking out from underneath the bed. And then he thinks about his clinical, bare room back at the center. It was always very clean. Spotless. 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking.”

John’s head snaps back to Sherlock, who now has his pale hands clasped under his chin, eyes still trained on a spot above him. 

“That’s...nice,” John says ,uncertainly.

“And sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?”

Well. John doesn’t really want a mute roommate, but he has a feeling Sherlock will be interesting enough even when he’s not saying anything. “Don’t think so.”

“Good. Roommates should know the worst of each other.” 

Talk about a sense of irony. John’s mouth twists, somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “You don’t know the worst of me, though.”

And why would he say that? Isn’t it better this way, with this kid thinking that the worst that John’s ever done in his life is brawling ? Look at him, John tells himself, you could snap him in half. And he’s not even the slightest bit scared. Look at him, just sprawled on the bed like that- open and vulnerable, he hasn’t the slightest clue-

“You have a sister,” he mentions smoothly. “I can tell your parents died at a very young age. Not from an accident, clearly. Illness” And after that the words fall from his lips in an unbroken stream, quietly confident.

“You were in and out of foster homes, probably, before you were sent to a juvenile home. Going from the way you carry yourself- you still look as though you expect a threat to come barreling at you out of nowhere- I’d say four, maybe five years. The only students who join in the middle of the term are on scholarship, but you’re clearly not- you’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes with no intention of going for class and you don’t have a single book on you, this is an expensive school with a very long waiting list-I’d say you know someone on the board and they got you in. You’re used to violence, but that’s unsurprising, considering your past. Your hands are shaking right now, aren’t they? Hm. Of course they are. Your experience there was traumatic, more so than usual. Of course, I expect you’ll be telling everyone you came here from a different school. Somewhere far enough that people won’t know much about it, but close enough for it not sound completely outlandish,” he springs up from the bed, one fluid movement, on his feet the next moment, bends in front of John to take the bag he’d thrown on the floor when he came in. He swings it over his shoulder. “That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?”

John stands up on instinct, nostrils flaring, and this immediately makes Sherlock step back, the smug smile on his face flickering and disappearing. John can hear the blood rushing in his own ears. Part of him- the part with sharp claws and sharper teeth- wants to curl his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt and snarl into his face and say shut up, shut up, you don’t know me at all- 

Sherlock must see that hint of violence in his expression, because his hand twitches at his side as if he thinks he has to defend himself. 

And that, that makes John feel a little ill and disgusted with himself. “Are you always this perceptive,” he sighs, backing away a little. Sherlock looks relieved. John swallows, and he can smell Sherlock’s perspiration. Great, just great, Watson, you terrified him again. Now he’s going to think you’re a bully like those other fucks. 

“Perceptive,” Sherlock repeats quietly. “Not what people normally say.”

John snorts. “Yeah, well. That thing you did? It’s bloody clever. Amazing, actually-“ and Sherlock flushes pink at that, his mouth giving a pleased little quirk- “but most people wouldn’t take too kindly to that.”

A look flashes over Sherlock’s face and his smile turns a little strained. “I’ve noticed.”

John wants to touch his shoulder, his arm, anything. Just to get that look off his face. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t entirely trust himself. Adrenaline still rushes through his body. He collapses back on the bed, palms on the mattress. “So, do you-”

“Well, I’ll, just-” Sherlock interrupts him, makes a little flurry of movements, and heads for the door, which is still ajar. “I suppose it is inevitable that we see each other again, then. Goodbye, John.” 

“Are you going for class, then?”

“Class? No, don’t be tedious.” Sherlock gives him a quick top-to-bottom gaze again. “Chemistry is on the third floor. I presume that’s your first class.” And then he leaves, swiping out of the door and leaving it swaying gently behind him. 

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. He shrugs out of his blazer. Ah. Much better.

Well. That had been. Not really what he’d expected, definitely. 

Not a particularly good idea, living with someone so observant. Perceptive. John thinks of that keen, opalescent gaze sweeping over him and stripping him apart and he doesn’t feel nervous at all, even though he should. Humans make excuses for everything, don’t they, they’re so pleasantly simple that way. They  never notice patterns.

Although. Hm. Sherlock isn’t simple. Far from it. Not surprising that Suggestion didn’t work on him. 

He could ask for a transfer. He should. This is unnatural - their beds are so close together, John might be able to touch him if he reached out an arm. He’d be able to smell him, all the time, hear the thrumming rhythm of his heart at all hours and what was Greg thinking, putting him here? 

Pack behavior is so quick to establish itself. Close quarters make such a good breeding ground for it, that explains the sudden urge to follow him, sniff around him for danger, protect. He’s already done it before, so there’s precedent. A shared history. This, John had expected. 

But who, exactly, is going to protect Sherlock from him? From that poisonous thing that had taken root inside of him so many years ago and spread and spread, until John could feel it simmering underneath his skin all the time? 

The door finally clicks shut. 

He hadn’t even noticed that when Sherlock had left, he’d taken his scent with him. It's so much more conspicuous in its absence.

***

Chapter Text

A roommate. 

What on earth is he going to do with a roommate?

As soon as he’s out of the room, away from...from that boy...the entire idea seems ludicrous. Sherlock is not suited for...cohabitation, of a sort. He’s never done well with roommates.  Fourth form had been the worst, the year when Sherlock had called Mycroft from the office, struggling to not let the tears spill over, and requested him (he’d even said please ) to throw some money at the administration and get him a separate room.

All he’d done was tell Timothy that Rebecca Simmons had only snogged him and allowed them to be seen because she was trying to make Edmund Bennett from sixth form jealous. “You could do better for yourself, I think,” he’d said, thinking that surely Timothy would appreciate that, isn’t it kind, letting them know? Sherlock would have wanted to know, if someone had snogged him and not really meant it. Not that Sherlock had wanted to be snogged or anything. 

Regardless, he’d been wrong- Sherlock’s advice had been unwanted. The tips of his ears flushed, Timothy had stood at the door to their room and his mouth had curled into an ugly scowl, and he’d spat, “You mean a pouf like you?”

Sherlock hadn’t meant for that to happen. He hadn’t been prepared for it. He and Timothy had been rooming together for almost a month, he’d only been trying to bridge the invisible gap between the two of them, whatever it was that prevented Timothy from speaking more than a few words to him every day. His peers seemed to be obsessed with trying to get a leg over, he’d assumed spinning a conversation around such a context would have been beneficial. 

That had probably been when the teasing had deviated into something slightly personal, when Sherlock had realised he couldn’t take another day of his things being stolen, of finding FAG written across his bedsheets with stolen red lipstick.

He had helped Timothy after all. Timothy had new friends. 

The recollection is unpleasant, Sherlock has to screw his eyes shut to will it away more efficiently.

Maybe he’s devoting too much mental energy to this. Better to engage his mind in other pursuits, like the lovely specimen of yeast under his microscope.

The possibility still exists, of course, that John will continue to find him tolerable and not ask for a transfer the next week. Sherlock is unsure how to feel about this. If John wants, he can ask for a different room. The admin will be only too happy to provide. They’re used to it by now. They’ll assume that Sherlock must have said something unpleasant, inappropriate.

He’s interesting though. Oddly familiar, but that could just be his imagination. Sherlock narrows his eyes and tries to concentrate, but fails.

He’d avoided asking about the scar. It looks like an animal attack- pink and jagged and running from his left eyebrow to the edge of his jaw.Perhaps a badly behaved dog. Perhaps it could be a souvenir from an unpleasant encounter with a rusty shiv. Either is possible, judging from the shape of it. The circumstances leading to it had certainly been traumatic, throwing attention on it would not have done him any favours.

Irrelevant, though. Why is Sherlock thinking about this? John might not even be here by the end of the week, even if he does think that Sherlock is perceptive instead of annoying. Even though he flirts without even knowing it and it makes Sherlock slightly uncomfortable for some unaccountable reason. 

Even though he reminds Sherlock of someone and he can’t figure out who, and it’s driving him a little bit insane.

It could be the way he holds himself. The rigidity in his shoulders, the tense angle of his jaw. The way his eyes seemed to track every tiny movement he made. Sherlock thinks of that intense, dark blue gaze and something tightens in his gut. Most seventeen year old males do not have that look in their eyes.

Anyway. It hardly matters. Sherlock has learnt his lesson. He’d rather not get involved...in this. Whatever it is. Not that there is anything worth involving himself in. He’s just someone he’s being forced to share a room with. He could call Mycroft, though, if he liked. He’s supposed to have a single room. 

Well. Maybe later. Might as well watch for a few days. 

“Leaving so soon, Sherlock?” Ms Chatterjee asks from her desk, not even looking up from the papers she’s correcting. She lets Sherlock sit in the Chemistry lab if she’s in a good mood, doesn’t shout at him when he dissects rodents under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, or occasionally causes minor explosions when his attention has wandered for a moment. (or because he just wanted to see what would happen if he mixed two things that definitely should not be mixed)

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, slipping his bag over his shoulder, hopping off the bench. He’ll continue the experiment later. He can’t concentrate properly for some reason. “I just remembered I had something to do.”

“Remember to finish last week’s assignment,” she scolds him mildy, shooting him an amused glance before returning to her paperwork, her red pen writing something furiously on top of a sheet. “Top marks for yesterday’s test, well done."

***

The library corridor is deserted, as usual. Sherlock’s footsteps echo off the aged wood, jarringly loud in his ears. He hears a second set of footsteps behind him, registers who it is in about three seconds, which is a woefully inadequate amount of time to find a place to hide, or break into a full sprint and duck into the library.

Finnegan catches up with him easily, his arm heavy as it lands on his shoulder, curling around his back. “Holmes. Been a while since I’ve seen you,” he says, voice light and casual.

Sherlock doesn’t stop walking, although he does flinch slightly. Honestly at this point it’s more habit than anything else. admittedly it is difficult to continue moving like this. Pausing would inspire violence, in all probability. Besides, Finnegan seems content to match him step for step.

“I’m sure you were wasting away from lack of simulation,” he replies dryly.

Finnegan chuckles, low and dark. “That mouth, Holmes. Do you ever shut up?”

Sherlock purses his lips and he wonders if he should take the hint and be quiet, let Finnegan say his usual piece about knowing his place or else, etc etc, but self preservation has never been one of his strongest suits. “Well,” he quips, “if you have anything worthwhile to tell me, I’m all ears.”

Predictably, this tips Finnegan’s good humour into something more volatile and dangerous, and Sherlock finds himself being twisted around roughly and rammed into the opposite wall. Right up against the library message board, with all the pinned lists of defaulters and dated suggestions for summer reading. The wooden frame digs into his back.

Finnegan’s fingers are curled into the lapels of his blazer, his mouth tipped up into a small, mocking smile and his brown eyes narrowed. A few strands of black hair whisper over his forehead. Sherlock swallows, breath caught somewhere in his throat. 

“See that’s what I like about you, Holmes,” he whispers, after a shifty glance down the hall to make sure no one can see them. “You’re just never happy with what I give you, always begging for more like a little tart. It’s adorable, it is.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like the way he’s being looked at. He tries not to squirm or look uncomfortable, because that would only encourage him. “Let go of me,” he says instead, calmly.

Finnegan pretends to have not heard him. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea or anything,” he continues, voice practically a purr. He bends his head so he can speak into his ear. Warm breath disturbs the curls there. “Just because you got away once, I’m not going to make a habit of letting you off easy.”

Something sharp presses against his throat, not quite above his carotid artery but it’s a close enough thing. Ah. Finnegan’s jackknife. He usually keeps it concealed in his sleeve. He tries not to move at all, but it’s not that difficult considering he’d already frozen still. 

“Remember that, will you?”

It’s only a threat. Sherlock knows this. His blood turns to ice nonetheless.

(Bruised ribs, twisted  ankle, split lip; Sherlock doesn’t consider any of this as being let off easy. Perhaps for Finnegan this is mercy.)

“How can I forget,” he tells him, only the barest quiver in his voice. The knife hasn’t broken skin yet, which is fortunate. “When you make it a habit to follow me down empty hallways. Perhaps I should be flattered.”

Finnegan’s expressions tightens, nostrils flaring and eyes twitching. Sherlock’s heart thunders so rapidly under his ribs it’s a wonder he can’t hear it.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “you’re always alone aren’t you Holmes. No watchdog to keep you safe.” The barest hint of a smirk pulls at his mouth and then the knife is gone, back into his sleeve again. Finnegan pushes off of him, and Sherlock resists the temptation to take a deep breath, rub at his neck. Slide down to the floor and hold his head in his hands.

Instead he stays quite still, plastered to the wall. Finnegan’s smile widens and he pats his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, practically a slap. The wince is instinctual. “Be careful is all.” He winks at him, the tip of his tongue resting on his upper lip as he does it, and then he’s gone. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath. Relief makes his body tremble a bit.

Finnegan is practically out of sight before Sherlock registers what he’d said. Watchdog . Strange choice of words. He peels himself away from the wall, lightning quick, even though it makes his head spin.

“How did you get away from it,” he says, gasping it out almost. “The dog, I mean.”

Finnegan stops at the end of the hallway, turning around to face him with one dark eyebrow raised. He looks slightly incredulous, like he can’t believe Sherlock is still talking. (Hadn’t he effectively shut him up, knife to his throat, the warnings about knowing where he belongs?) And maybe he is acting like an idiot, but there was a reason why Finnegan hadn’t seen Sherlock in so long, after all. All he had to go on was Lestrade’s claim that the three of them hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. And what was Sherlock supposed to do with second hand information?

Finnegan tilts his head at him, squinting. “What?”

Don’t play dumb, he almost says, but Finnegan’s tolerance for cheek has already been stretched thin. He aims for a more placating tone. “The dog. Wolf. Chased you off. How did you get rid of it.”

Finnegan narrows his eyes like he thinks Sherlock is having him on. “What the fuck are you on about? I don’t know, freak. Now piss off.”

Sherlock doesn’t want to piss off. He wants answers. But Finnegan stalks out of sight before he can continue, almost like he’s trying to avoid the topic. Or perhaps that’s just Sherlock being fanciful.

Still. It’s odd, isn’t it? Unsettled, he turns around, retrieves his bag where it had fallen off his shoulder and onto the floor when Finnegan had manhandled him up against the wall.

The one thing to remember is that he didn’t imagine it; the hairs on his uniform afterwards proved that. Sherlock holds on to this fact like a talisman. Then why was Finnegan pretending that it hadn’t happened at all? Sherlock knew how they got away; the wolf had just left them alone. Was this what was rankling with Finnegan? Would he have preferred to come out victorious in some sort of fight? He can’t be that disillusioned. 

Then what is the explanation? None of it makes sense. Lestrade hadn’t said they'd denied seeing it: only that it wasn’t quite what Sherlock had described.

Unanswered questions. Sherlock hates them just as much as conjecture. A working hypothesis can only get him so far.

Frustrated, he covers the last few steps towards the library. It’s nearly empty, which is the one thing this otherwise strange day has going for it. He pulls out a chair and plops himself down, takes out one of his notebooks and tries to get started on homework. As a distraction technique, it's only mildly effective. 

He’s blessedly alone for the span of about seven minutes before a group of girls tumble into the empty chairs at his table, whispering furtively among themselves, notebooks and pens and pencil cases clattering noisily onto the table. Fantastic. First Finnegan, now this. Sherlock just wants a moment of peace. How is he supposed to solve differential equations with all this chatter around him?

“I saw him in English first, wanted to speak to him but he left right after the bell.”

“Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have bunked. But Angela was just dying for a fag-”

“Oi! How was I supposed to know?”

“Max met him first, said he knows how to chat up a girl, at least, but then, Max says that about everyone.”

“Looks like he’s been in a fair few fights, what’s that about, though?”

“Oh yeah, that scar-“

Right. He’d tried to block it out, but it’s proving difficult. Sherlock shuts his books and pushes away from the table, chair scraping against the wood as he slides it back. He’s about to get up when a soft hand curls around his wrist. “I heard you’re rooming with him,” Catelyn Winters says, before he can immediately shrug out of her grasp. (He only recognises her because she’d asked him to some kind of social event at the beginning of the year, Sherlock’s rejection had quite possibly had some ill effect on her social standing as a result. Not that it lasted, isn’t she popular or something? There’s plenty of talk about her in the boy’s common room,  at least)

“Fascinating,” Sherlock drawls. What with the altercation with Finnegan, he’d almost forgotten about John. So that’s what they were talking about. His roommate. His new roommate. The student of whom he’d had no knowledge of  until this morning. (The one who’d barged into his tip of a room and hadn’t called him a freak) “Do tell me more about your daily activities, Winters. I’m just dying to know.”

Another girl- Angela?- waves her hand at Winters to stop her from saying something rude in response. “Shut up, Cate. So, what’s he like? Does he have a girlfriend?”

“I barely spoke to him for five minutes, can’t say we immediately started discussing his love life. Winters, do let go of my wrist.”

She immediately pulls her hand back, blushing furiously and looking quite upset about it. “Bet you’re pleased about the living arrangements, hmm?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. She’s been getting back at him for months by making vague, often crude references to his sexuality. Tedious, really. “I’d be pleased if you stopped talking to me.” 

“oh Cate, shut up! So he didn’t say anything about a girl, or-”

“He’s fit, isn’t he,” the other girl says, sighing tragically. Why is he having this conversation at all? Is he expected to have some kind of opinion about this?

Is John attractive? After a fashion, he supposes. He has a certain appeal, for someone who’s interested in that kind of thing. The rugged jaw, the messy hair, the ocean blue eyes.

Objectively speaking, of course : handsome, perhaps. 

The interest is unsurprising. Transfer students are always met with a certain wide eyed fascination anyway. They break the monotony of routine. Maybe the interest will fade. Not that Sherlock has an investment in it anyway. As long as he’s not expected to listen to stories about his sexual conquests, or to fend off advances from over eager suitors-

And why is he still dwelling on this? Why is he still at this table, which apparently has become a center for John Watson Appreciation? He ignores the rest of their questions, gathers his books, stuffs them into his bag, kicks the chair out of his way and leaves before he’s roped into this again. He’d rather attend Citizenship class than listen to this trite nonsense. Is he really that fascinating? They only care that he’s new and exciting, they’re only interested in shagging him, obviously. 

Which is none of his business, really. If they are. Sherlock has better things to do, anyway.

***

News travels fast. 

By lunch, two people have already joked about Sherlock sodomising John by the end of the week. He’s accosted by a few more female students who demand similar knowledge: Does John have a girlfriend? Does Sherlock know where he is? Does he know which classes he has? 

Good question- where is he, anyway? Shouldn’t John be attending classes, answering all these questions by himself? Sherlock takes it back; this isn’t interesting at all. He’s never had to speak to so many people at once, and certainly not about someone else. He escapes to the Chemistry lab for the rest of the day. 

***

Daylight is starting to wane when he decides to go to the woods. At least it’s quiet; save for the twitter of birds and the occasional twig-snap, people seldom come here when it’s beginning to get dark. Of course the usual rumors abound; it’s haunted, a serial killer has been living off the woods for years just looking for a vulnerable throat to slit, etc etc. Ridiculous. Better for him. Solitude is so difficult to come by. 

But he doesn’t stray too far. He stays on the dirt path; safety and warmth and the red-brick-grey-stone of school on one side, and the rest of the woods on the other. Cigarette dangling loosely between his lips he looks towards the edge of the woods: where the trees grow closer together and it’s too dark to distinguish between earth and sky. It’s just unchartered wilderness beyond. It must be peaceful there, presumably why Wolf was so upset when he found so many people trespassing. Sherlock can understand ; thresholds exist for a reason. 

A twig snaps behind him; and then the tell-tale squeak of wheels. The bike rushes past him, sending the crisp, dry leaves littering the dirt into the air before gravity inevitably pulls them back. The rider curves expertly around him until he stops the bike with a foot anchoring itself to the ground, blocking Sherlock’s path. 

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” John tells him. Of course Sherlock is the one to run into him, after an entire day of his absence. Of course 

“Not alone anymore,” he drawls in response, gesturing at him. He tries not to stare; but he’s a complete mess. No blazer, the sleeves of his white shirt pulled up to his elbow, his woolen vest has forest debris all over it; bits of leaves, twigs, dirt. 

John smirks at him before dismounting and taking his bike off to one side and clearing the way. Sherlock thinks longingly of his own bike, which has a broken wheel and he hasn’t been able to fix it yet. 

He thinks John has cleared off so Sherlock can just continue walking, but instead he falls into step beside him. 

It’s almost dark now, Sherlock can only see the starched whiteness of John’s shirt, the bright blonde of his hair. Had he just attended a singular class and then spent the rest of the day here? Not something Sherlock can find much fault with, to be honest. 

“What were you doing here anyway? Sneaking off for a smoke?”

Sherlock sucks in a drag before answering. “I could ask you the same thing. You look like you’ve been rolling around in the grass. You have leaves in your hair, by the way.” 

Sherlock had spotted them as soon as seen he’d him, embedded in the coarse, dirty blonde stands of his hair. They were distracting. 

“What? Oh.” He shakes his head and the leaves go fluttering  down, some of them caught by the wind before reaching the ground. He runs a hand through his now somewhat cleaner (although all the more tousled) hair, almost self-consciously. Sherlock hadn’t noticed back in their room because he was wearing his blazer, but there are more scars along his forearm. Thin and brown and long since healed but noticeable nonetheless. Made with a very sharp blade. “I was just. Taking a walk. Riding.”

“Talking a walk,” Sherlock repeats, allowing the amusement to colour his tone. “If you say so.”

John glances at him, and then he laughs shortly, just a brief self-deprecating exhale through his nose. “It’s just. Er, overwhelming,” he begins to explain. “Bit different from the last place I was. Lots of people, for one.”

Oh. 

Sherlock suddenly remembers that he was supposed to be angry at him, for missing classes and leaving behind Sherlock to answer all the probing questions people had about him. He thinks about all of that invasive, hungry attention being directed towards John instead, and he relents that perhaps it’s better this way. Overwhelming is rather a kind word to use. Sherlock thinks of Catelyn Winters claw like fingers latching on to John and demanding if he has a girlfriend and he’s quite glad John stayed out of their way. 

“Yes,” he agrees quietly, as they both walk down the path, John steering his bike beside himself, hands curved around the handles. “The interest will fade in a few days, considering the attention span of an average teenager.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” John replies fervently. He’s silent after that, both of them are. Sherlock’s mind wanders, he thinks about the way John is oddly calmer now, no shifty glances, no tension in his body. What a difference a few hours away from people can do.

 “Anyway, are you going back to campus, or-“

His thoughts still at that. Oh, yes. Obviously. John has lost his way. Understandable. That’s probably why he’d decided to walk back with Sherlock instead of trying to find his way back alone. 

He hadn’t been in a rush to get back, either. It’s definitely not because he doesn’t remember what it’s like to sleep in the same room as another person and that suddenly sends a very uncomfortable knot of nervousness and anticipation to his gut. 

“Yes,” he replies. “And you shouldn’t be out here alone, either. It’s advisable not to go too deep into the woods.”

“Why? Is it haunted?” John asks this with a trace of amusement. (He’s teasing, isn’t he? Not mocking him? Sherlock is never sure.) 

“Don’t be daft,” he scolds. “No, it’s not haunted. Just take my word for it that it’s not safe. If you’d like to get mauled to death despite my advice, I won’t stop you.”

John glances at him as if to ensure he’s actually being serious. “Mauled to death? That’s dramatic. Mauled to death by who?”

It’s starting to get colder, even in his blazer and  woolen vest Sherlock has to wrap his arms around himself for warmth. He wishes he had his scarf. John looks undisturbed; in fact, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised to find him a little damp with sweat if he were to touch him. 

“Whom,” he corrects, glancing at John just in time to witness the eye roll.

“Alright, whom am I going to get mauled by?”

Sherlock sends him a blistering look but consents to just say, “if nothing else, wild animals.”

“Wild animals? Here? Better watch myself, then.”

He knows John is just being indulgent, but it’s nice to be listened to anyway. He has a feeling that John is as reckless as he is ; warnings might possibly just serve to encourage him. 

They fall into a silence that is oddly comfortable. Sherlock finishes the rest of his cigarette and stubs it under his foot. 

“Those can kill you.”

Sherlock tips head towards the sky. It’s a clear night, and the stars are visible and bright. “So could a lethal injection.”

John snorts. “Unless you stab yourself with lethal injections on a daily basis, that’s a real shit comparison.”

He rolls his eyes. “You could die choking on your breakfast tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, you’re a cynic . Should have mentioned that too, this morning. I think it counts as knowing the worst.”

“I prefer the term pragmatist, much more flattering.”

 “Ah,” Sherlock can hear the smirk around the soft exclamation, even though he’s looking straight ahead where the path turns sharply to the right. John twists around, starts walking backwards and pulling his bike along, facing Sherlock. “So the secret is flattery. Is that how people get what they want out of you?” John’s shirt is unbuttoned to his collarbone. He’s not wearing his school tie, so Sherlock can see the barest hint of his sternum, the dip at the bottom of his throat.  

He shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingers are cold. “People want me for very little, save writing their assignments for them, in which case cigarettes are a far more desirable mode of payment.”

John’s smirk widens, he tilts his head, it makes his blonde fringe  flop to one side. “What if I want something?”

“That depends on what you want,” he says, before he can stop himself. Going from the way John purses his lips like he’s trying to stifle a chuckle, it didn’t come out sounding completely innocent. And of course John is the kind of person to pick up on that. Cheeks aflame, Sherlock tries to make amends- “That is, I meant-”

“I see. Well. In that case. I’ll have to think about it,” John interrupts him, and then he winks. Winks. Unmistakable, even in the near darkness. Something squirmy and wriggly comes alive in his gut, and Sherlock can find no reason why that should happen, except that perhaps being winked at makes him nervous. 

“I look forward to it,” he tells John, voice as level and steady as he can hope for.

John grins at him, wide and bright, and for a second, moonlight catches on the white of his teeth. More specifically, his incisors. Must have been a trick of the light, because those are sharper than normal. Slightly longer too. He suddenly feels like bridging the gap and pulling John’s mouth open to check and see, but he knows that kind of behaviour would most certainly make John uncomfortable. Maybe he could ask politely, later.

You have such lovely incisors. May I please have a look?

Right. Perhaps a different approach would be advisable.

Did they notice that too, all the girls, or had they just looked at John and his scar and his tanned skin and found him desirable? He’d thought the scar would be off putting. Not that he finds it off putting. Scars tell stories, they’re interesting. If only John’s said a bit more about him.

“It's a clear night,” John mentions after a few moments, back to walking next to him. From someone else’s mouth, it would have sounded like an inane observation. John sounds oddly wistful, head tipped towards the darkness, his steps slowing slightly. Sherlock doesn’t know how to answer that. Clear nights mean no cloud cover, meaning no rain. But perhaps that’s not exactly what John wants to hear. 

The wind picks up, swirls around them, ruffling John’s hair only the slightest bit. He doesn’t seem to mind that Sherlock hasn’t responded. “D’you know any constellations?”

Sherlock looks up at the sky, the glittering stars, twinkling so brightly and looking just out of reach. It is quite pretty. He can appreciate beauty when the occasion calls for it. “Some,” he allows, with a tilt of his head. “Seems like a waste of head space, remembering constellations. No practical use. Not to me, anyway.”

John snorts. Sherlock glances at him, sighs. He doesn’t know why but he lifts his head, tipping his face upward. “Ursula major. Ursula minor. Artemis. The dog star,” he lifts a hand and points at them as he names them. John turns to him, eyebrows raised, and Sherlock tries not to preen a bit.

“I had a book, when I was a child,” he explains, as if he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. He’d just said he knew some. Why is John smiling at him like that? Oh, and there it is again, one of his sharp incisors.  

“Dog star’s always been my favourite,” he says, and Sherlock doesn’t know why, but he files that away for later. 

***

John’s possessions are meagre. The only indication of a roommate in his (now somewhat less) untidy room is the grey duffel bag thrown carelessly into one of the beds. That’s all John had arrived with, all that he’d considered worthy  of bringing with himself to a place he’d presumably be living in for the better part of a year. Then again, constantly being moved from place is not conductive to taking root, gathering dust, finding a home. Not that school is any kind of home either. For some, perhaps. Sherlock doesn’t associate many pleasant experiences with this place. 

As soon as they’d entered the room, John had sunk into (his) bed). “God, I’ve been waiting to get this thing off,’ he’d growled, ripping his vest off and over his head with a certain air of violence that made Sherlock’s lips twitch. He shakes his head, it smoothes down some of the strands that had stood on end because of the static. It had reminded him of Redbeard, he’d do that when you took his collar off. 

“He’s so relieved when it’s off,” Sherlock had told Mycroft. “Why does he have to keep wearing a collar?”

“So that we can find him if he ever gets lost,” Mycroft had explained. It had made sense to him. The collar might be uncomfortable, but Sherlock didn’t want Redbeard lost or anything. 

“How do you stand this,” John asked him, cracking his neck. His eyes had fluttered closed at that, mouth parted in relief. Sherlock had shrugged, standing at the edge of his bed, watching, opening his mouth to say something about the use of uniforms as a tool of authority and suppression of individuality, but then one of John’s hands had moved to the button of his shirt and he’d flicked the top one open. 

 Sherlock swiftly turns around to face his bed, slipping off his bag and letting it fall on top of the mattress, unzipping it for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands. 

“They are quite restricting,” he agrees, a little breathlessly, because John has asked him a question and questions are supposed to be answered. 

Doesn’t he want privacy? That’s what Sherlock is doing. Giving him privacy. He can hear the swish of cotton which must mean John is taking off his shirt. 

“You alright?” 

Sherlock continues to pull out random notebooks and flip through them. “Of course. Yes. I am. Just. My bag. Books.” 

What? 

“Ah, that’s clear now.” Sherlock can hear the laughter in his voice, and it’s infuriating. He has no idea why he’s so angry all of a sudden. This. This is why he prefers having his own room.

The rasp of a zipper, too soft to be that of his duffel bag. John is removing his trousers. He hasn’t shared a room with anyone, ever, not since Timothy and he doesn’t recall changing into his pyjamas in front of him as a memorable incident, or vice versa.

But John has never been to a boarding school before, of this much Sherlock is sure. He’s un self conscious about taking off his clothes, and that must be because of all that time spent in juvenile. Must be common, stripping off in front of people all the time. 

This is a strange direction for his mind to be wandering in. When he turns back around - several books in his hand so it looks like he was actually doing something with his bag and not just fiddling with it aimlessly- John’s stretched out on the bed, in his white undershirt and a pair of over washed grey jogging bottoms. 

He leans against the desk which is placed just behind the bed, pushed up against the window, casual and settled and so different from the faintly aggressive, terse person in his room that morning. 

(Well defined biceps indicate some form of consistent physical activity, possibly boxing. Again, the blazer had prevented him from appreciating observing properly.) 

“Are you just going to stand there, or,” John asks him, without even looking up. He’s flipping through Sherlock’s copy of Macbeth. He doesn’t think he’s ever opened it. English Lit isn’t one of his favourite subjects. 

“I,” Sherlock replies, blinking. “I was just going to. Yes.” 

“You’re not always this coherent, are you? Only, this morning you couldn’t stop talking about my life history.” John glances towards him, lips a crooked half smile, and then down at the way he’s holding on to Organic Chem for dear life. 

Sherlock can’t tell if he’s being laughed at or being invited into the joke. “Shut up,” he says, eloquently, turning away from him, and bends to retrieve his pajamas from where he’d kicked them under the bed. Really, after all of this trouble to tidy up the room and everything, for a roommate he had neither expected nor wanted -John is still - still - doing that. 

Doing what, his mind asks unhelpfully, as he’s on his hands and knees. Irritating because he has no tangible answer to that. He can feel John’s gaze on him, on his back, and why is he still on the floor? He tucks his pajamas under his arm and stands up, sweeps out of the room, making sure to bang the door shut behind him and not looking at John at all. He’ll just change in the boys loo. And take a very long shower. Well, not too long because he has maybe five minutes of hot water, but still. 

He definitely does not think about the jagged, ropey cut that rests along John’s left bicep, right above his elbow. Rusty blade. Must have been very painful, healed badly- infected. 

***

Once when he was thirteen, Sherlock had caught the flu. He was in the hospital for a week; it was the most awful thing he’d ever had to endure. He was always either too hot or too cold, his head splitting apart, his skin over sensitive and his mouth dry. 

That’s how he feels now, flat on his back in his bed. Feverish. Skin stretched too tightly over his bones. This room is so warm, why is it so warm? Maybe because there are two people in it now, sharing air and proximity. Their beds are very close, he’d never noticed how small his room was until now. 

It’s a cold night, October chill. But Sherlock’s duvet is crumpled at his feet after having been kicked off. He wants to look at John, see if he’s asleep, but he’s half afraid he’d still awake and then he’ll wonder why Sherlock is staring at him in the middle of the night. 

Maybe he could crack open the window, just a bit, not so much that either of them catch a cold, just enough to get rid of the stale, stuffy air. 

He slips out of bed, ever so quiet, resolutely not looking at John’s bed, and gently pulls the shutter open, just a crack. The wooden flooring feels like ice against his bare feet. He leans a damp forehead against the cold window pane, breathes in the fresh, sweet scent. Ah. Much better. Maybe Sherlock could stay here all night. He can’t hear John breathing from here at least. 

He does stay there for a long time, trying to calm his oddly racing heart, looking at the clear expanse of sky and naming constellations. Big Dipper, he knows that one. Until his eyelids start to droop with exhaustion and he can find no more reason to keep sitting there, perched awkwardly on the window sill. He creeps slowly back to bed, burrowing himself underneath the covers. John is turned away from him, facing the wall, and Sherlock can only see the barest outline of his body. His breathing is too slow, too practiced to be that of deep sleep.

He wants to ask, is it the bed? Is it too hard? Too soft?

Is it too cold? He did close the window. Or maybe it’s too warm. He thinks of John practically half dressed in the woods a few hours ago, maybe he likes the heat.

Nothing is worse than lying half-awake in a strange place, with a person you don’t know. But perhaps the best thing Sherlock can do for him, as of now, is be silent, drift off. 

Chapter Text

There are only a few moments when Sherlock isn’t absolutely brilliant, and six thirty in the morning is one of them. It’s kind of endearing, actually. He wakes up frizzy haired and bleary eyed, some drool still on his chin. He’ll make a few aborted attempts to drag himself out of bed, which usually ends with him flopping back into the covers. When they have about five minutes to get to class, Sherlock will slither out like a slug, jam his toothbrush into his mouth and make his way to the boy’s loo with a kind of lazy saunter that requires far too much hip movement in John’s opinion.

Sleep that first night had been fitful and disjointed, he’d dozed for maybe an hour and woken up some time past 5 am, sat on his bed and drawn the curtains just a bit, to watch the sun peeking out over the distant hills, rising slowly until the light poured over the fields.

Sherlock had been awake when he’d come back from his run- only just; he’d tried the track field first but it was too restricted, he was going around in circles and he hated it. He’d tried the wood after that, obviously better, why hadn’t he come here first? His trainers get splattered with mud and grass and his joggers were flecked with dirty rainwater, but he’d felt better, so much better. 

Sitting up in his bed, hair tumultuous and gaze turning steadily from unfocused to fever bright the longer he looks at John. His t-shirt is blue, or it was, at least, because it’s the colour of dust now, and over washed and stretched out; it falls over one delicate shoulder, just enough for John to catch a glimpse of prominent collarbone, a trail of freckles over the pale skin; Orion’s belt. 

“You’ve been for a run,” he’d said, now sharp, calculating gaze running over his body.

“Right since dawn.” He was getting mud all over their room, but having a clean room was clearly not one of Sherlock’s priorities. Somehow the room had descended back into its state of disorder.

Sherlock had looked mildly disgusted at this, before twisting dramatically and flopping down onto the bed, right on his front. “Why?” he’d demanded of him, head nestled in his forearms. Only one bright, pale eye peeking up at him, the rest of his face covered by his hair.

John had toed off his dirty trainers, stuffed them under the bed. Where were his keds? “Always been a morning person.”

“No such thing,” Sherlock had muttered, now turning onto his back, carding a hand through his curls and yawning. His blanket was wrapped around his legs, t-shirt riding up, right to where the curve of his ribcage began. “You barely even slept last night.”

John had cocked his head, and asked, “And how d’you know that?”

And Sherlock had flushed cherry red at that, eyes snapping open, he’d mumbled something about breathing patterns and REM cycles, before pretending to go back to sleep. Still twenty minutes till seven, he’d snapped at him, do be quiet. And you’re filthy, by the way, as usual. Go take a shower.

He’d tried not to smirk as Sherlock turned over and curled up into a ball, pulling the covers over his head.  Of course he’d heard Sherlock prattling about that night, seemed like both of them had been suffering from the same predicament.

I can’t sleep either, he’d wanted to say. I’m so fucking exhausted but I can’t sleep. Because if I sleep, I’ll dream. 

Might not be the best of things to say to someone you’ve only just met. 

And then he’d asked him if they could go to class together. Sherlock had looked suspicious, as if John was asking him for something else. But he’d accepted, with a lot of grumbling and complaining. John had had to tell him that he needed his help otherwise he’d get lost.

Well intentioned girls had tried to get him to sit next to him, John had no idea why. Sherlock had just rolled his eyes as if he found the entire exercise  extremely off putting. They’d asked him questions, made insinuations that made John uncomfortable but he’d already got himself a bit of a reputation by flirting with ... what was her name? Max. Maxime, so he couldn’t really blame them. 

He’d pulled Sherlock to the back of the class, instead. They’d sat together, legs brushing. People had stared, and John didn’t give a single fuck.  He had asked to borrow his pencil. Sherlock had allowed him to crib his notes, pushing them over with a resigned sigh.

Closer now, John could smell him properly; bergamot from his poncy soap, detergent from his freshly washed uniform, rosin and cedar, and underneath it all, the fresh clean scent that clung to him, that hung over their shared room; pinecone and woodsmoke. 

“He’s shagging the nurse again,” Sherlock had said lazily, without any preamble, rocking back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “After that awful mess. Shame.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Mallory,” Sherlock jerked his chin towards their Physics professor, who was drawing something on the board with chalk and talking about reflective angles.

“He’s shagging the nurse?”

“Yep.”

“And you know that...how?”

“Same way I know you used to play Rugby as a child but switched to football in your later years. I observed.”

Same way, John had reflected, Sherlock had picked apart his life and served him his own secrets on a platter. Foster homes and childhood trauma, everything written right on his skin for Sherlock to pick apart. And he should be annoyed, does he have to do that all the time? But annoyed is the last thing he’d felt.

“Well, are you going to tell me or not,” John had whispered. “How you know, that is.”

Sherlock had glanced at him, the familiar surprise when John had called him perceptive blooming across his face. John had raised his eyebrows in expectation, and Sherlock had dipped his head lower, towards his ear, so no one could see, and whispered a stream of deductions so elegant, so simple, that it seemed so obvious once he’d finished.

“Brilliant,” John had called him, and Sherlock had blinked several times at him in response, muttered, “Textbook, really,” under his breath and then avoided John’s gaze for the rest of the class.

***

.He’d have preferred if Sherlock didn’t miss so many classes, though. The routine of school is not something he gets used to so easily. It’s unfamiliar and jarring, and he knows it’s dangerous to latch on to Sherlock that way, as if he’s some, some kind of beacon, but people tend to avoid Sherlock and he’d like to be avoided as well.

Coursework is alright; they taught them science and maths at the center, the syllabus here is supposed to be much more advanced but he’s doing alright. He’s rubbish at History and Citizenship, English is better than he’d expected. 

He likes the building, it’s old but comfortably posh, the grounds are lush and perfect, he’s already had a thorough look of them at least.

But when Sherlock is gone he has to sit next to other people, girls who touch him far too much, blokes who do the same (manly claps on his back, lots of Alright, Watsons?)  except that bit often makes John want to snarl at them, bare his teeth.

He doesn’t though. He smiles back. He laughs at their jokes. He tries to fit in. All the while his skin crawls, his fingers twitch restlessly. He almost misses the Center. Almost.

Being with Sherlock was...safe. Sherlock didn’t touch him, at all, if he could help it. Sometimes John wonders if it’s on purpose. Better, that. Safer to keep some distance between the two of them. They already share a room. Any more physical proximity and John’s wolf would start associating Sherlock with the role of pack mate and that would be…a bit not good. 

***

John had thought the nightmares would come back, but after that first night sleep had been...surprisingly easy to come by.

And easy sleep means that Sherlock is safe. He’d tried, at the beginning, to stay awake as long as possible, his body buzzing with awareness, because if he fell asleep, and something went wrong....but exhaustion would always pull him under. Still, there must be something about Sherlock being there that makes the wolf calmer, tamer.

Maybe it doesn’t hurt what it means to protect, but that’s a dangerous way to think.

***

He’s not sure Sherlock sleeps at all. He doesn’t come to the room until late evening, John sees him only in a few classes, the ones that he doesn’t think are a complete waste of time. He’ll read in his bed or work at his desk until two or three am, and then he’ll tumble into bed. Sherlock doesn’t have much of a social life, John has noticed; save orchestra practice which he goes for only very reluctantly.

No girlfriends, either, as far as John can tell. Which is surprising, because Sherlock is certainly attractive. Not exactly good looking, no, because that’s a pale word to use, but casually, effortlessly striking in a way that has his gaze drawing to him even in a room full of people. 

The most obvious explanation would be that as soon as Sherlock opens his mouth, he puts them off. 

Mostly he’ll just study his room. Or experiment. John isn’t sure which is which. Last evening he’d come into the room only to see Sherlock standing on his desk, windows open, clearly trying to air the room out with flaps of cardboard.

John had taken in the scene very calmly and asked, “Am I in danger of dying if I sleep here tonight?”

Sherlock had to think for a moment, head cocked and hands stilling.  “The probability of that is low,” he’d finally decided. “I’ll keep the windows open, as a precaution.”

That was probably the best John could expect, so he’d gotten into bed anyway.

***

“They haven’t even found the murder weapon yet but they’ve arrested the father, how embarrassing,” Sherlock  greets him from behind a newspaper, sprawled in his desk chair, long legs on the table, ankles crossed. Technically, the room is divided into two sides. In practice, Sherlock uses whichever desk has an empty surface- usually John’s, because John cleans up after himself, unlike Sherlock. 

“Hate it when they do that,” John agrees, only half-teasing, toeing off his filthy sneakers and shutting the door behind himself. “You’re chipper this morning.” He wants to strip off his T-shirt too, it’s drenched in sweat but after that first time he had changed in this room, he’s avoided doing it again. Sherlock gets a little odd about it.

Sherlock lowers the newspaper onto his lap and looks disapprovingly at John, his endlessly sharp gaze flicking over him in a now familiar sweep. “Prehistoric man would be appalled that you were wasting your energy instead of conserving it,” he announces.

Prehistoric man, John muses privately, would have either worshiped him as a god or hunted him for sport. Their feelings on his morning runs can be reasonably ignored. And what does Sherlock know about prehistoric man anyway, he hates history. And anthropology. 

“Which is why I’m very thankful for evolution,” John pads across the length of floor between the door and Sherlock’s chair, and Sherlock has to tip his head up to look at him, which is a nice change of pace. “I got you tea.”

John holds out the thermos and Sherlock’s fingers curl readily around it, eyes wide with surprise. So satisfying. 

 “You- What? For me?” 

“Well, technically it’s for us to share, but you can have the first taste. I don’t know if it has sugar, do you take sugar?”

Sherlock looks down at the thermos in his hand, looking faintly alarmed. “Yes,” he answers, unscrewing the lid and peering into the contents. 

“I haven’t poisoned it, you know.”

“I would have known if you had,” Sherlock tells him absently, and then he takes a sip, almost cautiously, like he’s still not sure if it’s tea, even though John is quite sure it both looks and smells like tea. 

“This isn’t from the canteen,” he surmises, impressed, licking his lips with a little flick of his tongue. 

“No, it’s the good stuff, nicked it from the teachers lounge,” John grins, and his little detour back from his run had been worth it, to see that vaguely pleased air about him. Sherlock complains constantly about the canteen tea and John tells himself that this is just the most expedient way of shutting him up. 

“I wasn’t aware thievery was one of your strong suits,” Sherlock says, approvingly, and he takes another sip before handing it back to John. 

The tea is awful, at least to John, because he doesn’t take sugar with his tea, but he drinks anyway. He must make a face, because Sherlock looks at him a little oddly. 

He clears his throat and leans over, puts the thermos on the table. Sherlock can have the rest of it, he obviously appreciates it more.  John’s quite fine with drinking the ditchwater they pass for tea in the canteen. “I have plenty of strong suits you’re not aware of.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows spring up, disappear into his fringe. “ That is a very ambitious statement to make.” Newspaper is thrown carelessly onto the table top, Sherlock tucks his legs underneath him. He cocks his head, eyes sparkling, a mischievous little tilt to lips. “But you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity. Do tell.” 

So smug, John thinks. Not always, of course, Sherlock gets flustered enough- when John stands too close, when he teases, when he calls a particular deduction brilliant . But most of the time Sherlock has a self assured confidence that clings to him like a second skin. John likes to shake it, just a bit, because it’s fun to see Sherlock flush and stammer and call John an idiot with the faintest quiver in his voice. 

“No fun in that, is there,” he says instead. “Anyway, now that I’ve got you tea and everything-“

“I knew it, all this was an elaborate attempt to extract a favour from me,” Sherlock immediately swivels away from him, scoffing, flapping out the newspaper again and disappearing behind it. All John can see now are his curls, peeking out from the top of the page. 

“No, I did a genuinely nice thing for you,” John corrects him, gripping the newspaper from the top and easily ripping it out from Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock looks predictably incensed at this, mouth set in a scowl as John pulls it away and eyes flashing. “So don’t be a prick and listen to me,” John holds up a hand just as Sherlock opens his mouth to call him something rude, probably, and surprisingly, he shuts it again, eyes still narrowed. “And anyway, why are you reading the newspaper, you said current events were a waste of your time.”

“This entire conversation is a waste of my time,” Sherlock points out very scathingly, wrapping his arms around his shins and glaring at John. He tucks his chin over his knees, and John wonders for the thousandth time how Sherlock fits his long, lanky body into whichever spaces he likes. 

John ignores the death glare, folds up the newspaper and throws it in the general direction of his bed. He must have been checking to see if there had been any violent crimes. Maybe later. Far be it for him to prevent Sherlock from finding out if anyone’s been murdered in the nearby vicinity. 

“It’s the weekend,” John says, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sherlock’s bed, that is. It’s the bed that doesn’t creak ominously whenever you put weight on it. Very clever he was, about this division of furniture. 

Sherlock raises a mocking eyebrow. “Your propensity to throw obvious facts at me continues to astound.”

John suppresses the urge to throw something at him. Or press him up against the nearest wall and say try again, a bit nicer this time. It’s an urge that arises surprisingly often; John is unsure where it comes from, probably just his wolf attempting to exert control, dominance. 

(Physically, that is laughably easy. But submission is so much more cerebral. And Sherlock’s mind, well. That is something else entirely) 

“It’s Sunday. You’re up for a change. What do you do for fun.”

“Fun,” Sherlock repeats, and how does he manage to fill one little word with so much disdain. “Here?” Silver eyes roll heavenward. “Absolutely nothing. If you mean, what do I do to prevent my brain from turning to rot, then I’m  going to spend the day sleeping, and when I’m awake again, I’m going to continue my experiment on the fungus. And check on my spores.” 

As if to emphasise that checking on his spores is far more interesting than John, he unwinds himself from his chair and leaps onto the bed, steps around John and jumps onto the floor, before moving to the other desk and turning his back to John. And all of that was so dramatic and unnecessary, because the desk is about three steps away anyway. “Look, the fungus has even matured,” he says brightly. “Brilliant.”

John watches the flurry of his pale fingers doing absolutely nothing except moving several flasks from one side of the desk to the other.

“While I can see the merit in that,” John says dryly. “I was hoping you could show me around.”

“Show you what, we’re in the most boring place for miles. There’s absolutely nothing interesting to do here.” Sherlock holds a test tube to the sunlight and peers at it like he’s trying to decipher the secrets of the universe. John is pretty sure there’s nothing inside it.

He sighs, runs both hands through his hair and then waves them at the paraphernalia on his desk. “So every weekend you just. Sit with your spores. And do things with your fungus.”

“What do you think I do? And maybe you should use your time off to work on your English essay, it’s atrocious.”

Sherlock gestures to the untidy mass of paper on the desk he’s at, and John had thought those were Sherlock’s, but even from here his own untidy penmanship is clearly legible.

“Git,” he mutters, propelling himself off the bed and towards the desk, gathering all the sheets of paper and stuffing them in the drawer, out of sight. 

“Charming,” Sherlock comments, propping a bony hip against the rim of the desk and turning to face him. “You’ve confused Banquo and MacDuff, by the way.”

John thinks of pointing out that Sherlock hasn’t even read Macbeth,  so how does he even know who Banquo is, but he’s distracted by how close he is. This happens frequently, considering the size of their room, but it always catches him off guard. He hasn’t taken a shower yet; so he still smells a bit like sweat, a bit like formaldehyde. His long sleeved grey pull over is pushed up to his elbows, blue pajamas trail against the floor. His feet are bare. John can discern the trace of spearmint on his breath. His eyes flick down to his mouth, because he’s right there and-

John is staring. He clears his throat and swiftly brings his gaze back up to Sherlock’s face and says, “Stop going through my homework. And there has to be something to see around here.”

Sherlock peers down at him, tone going a bit musing like he’s actually considering. “If it’s sight seeing you want to do, I’m sure you would find a more enjoyable partner in that endeavor than me. Allison Meyers seemed very keen to take you to the town.”

Alison Meyers, if John remembers correctly, had made a very transparent proposal that John take her to the town this weekend, because her parents had a flat there that would be empty. John, in turn, had made an equally transparent excuse that he was definitely coming down with the flu. He grimaces at the memory. 

“Well I’m asking you, so I’m pretty sure you can deduce that I want to go with you, and not Allison Meyers, however bloody keen she may be.”

Sherlock’s cheeks go the slightest bit pink and his mouth parts a little in surprise. “I- I don’t know anything about the natural history or anything,” he says quickly. “I should warn you. In fact I don’t even know interesting spots, or-“

John shrugs. “I only want to get out of here, so as long as you come with me, I’m sure-

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. John stops talking the same moment Sherlock’s eyes flick towards it, narrowing. Scowling, he mutters, “Only Tennyson bangs on the door like that. I expect he wants to talk to you.”

Tennyson is the bloke who stays in the room two doors across, and that’s about the limit of what John knows about him. He has half a mind to not open the door at all, because it’s Saturday, and for some reason he wants it to himself, and spending it with Sherlock is honestly the most desirable thing he can think of at the moment. The week had been exhausting, not so much physically, but the people, and the homework, and the new routine of school that John had to contend with. And he’s been holding it together so far, but now Tennyson is knocking on the door, no doubt trying to rope John into some activity that he definitely does not want any part of it.

“I really don’t-” he starts, glancing towards the door, which rattles again.

“Oi, Watson, you in there?”

“Open it,” Sherlock advises, sinking into his chair, looking resigned. “Or he’ll assume I’ve drugged you.”

John frowns at him for a second before deciding to open it, because the knocking is driving him mad.

“Morning,” Tennyson says, as soon as John lays eyes on him. He’s grinning widely, forearm braced against the doorframe Why is he so pleased to see him when John wishes he hadn’t opened the door at all? 

“Morning,” John replies, and then raises an eyebrow expectantly at him.

“Right, so,” Tennyson leans against the door jamb. “So Yang reckons you might want to try out for the football team, someone said you’ve played before, at your other school, and we’re a player short this year, after Kit broke his ankle.”

“There you go,” Sherlock says behind him. John twists around to say no stop, I’m not doing this. Sherlock is already pretending to be engrossed in an experiment, seated and head bent over his desk, turning on his Bunsen burner. “You have something to do.”

His voice is oddly flat. John wants to tell him to look up, look at him, help him out of this because while the notion of playing a football game is familiar and football is something he is pretty damn good at, he hasn’t played with people who don’t change into ferocious, four-legged beasts every month in a while. Predictably, the group sports at the Center would get very...aggressive.

Had Sherlock not wanted to go with him? It doesn’t seem likely, John would have noticed his hesitation.

Or would he have?

“Come with,” he tells him, hopefully, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Sherlock would get bored to tears.

Tennyson bursts out laughing at the suggestion, and John has the sudden urge to grab his head and smash it against the door jamb. He ignores it, and continues to look at Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he says.

“I’d really rather not,” he says quietly. Fucking hell, a moment ago John was so sure he’d be able to convince him to get out of campus with him, but now he’s closed off and rigid and refusing to acknowledge John at all. 

Aaand he’s not saying anything else. They’ve reached the end of their conversation, even though Sherlock was in something bordering on a good mood a few seconds ago. “Fine,” John grits out, turning away from him and  shoving his feet back  into his trainers and grabbing a sweatshirt from the closet. “Fine, let’s go, Tennyson.”

“Cheers,” Tennyson says, and John resists the urge to punch him. He really needs to get that under control.

He closes the door shut so loudly on his way out that the entire frame rattles.

**

Try outs are predictably not challenging at all. He makes the team, they tell him he’s got bloody fantastic reflexes, and John slips out before they can insist upon participation in any further activity. He’s halfway back to their dormitory when he realises that Sherlock’s scent is fainter here, which means he isn’t in their room. Damn it. Now he has to go looking for him. Because obviously John will apologise, if that’s what Sherlock wants. He’s not sure what he’d be apologising for. Just that it might get Sherlock to talk to him again.

He finds him in the woods, curly haired head unmistakable.

He looks to be scraping something off of a tree and then depositing it into a clear plastic bag with might possibly be a cinnamon peeler. John stands there staring for a few moments before he clears his throat and asks, “What are you doing?”

Sherlock doesn’t even flinch, which must mean he knew John was standing there. And staring. And he hadn’t even said anything. He continues to peel more of whatever that is into his bag. He has a pair of latex gloves strapped onto his hands. Hm. That. Is possibly toxic, then. John wonders if he should ask Sherlock (politely) if he’d stop touching poisonous mould. Because he’s assuming that is the mould he’d been referring to that morning. Or was it fungus?

“I did tell you I had to continue the experiment on the fungus,” Sherlock tells him absently. Ah. Is he still pissed? He doesn’t look pissed, exactly. Just very disinterested in John and what he has to say.

“Yes, you did say that.”

“How were tryouts,” Sherlock asks, in an uncharacteristically careful voice.

John leans against the nearest tree and watches as Sherlock narrows his eyes and purses his lips, so much concentration directed towards that disgusting fungus and John feels ridiculously jealous of it. Which is stupid, obviously. He’s not jealous of fungus. He’s not jealous of anyone Sherlock chooses to associate with at all. Or what.

“Exhausting,” John tells him, and Sherlock turns sharply towards him.

“But you did- is that blood?” Clear plastic bag and cinnamon/mould peeler falls from his hands and Sherlock’s eyes widen as they fall to his left arm.

“Oh, that’s-“ John shakes his head. “I’m fine, really.” He is, obviously, it’ll heal by tomorrow. He’d taken a nasty fall while playing, torn his arm half open on a jagged piece of rock. He was bleeding quite profusely, but someone had pushed a towel into his hand so he’d tied that around the cut, hoping that it would staunch the flow. He hadn’t even noticed the pain, which meant he hadn’t noticed that he’d bled through the white towel and now it’s stained crimson.

“Fine?” Sherlock repeats, incredulous, and then rushes towards him, snapping off his gloves and putting them in his trouser pockets. He’s changed out of his pajamas into his uniform trousers. John stares as Sherlock gently takes his arm and runs his eyes over it. “Can I- I’m taking off this towel, who gave this to you? It’s from the boy’s showers, you’re definitely going to get infected.”

“You left behind your-thing,” John tells him weakly, but Sherlock is easing the towel off of his skin and inspecting his wound, brow furrowed and lips set in a hard, calculating line. 

“This is deep,” he announces. “And it has to be cleaned. How are you still standing? You’ve bled through everything.”

John doesn’t notice the pain, it’s there, but it’s faraway and distant, sort of muffled, like if you held your hands over your ears and tried to listen to something. The delicate touch of Sherlock’s fingers, however, explodes on his skin, leaving him a touch light headed. Hmm. How is he doing that? John doesn’t want him to stop.

“I,” John says, and then nothing else. Sherlock looks up at him, concerned, and John has never seen him look concerned. Not like that. Not unless one of his experiments has been compromised. “I’ll be fine,” he hastens to reassure him. “Really, I’ll just-“

“Are you mentally deficient?” Sherlock snaps. “You’re going to need stitches for this.”

“I’m not going to need stitches,” John says automatically, but Sherlock is already curling a hand around his other arm and pulling him along, away from his fungus-infested tree.

“Put this on the wound,” Sherlock rips the loosely draped scarf around his throat and hands it to John. “Stop staring at me, you imbecile, just put pressure on it. My scarf is infinitely cleaner than that bacteria infested rag those idiots gave you.”

“Calling me names when I’m mortally wounded,” John mutters. Calling names, however, is much better than the unmistakably sullen silence John was being subjected to a moment ago.

“You’re not mortally wounded, you just tripped over a rock like the idiot you are.”

“It was an accident.”

“Precisely.”

“Like you’ve never had an accident?”

“Accidents are something I do not permit myself.”

“That has got to be one of the biggest loads of rubbish I have ever heard.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Do try to conserve your energy and shut up John, you’re leaking everywhere, we’re going to attract something, and then we’re going to have to run. Can you walk faster, please?”

Technically, yes, John could outrun Sherlock in about a second. But he has no idea where they’re being taken. He dutifully holds Sherlock’s scarf against the cut, and now it’s dark with blood and wet. The clear pine-cone-wood-smoke scent of it crusted over with the stink of iron and salt. John feels a little queasy, Sherlock’s fragrance mixed with blood is doing weird, sickening things to his head.

John suddenly notices they’re inside the school building, a part of it he hasn’t been to before. He looks around, the hallway is empty and mostly silent. Sherlock drags him along until they reach a door with a sign on it that says Sick Room.

“Um,” John says, and freezes. “What-“

“Nurse’s office,” Sherlock explains quickly. “What is it? Come on. We have to get that seen to.”

“Nurse’s office,” John repeats. “No, I don’t think so.”

“John? You have to-“

“Nope,” John shrugs out of his grasp, steps backward. “I’m not having any white-coated wankers poke at me, thanks. I’ll take my chances with this,” he holds up his scarf-covered arm.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s grown another head, or like John has disappeared and left someone completely unfamiliar in his place. He has no idea what the expression is on his face. He only knows that he’s not going inside that room, where someone he doesn’t know is going to be touching him. And saying things like, Open your mouth, that’s it, well dear me, look at the size of those incisors. Or Now we’re going to be checking your pain tolerance, so why don’t you rate this for me on a scale of one to ten.

Sherlock frowns at him. “She’s not- she’s just a nurse,” he tries to explain, placatingly. “John? You’re bleeding all over the floor.”

And so he is. John looks down at the wooden floor, pale hardwood, and blood is steadily dripping all over it. He swallows, looks back up, jaw set. “I’m not seeing a fucking nurse, Sherlock.”

Something seems to click in Sherlock’s expression. It clears for a second, and he nods once, sharply. “Fine,” he says, sounding very calm and put-together and not at all like John is acting like an idiot. “You stay here. Just stand right there. And I’ll be back.”

“Wait-“ John starts, but Sherlock has disappeared into the room.

John looks at the gently swinging door and curses himself. Fuck. What is he doing? Sherlock is going to think he’s insane, if he doesn’t already think that yet. John breathes harshly, staggering backward until his back hits a wall. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He’s right, she’s just a nurse. A high school nurse, a distressingly normal person who is absolutely not capable of hurting him.

Why is Sherlock in there, anyway? He’s not going to bring her out, is he? Which would be fine. If he does. Because she’ll probably just dress his wounds and give him some painkillers, which is what she’s paid to do. Nothing else.

A moment later, his question is answered. The door swings open and Sherlock steps out, carrying what looks like a first aid box in his hands. “Quickly now, come on,” Sherlock tells him authoritatively and starts walking, rushing past him. “We’re going to have to clean up that blood later.”

John follows, until Sherlock ducks into a room to their right. Empty classroom, smallish.

“Sit,” he orders, tipping his chin towards a rickety wooden chair.

“Er-“

“You didn’t hit your head, did you? Sit.”

John sits.

Sherlock places the box on the desk, drags out a chair for himself and perches on the edge of it. He looks a little pale. “I assume I am an adequate substitute for the nurse,” he says.

Oh. He’s. He’s going to- 

Obviously. Sherlock wants John to have that seen to, and John doesn’t want to see a nurse, so Sherlock is just doing it by himself.

That is. 

Possibly one of the nicest things someone has done for him in a long, long time. Sherlock probably doesn’t think it’s a nice thing to do, for him this is logical. But for John it’s... not. 

“Do you know how to-“ John asks, trailing off, as Sherlock takes off the lid of the box and extracts gauze plasters, cotton swabs, disinfectant. He seems to know what he’s doing. 

“I know the basics,” he mutters. “I don’t think you actually need stitches...but it does have to be cleaned properly. And dressed.”

(And how does he know the basics? The unwelcome thought that Sherlock has probably had to do this on himself enters his mind and he feels ill)

“Right. Yeah. Sounds great.” Why does John sound like Sherlock just suggested what they should have for dinner?

“Give me your hand.”

This is ridiculous. John doesn’t need any of this. But he doesn’t know how to tell Sherlock that he has superhuman metabolism and his body heals within hours to days depending on severity, but never more than that. Not when Sherlock has the underside of his wrist cupped so gently in his hand, and he’s wiping the wound clean with a single minded focus John has so far only seen him directing towards mould. And dead rabbits.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, meaning it, and Sherlock doesn’t react save for the tiniest twitch of his fingers.

“I don’t like nurses either,” he admits. “Your attitude towards them is…understandable.”

“And a little insane.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch as he straightens back up. He puts the bloodstained cotton swabs on the desk and reaches for the  butterfly plasters. “That’s nothing. You should have seen me when my parents tried to take me to a therapist.”

That startles a breathless laugh out of him. Not that the idea of Sherlock being dragged to a therapist is funny. But the anxiety churning in his gut is suddenly just...gone. He imagines acting like this in front of someone else. It definitely would not be pleasant. But Sherlock is. He’s just here. Accepting. Trying to put butterfly plasters on him. John’s quite sure his blood is going to dissolve them. 

“You’re very good at this,” he observes, as Sherlock works carefully, pink tongue flicking out just a bit in concentration. “Practice on your girlfriend?”

Later, John will blame this on the fact that Sherlock has a bizarre ability to calm him down so much that he loses all sense of a verbal filter. Right now it seems like such an excellent idea to ask. To confirm. Because it is imperative isn’t it, that John know if Sherlock has a girlfriend or not. He’s curious. Anyone would be. 

Sherlock freezes. His head is ducked, so John can’t see his expression. All he can see are his stilled fingers, his pale forearms. His skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent, John can see the blue-green of his veins.

“Why-I don’t have a girlfriend,” Sherlock says, very steadily. He reaches for the gauze and unrolls it, and does not look at John while he wraps it around his arm. 

And then, because John is apparently an idiot who hates himself: “or boyfriend. Which is fine.”

He knows immediately that he shouldn’t have said that, because Sherlock's fingers tremble in their attempt to wrap all that gauze around him. He can hear Sherlock’s heart absolutely pounding from here, and oh god, why would he say that? John opens his mouth to say forget it, forget I asked, im a fucking wanker who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut-

“I see,” Sherlock says, feather soft.  “Not a very subtle attempt at digging, is that.” 

He snips the extra gauze off with a pair of surgical scissors and dumps everything back in the box, snapping it shut with a great deal of force. “Tell me,” he continues, turning to John and his eyes are full of venom, John almost flinches. “How many people have insinuated that I may try to fellate you in your sleep?”

“What? No one. No one has said that! Why would-“

Sherlock stands up abruptly, snatches up the first aid box and makes for the door. “I expect you’ll want to move out now. Timothy outlasted you though, at least he stayed for a few months.”

Damn it. John leaps out of the chair, blocks Sherlock’s way by fitting himself between him and the door, one hand raised to stop him from leaving. Sherlock looks down at him, glaring at his audacity, and John can see his ears peeking out from his curls, red in embarrassment. 

John is the world’s most insensitive moron and he’s going to lose the only friend he’s made in this place.

“I’m not doing that,” he says quickly, before Sherlock can barrel past him. “I’m not. No one said that, and even if they did, I don’t care. I’d like to see someone try and say something like that about you to my face. I was just curious. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a few moments, for a few very long moments. John can’t read his expression, it’s absolutely blank except for his eyes, which narrow at him imperceptibly. John just stands there, looking at him, silently begging that he just delete the last few minutes from his mind because he has a horrible sinking feeling that he’s hurt him, and made Sherlock shut off when he was just starting to- well. Not be so shut off. 

“Sherlock-“

“I don’t,” Sherlock finally says, sighing. His eyes soften a bit, shoulders slump. He tucks a bit of hair behind his ear, a nervous gesture that John has never seen. “Have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Not really my area. I’ve never- I haven’t.”

John frowns at him, and he’s not digging, he just doesn’t understand what Sherlock means by that. “You haven’t...?

Sherlock flushes scarlet, gaze dropping to the first aid box still clutched tightly in his hands. His jaw works feverishly. “Must I spell it out for you, John?” 

John stares. And stares. And- oh.  He’s never. Never? No one’s even touched...John can’t breathe all of a sudden, and his gut tightens with something achingly familiar. Something he hasn’t felt in ages.

But that can’t be what he thinks it is, he’s not allowed. Not about Sherlock, who he sleeps next to, who is barely inches away from him at night, warm and pliant and he’s not allowed to think about Sherlock petal pink, unkissed mouth and how it would look if-

God what is wrong with him? 

John is not supposed to wonder what Sherlock’s neck would like, with a perfect little bruise suiting on the pale skin. No ones ever done it before, it would be virgin territory, in all aspects of the word. Sherlock could make an experiment of it. John would be doing it in the pursuit of science, Sherlock would agree that that’s an important goal.

What? 

What ? 

That’s the wolf, obviously. Getting territorial and possessive over the one person John spends any time with at all. Right. That. That is a working explanation. 

He needs to say something. He’s been silent for almost thirty seconds, which in a conversation with Sherlock, is an eternity. “That’s fine,” he says, voice strained. 

Sherlock looks at him like he’s not only an idiot, but an idiot of epic proportions. “I know it’s fine.”

John should stop, but for some reason he keeps babbling. “Whatever you’ve done. Or haven’t. It perfectly. Fine. Not that you need my reassurance.”

“Very astute, I don’t.”

“Right. Okay. Gonna stop talking now.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Sherlock says crisply, cutting him off and John finally lets him through. He slips past him smoothly. 

John has to blink a few times at the empty room before he also exits and follows Sherlock, who is now walking so quickly down the hall John wonders if he’s trying to escape him. He has to jog a bit to catch up. 

“I am sorry though. You know that right. I didn’t mean to offend you. Have I offended you?”

Instead of replying to that, Sherlock stops. And John stops. Sherlock turns to face him, brow furrowed. 

“There is a boathouse. Right off campus. And a lake. It’ll be empty now. Sometimes I go there to think. Do you want to come with me?”

John blinks at him. Are they not going to discuss John’s weird, fumbling attempts at asking after Sherlock’s sexual partners, or lack thereof? Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, evidently waiting for a reply. 

“Uh- yeah, but-“

“You wanted to go somewhere. It’ll be far more interesting than football tryouts. And congratulations for making the team, by the way.” 

“Thanks,” says John stupidly, because he can’t think of anything else to say. A boathouse? That sounds absolutely lovely and not a place he definitely does not associate with Sherlock. But then, how well does he know him anyway? Maybe Sherlock loves boathouses. And he’s inviting John to go with him to one. And he remembers John’s impassioned attempts that morning to drag him out of their room and off campus from that morning. 

Sherlock snaps his fingers, piling John out of the memory of Sherlock leaning against the table in his pajamas and uncombed hair and correcting his homework. “Well do you want to come with me or not, John, I don’t fancy standing here and doing nothing, you might broach the topic of my sex life again.” He gives him a pointed look and John thinks for a moment that Sherlock is still upset, but then his lips twitch before pulling into a barely perceptible smile. Oh. He’s teasing. Sherlock...is teasing him. After all of that. 

“I’m sure anything will be better than try outs,” he says fervently. 

“Shouldn’t have let you gone,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, and starts walking again. They pass    the bloodstained spot where John has stood and babbled nonsense at Sherlock about not wanting to see a nurse. Sherlock doesn’t look like he wants to clean it up. 

John follows him, thinking he might just be forgiven.

Chapter Text

“You have a roommate now.”

The door to the waiting room of the office is slightly ajar, the sound of unanswered phones and murmuring voices drifts inside, Sherlock can hear the distinct sound of their headmaster berating someone for writing lewd messages in the loo again. 

He considers saying wherever did you get that idea just for the sake of being contrary, but conversations with his brother are already exhausting enough. There really is no need to drag out his customary weekly call. 

“Yes,” he says instead.

“John Watson.” 

Sherlock sighs. He makes his name sound so much more bland and unremarkable than it is. Sherlock likes it, though, he likes the way it feels steady and solid and comfortable in his mouth. John Watson. A no nonsense name. Fairly common. Possibly the most common name in Britain. 

“Interesting young man,” Mycroft continues lightly. Sherlock recoils slightly at the edge of cool, detached curiosity in his voice. Of course John is interesting, but not in the vaguely threatening way Mycroft means it, like he thinks John is hiding something, like he’s pretending. John is interesting because he seems to like spending time with him and doesn’t act like he’s just putting up with Sherlock because he hasn’t got a choice. (Because John has a choice, he has so many choices, ordinary normal choices but somehow it’s John stretched out in the bed next to his every evening, doing his homework) John doesn’t shake his head and look vaguely disturbed when Sherlock tells him how easy it would be to poison John’s evening supper.  

He smiles. Actually smiles. And it’s not even a nervous is-this-bloke-actually-going-to-poison-me smile, it’s an impressed smile, and amused smile, and Sherlock doesn’t get many of those so he can recognise them well.

Sherlock tips his head back against the wall and stares at the ceiling. “Are you reading from a file? I imagine this is your favorite way to begin a Tuesday morning. Invading people’s privacy.”

“Not so very different from what you do, is it, kettle.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste. He can just imagine him at his desk, smug and self assured, leaning back against his chair, leafing through another one of his many files.

“Almost eighteen. A sister. Ah, twins. Says here she lives in California with a distant relative. Currently in her last year at a private school.” 

Of course Mycroft will have the information there that he thinks is important, like where John’s parents were born and his blood type and if there is any history of drug abuse in his family, and what good is that? Sherlock can deduce most of that and what he can’t is useless information anyway. He doubts whether Mycroft will be able to tell him what John likes to eat for breakfast, what his first girlfriend was like, and what does John dream about, because Sherlock is a light sleeper and sometimes he can hear John talking in his sleep. Nothing ominous, or else Sherlock would have woken him up. Just a lot of mumbling.

“This is all very fascinating,” Sherlock drawls, “and I’m sure you have amassed a great deal of unnecessary information on him, but I really have no need of it. Are we done? Goodbye. 

“No need for it? How very remarkable. I thought you would appreciate it.”

Sherlock does want to know about John. It’s an all consuming, ridiculous urge and if he could, he’d like to strip him apart and ask questions and look and look. 

But not like this, with Mycroft scrutinizing his every detail and throwing facts at Sherlock  like they’re nothing of consequence, holding John up to light and somehow finding him wanting.  It’s hardly an exception, this; Mycroft has been doing it for years- right from the first friend he’d made at primary school, but suddenly Sherlock is gripped by an unaccountable, completely irrational surge of covetousness. If he were there he would have snatched the file off of Mycroft’s desk and thrown it out the window.   

“You thought wrong, as usual. Anyway, your seven minutes are up. I’m going now,” - before I lose my nerve, he thinks, moving away from the receiver. 

“He’s been expelled twice,” Mycroft mentions smoothly, and Sherlock stops. “For fighting. Did you know that? 

“Of course I knew that,” he snaps. “don’t be tedious. Hardly a difficult leap.”

“If you say so. Tell me, are you perfectly fine with this new...arrangement?”

“He’s tolerable. Keeps to himself. You needn’t be concerned about this.”

Sherlock wants to say more: he wants to say, he has more than average intelligence, he’s very observant, his behavior towards me is even bordering on kind and not the benign kindness of parents and indulgent teachers, it’s almost as if he likes me even though, no, because- I’m so unfailingly odd 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything but Sherlock can almost hear the mocking smile. “A glowing recommendation from you, I believe. What on earth has he done to deserve it?

“Mycroft, I’ve reached my threshold for conversation with you. I’m perfectly fine, as you can see. Anyway, I have more important things to do.”

“Be careful.”

Sherlock frowns, and reluctantly, presses the receiver closer against his ear. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me perfectly well.”

“Careful of what? Of John? He’s not going to hurt me.”

“Of course you would think that, little brother,” Mycroft says in that vaguely pitying, exasperated tone of his. “You think human behavior can be predicted, controlled, placed into patterns. The real world is seldom like that. So. Be careful.”

Sherlock snorts. “I do love it when you try to be clever and give me advice. It’s very amusing.”

Mycroft ignores the jibe and just sighs tiredly at the other end. “I will call you next week. Do let me know if you need anything.” 

“Goodbye, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock fits the phone back into the receiver, the chord hangs loosely, tapping against the wall. Mycroft always calls the office on Tuesday so he can have a chat with Sherlock. Checking up on him. This must be the first time he’s issued a warning. A stupid warning, Sherlock reminds himself, because the idea of John doing something unpleasant to him is frankly laughable. If he wanted to, he would have by now. No one would have blamed him, because most of the time a split lip is explained away with he should have just kept his mouth shut , and John could so easily hide behind that excuse.

How very strange. He trusts John. He trusts John explicitly and he’s barely known him for long. (And doesn’t it go both ways, if only a bit, unless Sherlock is only being fanciful.)

“All well?” The headmaster pokes his head into the room. Sherlock blinks at him before smiling. 

“Quite.”

And then he picks his bag up from the armchair he’d dropped it into and walks out of the waiting room, past the uncomfortably loud and busy office, and into the slightly more quiet hallway outside. The moment he steps out, he sees John leaning against the wall across the door, arms crossed over his chest and ankles against each other. 

“Hi,” he says brightly. “You done?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, hand still on the edge of the door. He ignores the tiny little rush of pleasure at seeing him.  “How did you know I was here?” The last he’d seen of John was last night, John usually has football practice in the mornings. (Tedious. Except that bit when John returns from practice, rumpled and mud splattered and smelling of exertion. It’s...pleasant. John looks pleasant. And Sherlock likes looking at him.) Although he’s quite clean now. Freshly showered, hair still damp, his tie absent from his neck but peeking out from his trouser pocket. 

John grins at him in response. “Used my excellent skills of deduction,” he quips, unplastering himself from the wall.  

Sherlock tilts his head, gives him a look. “Really.”

Yes. John loves to deduce. At first he thought he was being mocked, but most of John’s deductions are increasingly ridiculous. I deduce you’re starving and you're going to eat some breakfast this time. I deduce you’re exhausted and you’re going to stop that bloody racket on the violin you twat.   Please, I mean it, if you don’t go to sleep right now you’ll just keel over and die tomorrow, and I need you to help me get out of a study date with Jeanette. 

Sherlock, who at the time had been lying on his back on the bed, feet planted on the wall, looked at John upside down and sniffed, “Well that’s presumptuous of you.”

“I’m telling her you’re tutoring me for tomorrow’s physics test,” John had informed him. 

“But we don’t have a physics test tomorrow.”

“Yeah but she doesn’t know that.”

And Sherlock had rolled his eyes and said “You’re an idiot.”

John just smiled at him, evidently pleased because both of them knew that Sherlock would dutifully play the part of physics tutor because neither of them particularly wanted John to join Jeanette on a study date. Sherlock also found the whole proposition a little dubious, he might not be an expert on these matters but even he can tell that there would not be any studying involved. 

“If you’re not in the woods or your room or the chemistry lab,” John tells him now, walking up to him, that irritating smirk still on his face. “Well chances are you were in the office because you set fire to something again.”

Sherlock sighs, “Oh my god, that was one time,” and starts walking away from John, rolling his eyes. He can hear John laugh behind him, just a low little breathless chuckle before he catches up with him. 

“And,” Sherlock continues, glaring at him. “It was an accident.”

(Well. That was partially true. He’d set fire to Eric’s trouser leg on purpose. The rest of what happened was definitely not his fault. Eric should have stayed still) 

“You said you don't permit yourself accidents,” John reminds him, lowering his voice and polishing his accent in an attempt to sound like him, and Sherlock has to admit it's a fairly good representation. He doesn’t say that, of course, he looks at John disdainfully and says, “Shut up.” 

And he definitely doesn’t tell John that he’s oddly flattered that he remembers that, because Sherlock makes offhand remarks all the time, Sherlock is always invariably observing and deducing and talking because his mind, being what it is, does not let him do otherwise. But John had remembered. John had found it amusing, for some reason, even though Sherlock remembers that at the time hadn’t been in the mood for joking, what with John bleeding all over everything. 

His eyes fall to John’s arm. His sleeves are folded up to his elbow and he can see the plasters against his skin. Hmm- the last time he could see the edges of the cut, jagged and uneven and an angry red. Right now there’s nothing. Scabbed over so quickly?

“So what were you doing in the office?”

He looks away, blinking. Clears his throat.“Having a chat with my brother.”

“Your brother? You have a brother? You never told me you had a brother. What’s he like?”

Sherlock scowls. “Insufferable.”

“You think everyone is insufferable,” John tells him, and Sherlock acknowledges the truth of that with a small smile. “What’d he say?”

John walks beside him, their steps falling together seamlessly. He has one hand in hand in his trouser pocket, the other absently cupped around the back of his neck, and the question is asked vaguely; he’s not sure if John wants an answer- because his eyes are focused on the students around them, tracking them constantly. Some of them look back, smile, and John doesn’t smile back.

“Nothing interesting,” Sherlock says.

***

“I’m starving, let’s go to the mess hall,” John demands, as soon as the bell rings and the teacher leaves. John is always hungry. John is always invariably eating, and Sherlock would have found it annoying if he didn’t find it endlessly fascinating. The endless running had made much more sense when he’d realized how often John was scarfing down food. 

Sherlock sighs, feeling quite resigned to the inevitability of sitting across from John while he ate and Sherlock stared at him and refused each time John tried to convince him to eat. “Only if-“ he begins, when suddenly their desks are fringed by three very determined looking females. One of them is Catelyn Winters. Sherlock stops speaking and ignores the awful, sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows what this is about. He just knows it, and he hates it.

John’s sudden popularity is probably the most annoying thing about him. Or the only thing, because there’s scarce little about him otherwise that Sherlock is unable to tolerate. All hours of the day, girls sneaking into their room, asking John if he could tutor them, when’s the next match etc etc. Sherlock has become an unwilling participant in all of this because when the girls are far too aggressive in their advances, Sherlock is dragged along. Which is distasteful. He had gotten admiring glances at the start of the year, but Sherlock had been careful enough to ward them away, which wasn’t difficult, considering his scintillating personality. But now he had to suffer along with John. Because Sherlock is so sure that whatever this is, he’s going to get pulled in as well. 

“John,” a red haired girl says, smiling, “Are you coming for bonfire night?”

Sherlock is still seated at his chair, and he hazards a glance up at John, who is standing, interrupted in the process of stuffing his textbooks inside his bag. He’s wearing that polite expression of indifference that Sherlock sees on his face whenever people insist on speaking to him. In a moment however, John will smile charmingly and his in-built instinct to flirt will kick in, and Sherlock will feel like shooting himself in the head. 

“Uh,” he says eloquently. “I have no idea what that is. Er- Sherlock?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth but Winters beats him to it. 

“It’s just a bonfire, we have it in the woods a week before Halloween. It’ll be loads of fun, you should come for sure.” She smiles widely at John, and leans forward. Doesn’t she notice the imperceptible way John backs away from her, the slightest flash of discomfort across his face? 

“Oh well, I don’t really know,” John’s smile skirts the line expertly between abashed and self assured. “Sherlock,” he says again, more firmly. “What do you think?”

“It’s an inane practice the student body insists on continuing every year,” Sherlock taps his pencil against the desk, giving a one shoulder shrug. “I’ve never been.”

“Sherlock, you should come too, this is our last year,” the redhead implores him. “You know, some of the girls were asking if you-“

“Well he’s obviously not going to go alone,” John interrupts, smiling tightly. “So I’ll go if he does.”

He stops tapping the pencil.

Winters groans, obviously not finding this clever at all. “We invite him every year, he never comes, I don't know why this year would be different. You can come with us, John!

John smiles apologetically, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Look, it sounds great, but-“

“There will be alcohol,” the third girl suddenly pipes up, and then John laughs properly, a real laugh, right from his stomach. 

“Now you should have started with that,” he jokes, and John must find it so easy to slip into this, this banter and the ...the smiling, how does he do it? “You’re Rebecca, right?”

And he knows her name . Sherlock has gone to school with them for years and he didn’t even know they were in the same class . 

Rebecca makes an impressed noise. “Well now you have to come. You remembered my name and everything.”

“Do all of you have such low standards? Because I feel like I should let the other blokes know.”

Trilling laughter greets that ridiculous line and suddenly Sherlock feels annoyed with all of this. And with himself. For being annoyed. Why is he annoyed? John can go if he likes. In fact, John should go. John shouldn’t miss out on all of these pedestrian adolescent experiences, because he hasn’t that many to begin with. And besides, why does Sherlock care anyway, it’s not as if he has any prior claim over him, as if he’s in any position to tell John what he should or shouldn’t do. And how is he so sure that John will detest it, he doesn’t even know John that well. Maybe John is going to have a perfectly lovely time drinking cheap alcohol by  the fire and shagging some girl up against a tree. 

(He could know all about him, though, the seductive little voice whispers in his ear. Mycroft has an entire file on him.)

No. That’s not- no.

-“erlock?

Sherlock looks up at him. John has one eyebrow raised, this is probably not the first time his name had been called. His eyes drift over to where Catelyn Winters has John’s (injured) forearm in a death grip, evidently trying to draw John’s wandering attention back to herself but John’s eyes are on him, vaguely concerned. He’s frowning.

“I have to go,” Sherlock says, his voice sounding awkward and stiff. He rises from his chair, ignoring John’s deepening frown.

“Wha-“ he begins, but Sherlock is already slipping out of the tight space and heading towards the door. John’s confusion is palpable but he isn’t in the mood to explain why, exactly, he is finding all of this extremely unbearable. John calls his name again, Winters says something along the lines of relax, he’s always like that. He wonders if John will take that at face value. He wonders if John will follow him. He doesn’t.

It’s all perfectly fine, John can find his way to the next class, he’s quite sure. It’s been a while, he can’t possibly still be in the dark about where all the rooms are. And if he can’t, well, Catelyn Winters and her friends can surely help him. John has no dearth of acquaintances.

Friends who evidently don’t pick up on his discomfort when they force their way into John’s personal space but really, John has suffered far worse so if the attention was truly unwanted he could find a way out of it. None of this is Sherlock’s problem, is it.

Sherlock is freed from the necessity of caring about this at all, on account of his being a sociopath. Well, sociopathic tendencies, the experts had said, but the point is that he doesn’t have to get involved in this. John shouldn’t be asking his opinions because Sherlock doesn’t have any opinions about this in the first place. John can do what he likes, and Sherlock won’t stop him. Or encourage him. 

Maybe Sherlock can go to the garage and fix his bike. Yes. He can’t take it to a mechanic in town because there’s no way to get to town without a bike. So he’ll just have to fix it himself. It occurs to him that John has a bike, and possibly he could ask John for a lift. John had wanted to go to town anyway, hadn’t he? Granted, Sherlock had refused and then John had allowed himself to be pulled away for football tryouts, and then subsequent injuries, all of which had led to some rather strange, invasive questions on his part which Sherlock still doesn’t understand why he needed to answer them- why couldn’t he have just said none of your business and why is Sherlock thinking about that anyway, he has a bike to fix.

Once he fixes it, he can go to town and buy more litmus paper. And John can come too, if he can drag himself away from all the other interesting activities that will possibly corner his attention instead.

***

“This is a first.”

He drops the wrench with a stifled curse. Bloody hell. John and his infinitely inexplicable capacity to find Sherlock, especially when Sherlock does not want to be found. How the hell had he figured out where Sherlock would be this time? Is he really that predictable? Sherlock prides himself on being unpredictable. And here is John: who apparently has no difficulty tracking him down. It’s barely been thirty minutes since he left him in that classroom. He must have managed to tear himself away from Winters and Co. And then he must have...come right after Sherlock. 

He picks up the wrench again and doesn’t reply, and he starts doing something to the wheel that he isn’t entirely sure is supposed to be done. His bike had been propped up next to Lestrade’s car, he’d just dragged it over to an empty space and laid it down on the ground and attempted to figure out what was wrong with it. Sherlock’s deductions have so far proven inconclusive.

 He can hear John walk inside, the soft sound of his footsteps. A moment of silence while he looks around, taking in the room: the two cars, the mechanical equipment, the tanks of petrol. Does the room bring back any recollections for him? It’s difficult to tell, since Sherlock isn’t looking at him.

“And what are you up to, then?” John’s voice is much closer now, he’s probably standing right behind him. Right above his shoulder.

“Just passing the time,” Sherlock says tightly.  Why is even here? Shouldn’t he be in class? John is always complaining that Sherlock never attends class and that he doesn’t like sitting alone (never mind that John wouldn’t have to, if he wanted) and here he is. Missing class. To find out where he ran off to. Entirely unnecessary. Sherlock would have come back to their room anyway. Inevitable, really, because of the whole rooming together thing. 

John laughs softly behind him. “No, you’re not. You’re butchering that bike. Is this an experiment?”

Sherlock frowns. 

“No. Why would I experiment on my own bike? I use this bike.”

“Well, If you’re trying to fix it, you’re doing it wrong,” John points out, and before Sherlock can respond with another sarcastic rejoinder, John is kneeling down next to him, shrugging out of his blazer, flinging it to the floor. It’s going to get covered in dust if he puts it there. Perhaps Sherlock should warn him. But John has never been very concerned about his uniform, always taking off bits and flinging them in various directions, his woolen vest, his tie, most often the first two buttons of his shirt.

“What are you...” he begins, clearing his throat, as John gives his bike a quick once-over and then holds out his hand. 

“I don’t-“ he tries again, wildly thinking for a moment that John is asking for his hand. What would that accomplish? But John doesn’t even say anything, Just wiggles his fingers impatiently. Oh! Idiot. He drops the wrench into John’s hand. John nods his thanks and then starts to roll up his sleeves, up to his elbows. Is he. Is he- oh. Well. Sherlock watches dumbly, swiveled slightly towards him and still on his knees, while John starts to tighten the wheel on his bike, lips pursed and brows furrowed in concentration. Sherlock hadn’t done it quite like that. Whatever John is doing seems more complicated. Especially since it makes the veins in his forearm all the more prominent while he does it. Isn’t the cut on his arm hurting him? It’s hardly been that long, it had been a deep cut. Sherlock wants to lift the bandage and check, just to see if it’s healing properly.

“You left,” John suddenly says, and Sherlock has to blink a few times before comprehending what he’s just been told. He drags his eyes away from John’s arm and looks at him, instead. At the blond hair flopping into his eyes. He should get a hair cut. Or not. Looks fine like this.

“It was getting crowded.” Sherlock shifts so he’s sitting cross legged next to him, deciding that if John insists upon fixing up his bike for him, he’s not going to complain.  “And loud,” he adds.

John’s gaze is fixed on the bike, but his mouth twitches with amusement. For the first time, Sherlock suddenly wonders if he’s upset him by leaving. 

“I didn’t particularly like it either, you know,” John informs him, his voice edged with something Sherlock doesn’t immediately recognise. “We could have made an excuse together. And left. At least you wouldn’t have screwed the wheel on the wrong way.”

Oh. Oh. He is upset. And trying not to show it, what with the deliberate way John is not looking at him. But... why? Sherlock feels like he’s missed something important. John wouldn’t have felt his absence anyway, he wanders off all the time, John is probably used to it by now. There’s no logical reason for John to be upset. Unless... 

“I take it you landed yourself a date- three dates, for Bonfire Night,” he surmises, carefully watching him. John’s lip curls into the barest ghost of a smile, and he finally drops the wrench with a loud clang. Sherlock almost startles. 

“Funny, that,” John says lightly, speaking with a strange, forced casualness and peering at the pedal and doing something to it with his hands that requires a great deal of finger-work. “Because if i remember correctly, I was trying to get out of that, and I was hoping you’d help, but you left me there to fend for myself.”

It stings, even though John is passing it off as a joke, and despite himself, Sherlock feels guilty. He thinks of John, pale and wide eyed at the thought of being touched by a nurse, and feels vaguely ill. John so very looks so terrified, and the experience of watching it hadn’t been pleasant. The discomfort of others so very rarely bothers him, but he hadn’t been able to stand John’s. John had trusted him, then, for whatever reason. Maybe because he looks as far from a nurse as possible. He does have a terrible bedside manner.

This is completely idiotic, John doesn’t need protecting. Especially not from someone like him. Sherlock can barely protect himself. And what would he even be able to offer John, who could clearly throw down anyone in seconds if he wished to?

Sherlock’s silence prompts John to finally glance towards him. The guilt must show on his face because John’s strained smile immediately vanishes, replaced by something softer. Reassuring. “It’s fine, though, don’t worry about it,” he says quickly, waving the wrench in the air. “Kind of funny, if you think about it. Forget it.”

No. No, wait. Sherlock shakes his head, trying to figure out what to say. He suddenly has a strange urge to apologize, but what would he apologize for? Stupid, stupid, he’s upset him and Sherlock suddenly wants to fix it, he can’t stand that careful, stilted edge in John’s voice, knowing that he put it there; certainly not on purpose but it happened anyway.  

John is checking the working of the pedal by twirling it round and round on its axle. Sherlock tightens his jaw and clears and throat and says, “I’m...sorry,” very uncertainly. The pedal stills and John turns to him in surprise. 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Sherlock snaps, suddenly feeling very warm. John raises an eyebrow at the outburst, lips slowly curving. At least that’s better than the tight press of his mouth. “I just. I wanted to-look. Just...” And he trails off helplessly, feeling absolutely ridiculous. John’s lips are pursed, as though he’s trying not to laugh and that would normally make him uncomfortable but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of fondness in John’s eyes.

“It’s fine,” John says, lips now breaking out into a full out smile. “You know, I think all of that was worth it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone.”

“I apologized to you when I spilled acid on your bedsheet,” Sherlock reminds him, a little defensively, and John just laughs. 

“True,” he agrees, and stands up, straightening himself and dusting off his trousers. And then he holds his hand out again to him. “Your bike is fine now, by the way. You can ride it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock takes a look at the bike, surprised, because he’d stopped following the process of the bike-fixing a while back, fixating more on the precise movement of John’s hands. “thank you.” It looks fine. Much less mangled than before. 

“Truly a day for firsts,” John remarks, smugly, and Sherlock realizes his hand is still outstretched. It takes him a second to realize that John isn’t actually asking for the wrench again. He takes the offered hand and allows himself to be pulled swiftly (efficiently) off the floor. 

John’s hands are rough. Calloused. Warm, quite warm.  

“Oh. You have some-” John gestures towards his face with his chin, once they’re both standing and facing each other. John’s hand is still clasped in his. 

Somehow Sherlock’s thumb has found its way to John’s wrist, it rests right above his pulse.  John has an unusually fast heart rate. “What,” he say intelligently, because he realises John just said something to him. God why is he always so slow whenever he’s with him?

John makes another gesture with his other hand, indicating his face with a finger. “On your- that’s grease, I think. How did you get that there?” His eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere around his jaw.

Sherlock hurriedly shrugs out of his grip and brushes the back of his hand across the area. His knuckles come back stained with something black and sticky. Yes, that is grease. Must have somehow transferred itself from the pedal to his face, although he has no idea how that could have possibly occurred. He hadn’t been working with grease. Sherlock doesn’t even know what it’s for. 

John is still looking at him, eyes a little dark, but that could just be his imagination because the room is quite dark anyway. He shakes his head. “It’s still there, you haven’t-“ he says, very quietly, and then raises his hand and gently wipes the tips of his fingers across his cheekbone. 

Sherlock stills. Something very hot, blistering, almost, spreads through his chest. 

“I’ve made it worse,” John laments, mouth tipping into a crooked smile. But his voice seems to be coming from somewhere very far away, on account of the fact that Sherlock’s blood is rushing in his ears and he can’t hear anything properly. “You’ll just have to wash it off,” John continues, like Sherlock is even bothered about that anymore. His hand falls away from Sherlock’s cheek and he gives it a look, it’s stained his index and middle finger. Grease spreads, both of them should know that you can’t just brush it off and yet here they are. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says blankly, his own fingers skimming over his cheek. His skin is still buzzing. He stares at John, quite incapable of saying anything else, and notes the way his eyes flick to his mouth. Oh, does he have some there as well? Maybe he should enlist John’s help in wiping it off. He can’t see, can he, and John would surely not deny-

No. What? No, that’s-

John’s gaze finally shifts upwards. Sherlock thinks of something clever to say, but fails. A second later, John blinks, head tipping to one side. His eyes narrow. “Are we supposed to be here?” 

“Are we-what?”

John twirls a finger around to gesture to their surroundings.”The garage. Are we supposed to be here?”

“Oh,” Sherlock looks around at the room, taking longer than usual to process John’s question. “Um. No. No, it’s out of bounds.”

John rolls his eyes. “Typical. Come here, someone’s coming.”

Come where, Sherlock is about to ask, but before he can, John clasps a hand around his wrist and tugs him forward. Sherlock almost trips. He doesn’t think to ask John what he’s doing, or how on earth he knows if someone is coming. From the movement of his head it seemed almost as though John seemed to hear someone coming, but that’s not even possible. Sherlock has excellent hearing and all he can hear is the torrential downpour outside.

John leads him to one of the cars, pulls him along until they’re both behind it, hidden from view and leaning against the car doors, side by side. John lets go of his wrist and for some reason the loss of contact is disappointing. 

Sherlock counts to five under his breath, fixes his gaze on the concrete wall opposite. Spare tires. Tanks of petrol. Buckets of...grease, probably. There’s plenty of it to go around. Half of it is on his person, apparently. He counts the number of cracks on the wall. Thirteen. His heart still pounds under his ribs, and the hot, blistering feeling is back again, this time spreading further down to places he’d rather not think about.

They’re close enough for their thighs to touch.

“No one is coming,” Sherlock finally says, his voice betraying the hint of a tremor.

John glances towards him, raising a finger to his lip.

Sherlock glares. “ No one is- ”

John makes a sudden movement with his hand and Sherlock flinches, wondering for a split second if John is going to hit him (he knows John won’t, but instinct is powerful) but instead, his palm fits over his mouth. 

“Shush,” John whispers. “Listen.”

He’s glad John’s hand isn’t covering his nose, because he feels rather short of breath for a few seconds. He stares at John, at the hint of a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. He can feel John’s rough palm scrape against his lips. Ah. The callouses. Well, he’d been wondering how they felt, hadn’t he? Now he knows. 

He’s frozen still, which is annoying, because John has hardly immobilised him, but here he is, unable to move. For whatever reason. His blood moving sluggishly in his veins. John’s hand effectively gagging him. And why are they here in the first place- oh.  

“I hope the heater’s working now,” a woman’s voice says. Sherlock narrows his eyes. The nurse. Slowly, John lets his hand fall away from his face, expression smug.

Sherlock sends him a withering look. 

“I fixed it, Laura, I told you.” Ah. Mallory. John’s mouth widens into a grin.

“Yes, but you said you fixed it last time and it spluttered out the moment we started the car,” Ms Castle complains. 

John purses his lips, trying not to laugh. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Tedious. He doesn’t think either of them would have cared to find the two of them here. They were hardly doing anything indecent. Sherlock was just fixing his bike. Well. John was fixing it. 

He wonders absently what indecent would entail, and then dismisses the thought entirely. Sometimes his imagination gets the better of him.

They hear the car start, there are only three inside the garage anyway. Castle and Mallory quarrel for a few more seconds until they drive out of the garage, engine sputtering ominously as they do so. Sherlock had deduced ages ago that their physics professor had a permanently under performing car. Possibly one of the many things that had contributed to the fall out of his first marriage. 

“Well,” John finally says, leaning his head back against the hood of the car, crossing his arms over his chest. “Looks like they’re enjoying themselves.”

“How did you know?” Sherlock demands, his voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Maybe I have better hearing than you,” John says mysteriously, turning to him with a grin that Sherlock can only describe as roguish . “I am better at you at  some stuff, you know.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes with a sigh. “It’s pouring. How on earth did you-”

“Sherlock, let it go or I’m going to put my hand over your mouth again.”

Sherlock shuts his mouth with an audible clack, and John peels himself away from the car, winking at him as he walks away from him. Sherlock turns around, fuming and in such a mood to throw something at John, but he doesn’t. How good can John’s hearing be, really? That he heard Mallory and Castle coming despite the rain and the rolling thunder? He watches, anger unabated, as John lifts up his bike from the ground and leans it against the wall. “We’ll probably have to wait here for a bit.”

He doesn’t reply. Is John just all the more used to perceiving threats from far off, that the tendency is hardwired into his head? Maybe he hadn’t heard it at all, maybe it was instinctual. And instinct is something that can’t be explained, not entirely. Sherlock has spent much of his life running from people as well. He can understand that, a bit. 

What on earth did they do to you, he wonders, wherever you came from? Because maybe Sherlock had been incorrect. Maybe juvenile is too simple a term to encompass John’s experience. But if not juvenile, then what-?

“You know, we could go. Together. It’d be bearable that way.” John looks up at him expectantly.

Sherlock stares at him. “What?”

“Bonfire Night. Whatever it’s called, I don’t know. If we went together, I mean.”

Oh. Is John still thinking about that? He thought the topic had been-

John wants to go with him ?

With him ? Why? John  wouldn’t hear the end of it. His popularity would probably plummet. Which- hmm, wouldn’t be a terrible thing, there would be less distractions-

Stop.

“You know how I feel about it. Hardly my idea of a good time,” Sherlock mutters, leaning against the hood of the car. Perhaps it is out of pity. Most definitely out of pity. 

“Yeah, I know. Me neither, it’s just-” he shrugs, cupping the back of his neck in what Sherlock has come to recognise is a nervous/uncomfortable gesture. He walks towards him with a sigh, leaning against the bonnet beside him. He shrugs again. 

Sherlock swallows, unsure of what to say. If he says nothing, if he refuses, will John go without him? He’d thought  John had found the idea of it unpleasant, but perhaps he’s changed his mind. John would surely find someone to go with, if Sherlock refused. John has no dearth of willing partners. He finds the idea distasteful to the extreme. 

Sherlock would prefer that John stay in the room or come with him to the woods because it’s the evenings which are the quietest, and even though John doesn’t really say much he fills those silences by simply existing. Sherlock had gotten so used to the quiet that he hadn’t even noticed it until John had suddenly moved into his room. But doesn’t John want normalcy, after everything that he must have seen? Sherlock is so far from normal that it’s laughable and he is aware that he is not the easiest person to be with, but John should have other interests, normal interests, interests that don’t involve Sherlock.

Sherlock is growing covetous of him, and that is dangerous.

“You should go,” he finally decides, wondering if perhaps this is John’s way of distracting him from his probing questions about his miraculous hearing. “if you want. You should go. You might even enjoy it.”

He might. It’s a typical, run-of-the-mill adolescent experience. Perhaps John hasn’t had much of those. 

“You idiot,” John snaps at him, and Sherlock turns to him in alarm. “I’m asking you to come with me. If I wanted to go alone, I’d bloody well go alone, wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock’s mouth falls slightly open, his cheeks burn. “I just assumed-”

“You should stop assuming things,” John shakes his head, irritated. “We can check it out for a bit. If it’s boring we’ll head back. What do you think?”

“It’ll most definitely be boring,” Sherlock informs him, “But if you think it’s worth even a few minutes of our time,” he licks his lips. “We can go.”And you’ll get pissed, he thinks, and someone will probably approach you, some girl, perhaps, or someone from the football team because they love you there- and you’re going to go with them. And it won’t make a difference in the end, if I come with you or not. But he can’t really blame him, because Sherlock is terrible at these things, and he only agrees now because it’s John. And for some reason he just knows, in a sudden moment of clarity, that he would probably agree to anything John would ask of him.

The thought is unsettling.

John’s grin at his response is wide and sincere.  Did he really want to go to Bonfire Night that much? He could have just said. 

“It’ll be bearable. We could get drunk,” John suggests, and Sherlock’s mind suddenly conjures up in an image of John; flushed, slurring, hair mussed. He blinks several times to clear his mind of the picture.

“Little else to do.”

“Great. Now I can tell people to piss off when they ask me if I’m coming or not,” John looks overjoyed and relieved at the idea. Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

“Rain’s stopped,” John says, gesturing outside. Oh. Of course. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. “Get your bike. Let’s go.”

Sherlock throws a leg over his bike and rides it slowly, John walks along beside them. They take a much longer route back to the hostel building. Well, it was Sherlock who technically led them, but John didn’t seem to mind.

Chapter Text

John wakes up with a start, gasping. Fingers twisted in the bedsheet and sweat drying, tacky and disgusting, on his chest, his hairline. He can feel where his damp t-shirt sticks to his skin, where his hair is plastered to his temples. He takes a few moments, blinking hard and familiarizing himself with the darkness of the room. His first instinct is to climb out of the bed and then out of the room because he feels stifled and caged in and sick, but no, stop. That would wake Sherlock.

Sherlock.

It is at this point that John suddenly becomes aware of a very uncomfortable tightness around his crotch. Fuck. He hasn’t had one of these dreams in a while. In fact, he can’t exactly remember what the dream was about- and it was definitely a dream, because nightmares generally elicit slightly different responses. But for some reason, John is very, very sure that Sherlock had factored in at some point. He can remember the briefest flash of bright, pale eyes, wide in what could have been anything from horror to fascination. His hand, fitting secretly over his mouth, the ghost of cold, elegant fingers brushing over his skin, the inside of his thigh, and-

Bloody buffering fuck.

John scrapes a hand through his hair, which is damp with sweat. Grimacing, he pulls it away. He’s kicked away the bedsheets, they’re twisted around his ankles. Damn it, his heart is racing . He takes a deep, shuddering breath and he can’t even get his fucking scent out of his nose, because it hangs in the air all the time, because it’s infiltrated most of John’s possessions and by now John has developed some sort of Pavlovian response to it, which means it calms him and excites him at the same time. 

Don’t look, he tells himself. Keep staring at the ceiling until you can function like a normal person again and go back to sleep. John stares, unblinking at the plastered wall and tries hard not to think about the dull thud-thud-thud of Sherlock’s beating heart and the way his mouth had felt against the palm of his hand.

He looks. Turns his head to the side and lets his eyes gaze almost hungrily over Sherlock’s curled up form, the duvet in a tangled mess at the foot of the bed. He always kicks the covers off In his sleep and then shivers a few minutes later. And now he’s curled up tightly, head resting on the tops of his hands, mouth parted slightly.

John knows it’s inevitable that he gets up from his bed, cross the tiny distance between them, and pull the duvet up to his shoulders. He doesn’t touch him while he does it, which is difficult, because the urge to push some of his hair back from his forehead is overwhelming. But he doesn’t. He swallows and steps back, his chest sort of caving in itself as Sherlock does something he can only describe as snuggling. He hugs the duvet closer to his chest, mumbles something in his sleep and goes quiet and still again. John sits on the edge of the bed, something horrible and unexplainable twisting in his gut.

Moonlight filters through their window. John glances outside and the moon is three quarters full. He knows that, obviously. John keeps track religiously. He has to. When his time is close, the Center sends him a tiny little electric shock, courtesy of the tracker embedded in the back of his neck.

At this point it almost feels mocking, the way the silver light floods their room. Sherlock sleeps on, oblivious of the way John can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop his pounding heart.

***

“You didn't tell me it was a costume party,” he’d accused Sherlock, when he’d returned to their room that evening.

Sherlock, unperturbed at this pronouncement, hadn’t even looked up from his book. “What are you talking about,” he’d asked, lazily, turning the page. He looked so comfortable, propped up in his bed with two pillows (ah, he’d stolen John’s again) reading something that John probably would never have the patience for. He almost feels guilty for bothering him.

“You’re supposed to wear a costume. To Bonfire night.”

Sherlock had looked up at that, lip curled slightly in disgust. “You’re joking. You must be joking. No you’re not,” he narrowed his eyes, putting the book down beside him. “Oh god, you want to wear a costume, don’t you?” And with that he’d groaned loudly, falling back against the pillows. “I’m going back on my word. I’m sorry.”

God, the drama. John rolled his eyes, throwing his bag to the floor and closing the door. “What are you complaining about? I’m the one who’s going to look ridiculous. I bet you’d make a great vampire.”

Sherlock scoffed, sitting up just as quickly and looking at John with one of his patent how much of an idiot are you looks. “ Vampire ? No thank you.”

John saw the opportunity and took it. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to go as something else? Because I’m all for seeing you in a costume.” He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, grinning at Sherlock. Cat ears. Maybe he could fix a pair of cat ears on Sherlock. He taps his chin and narrows his eyes in mock seriousness, points a finger at Sherlock and says, very seriously, “Sexy nurse.”

Pale eyes fixed on John with complete and utter disdain. “I’m not wearing a costume, John.”

“Alright, fine . But what would you go as, if you would?”

Sherlock shrugged, his nose still crinkled in disgust. “I don’t know. A pirate, maybe.” And John can tell that Sherlock immediately regrets letting that little tidbit slip, because he immediately shuts his eyes in frustration. “And that doesn’t mean anything, so don’t-“

“A pirate!” John repeats, quite unable to keep the delight out of his voice. “Yeah, I can see it. Traveling the high seas, making people walk the plank for being idiots.”

Sherlock shook his head, clearly reaching the end of his patience with John’s stupidity. John had wanted to press his fingers into the spot between his brows, smoothen out the frown. “You walk the plank for greater crimes, John. Like treason. ”

“God, you’re such an expert. You have to go as a pirate now.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“We have to get you a tricorn hat or a-“

“If you displayed as much enthusiasm to your Biology homework-”

“Hang on a tic, I have something that’ll work.”  He’d brought it with him when he’d left the center, he wouldn’t have left it there. He hasn’t taken it out of his bag since. John rummaged around at the bottom of the duffel bag and finds it. The eye patch is black, just two squares of cotton stitched together with a string at the back. Alice had made it for him, afterwards.

Right. Don’t think about her. Or that.

“I used to wear this, er, before,” John says, standing and shutting the closet. He turns around to see Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the bed, earlier scorn forgotten, his eyes wide and curious instead. They immediately fall to his hands to see what he’s holding. He frowns. “To hide my,” John gestures vaguely to his face. Big, ugly scar is implied, he’s sure. When he’d worn it at first, it had looked much worse. It was more of a favour to whoever had to look at him than for anything to do with his own vanity.

“An eye patch,” Sherlock muses, and when he looks up at John his eyes are alight with amusement. “The eye patch you used to cover up a traumatic scar. You’re lending it to me so I can use it as a Halloween costume?”

His lips twitch.

“I’m repurposing it,” John tells him, relieved at the absence of pity and/or morbid curiosity in Sherlock’s face. He steps forward, so that he’s close enough to Sherlock for their knees to touch. “Budge up, I want to see how it looks.”

Sherlock’s amusement vanishes and is covered with an expression of faint alarm as he looks up at him. “What?”

“Perfect. Keep your head like that,” John reaches forward and curls a finger under his chin, tilts it up fractionally. Sherlock’s hands are curled tightly in the duvet. Knuckles white. John tries not to notice the way his lips part in surprise.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t do things like this. It feels far more intimate than it is. But if John inched his finger a little closer, he could press it up against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, draw a line downward, between his collarbones.

John wants to touch. That’s all there is to it. He wants to press his palm against the flushed skin, feel Sherlock’s heartbeat thrumming under his fingertips. John can’t stop fucking thinking about it.

“I’m sure it’ll-“ Sherlock starts, voice rough with embarrassment, and John blinks rapidly.  “You don’t have to-“

“Hang on,” He clears his throat, placing the patch against his right eye, pulling  the strings snug against the back of his skull and ties. They press some of his curls flat against the side of his head so John has to use his fingers to gently tease them free, until they frame his face in their usual way.

Sherlock is so still underneath him, eyes wide and slightly weary. John can hear his breath: shallow, the pace of his heart: very quick. And it would be usual for John to register these things and conclude: fear. But not Sherlock. Sherlock never smells of fear. 

There is something rich and musky underneath his clean pine cone smell.

He should push Sherlock down, against the mattress. Twine his fingers into the tangle of his hair and tug,  press his nose to the side of his neck, make the scent stronger. Bite. Mark the skin up, just a bit. 

Fuck.

What is he doing?

He lets go, resisting the urge to trail his fingers over a sharp cheekbone, his hands falling down to his sides. “There you go. Proper Blackbeard and everything.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just brushes the tips of his fingers against the eye patch. It contrasts so perfectly with his pale skin. Makes him look...different.

“What will you wear?”

“What?” John is staring. Again.

“What costume,” Sherlock clears his throat, cheeks dusting with pink. “If I’m wearing your eye patch. And I’m not saying I will-“ he gives him a stern look, which is not as effective as it should have been, “Just. Hypothetically.”

“No idea. Never thought I’d say this, but it looks better on you.”

Sherlock flushes and scowls at him at the same time. It reminds him of the day they met, in this room. Well, maybe not the first they met, but Sherlock hadn’t known it was him the first time, so it doesn’t count.

“I’m only humoring you,” Sherlock reminds him, reaching behind himself. The eyepatch falls from his face and down to his lap, where Sherlock picks it up between his forefinger and thumb. He looks down at it, stroking the material. John is so sure he’s deducing a thousand things from that tiny scrap of cloth. Maybe John could ask him to keep it. 

“You’re too kind. And to answer your question. I’ll go as a serial killer. They look just like everyone else, right?”

John sits down across from him, on his pillow-less bed. Sherlock looks up at him, his lips pulled up in a small smile. “How clever, John.” It sounds vaguely condescending, but John is used to this by now. He rolls his eyes in response, and Sherlock grabs his violin case from his desk. 

Ah. He’s not giving it back. He slips the eyepatch inside, right in the pocket where he keeps his rosin. “Ridiculous,” he’d muttered, clasping it shut. “Let’s reverse our roles. You go as a pirate. I’ll go as the homicidal maniac.”

John was stretched out on his bed, his head pillowed by his school jumper because Sherlock was a prat and he hadn’t actually even considered asking Sherlock for his pillow. “Nope, sorry. It’s decided. You can’t back out now. And I said serial killer, not homicidal maniac.”

He can’t see the eye roll; but he doesn’t need to. He hears Sherlock tumble into his bed with a sigh. After a few seconds John is hit in the face with his pillow. “Thanks,” he mutters, slipping it under his head. Maybe not such a prat.

“It’s good,” Sherlock says, voice quiet. “That you don’t.”

John was almost half asleep by then. “Don’t what?”

“Wear it. To hide it. Your scar.”

“Oh. Um- thanks?”

Sherlock sighs, turning over. “Yes. You shouldn’t have to hide it.”

John doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. Sherlock drifts off to sleep.

John stays awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how ill advised this is, how much of an idiot he is, because there’s something dangerous twisting his stomach into knots, something he should not be feeling. 

Just remember, Greg had said, leaning against the wall in his grey, sterile room, watching while John packed his meagre possessions. Seems like years ago. Don’t get attached. That’s all. When you leave, you won’t be coming back and you won’t be seeing them again.

John hunts under the bed for his trainers. Why would I get attached?

(In any case, that’s hardly a rule anyone has to teach him, he’s learnt that well enough already. He thinks of Alice, and her empty room two doors down)

Lestrade smiles like he knows something John doesn’t, which is annoying. He peels himself away from the wall, moving towards the door to leave. You’d be surprised.

***

In hindsight; it may have been a ridiculous idea to ask Sherlock to come with him. Why had he, anyway? He’s quite sure Sherlock could have thought of some equally interesting way to spend their evening. Maybe he would have dragged John out of his lovely, warm bed and taken him to the woods because whatever poisonous plant he’d been growing was ready to harvest. Or perhaps John could have spent a couple of hours telling Sherlock off because he’d sacrificed one of his socks for another experiment and Sherlock would have complained that John had no devotion to the pursuit of science and then he’d apologize by correcting John’s English homework loudly and pointedly.

John must be slightly insane because all of them sound fantastic.

But wasn’t he supposed to be easing himself into familiar adolescent patterns, whatever that meant? At first the idea of a party had sounded horrifying; there would be people, it would be dark, something might set John off and he might end up hurting someone. But if he had Sherlock with him...well, that was entirely different, wasn’t it?

And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could be persuaded to enjoy himself here too. With John. John could maybe encourage him to drink, and god, John can’t stop fucking thinking about how Sherlock might look when he’s inebriated, would he slur? Would his cheeks go pink and his eyes unfocused?

(And then he’d mentally kicked himself, because he’s not allowed to think like that. Sherlock is out of bounds. Completely. Irrevocably. Even though no one’s ever kissed him before, apparently, and isn’t Sherlock a little bit curious, because if he is, John would be happy to oblige- stop. )

And so John had decided that he’d go, and he was going to somehow convince Sherlock to go with him, and surprisingly, Sherlock had agreed. Which John had found suspicious at first, but Sherlock was hardly ever predictable, so he’d let it rest.

John can’t say it’s terrible. The party is right on the edge of the campus, near the boathouse. In fact, the glimmering expanse of the lake is just visible through the trees growing closer together. The nearest trees are decorated with fake cobwebs, hanging cardboard cutouts of bats and skulls. The bonfire itself is huge and crackling loudly, spitting bits of glowing wood into the air. Music is playing from a pair of speakers nearby, but it’s not too loud or else they’d get in trouble, Sherlock had informed him. It’s really not that terrible. For someone who hasn’t celebrated Halloween in years, there’s very little John finds fault with. The last time had been at one of the foster homes. With Harry. The memory is vague and grey and John tries not to dwell on it too much because thinking about Harry sends a familiar pang aching through his chest.

Instead, he concentrates on Sherlock walking in step next to him, the fresh, crisp scent of him, the warmth radiating from his skin, the faint disdain in his features as he looks around. John doesn’t think there’s anything particularly distasteful here, but then he’s woefully pedestrian compared to Sherlock, isn’t he. They pass a couple snogging passionately in full view and Sherlock scowls at them. Obviously they’re undeterred.

Rebecca hadn’t been wrong about the alcohol; someone pushes a bottle into both their hands when he and Sherlock arrive. Sherlock had looked at his bottle  with marked distaste and thrown it to John.

John grins at him. “Oh, is this not posh enough for you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. The pockets of his jeans, that is, which accentuate his long legs and John should look at something else. “Just because I don’t want to consume that cheap trash,” Sherlock mutters. “You accuse me of being a snob.”

John sighs tragically, popping the lid off the bottle of said cheap trash and taking a sip. “Really, what kind of party is this? What does a man have to do to get a decent Dom Perignion around here?”

“Oh my god,” Sherlock sighs, but the curl of amusement to his lips is obvious. Making Sherlock laugh is a heady, intoxicating thing. Sherlock’s smiles are rare, his laughs rarer still but when John does manage to coax one out of him, it’s always the best thing he’s seen all day.

He’s relieved from the necessity of finding an answer to that because of a distraction in the form of- god, what is her name? Catelyn. Right, Catelyn. John can see her jogging up to them from the corner of his eye.

“John! You made it. I was worried you wouldn’t come,” she grins at him, impossibly pleased and John smiles back at her. He can sense Sherlock stiffen next to him, an irritated puff of breath escapes his lips.

“Hey,” John greets her. “Sherlock convinced me,” he claps a hand on Sherlock’s back, just at the spot between his shoulder blades. Sherlock sends down an amused glance.

Catelyn raises her eyebrows, turning to Sherlock, at which point the surprise melts and is replaced by definite carnal appraisal. John has a sudden, irrational urge to stand in front of Sherlock and hide him from view, and to growl at Catelyn until she leaves and the threat is gone.

In any case, he can’t blame her. Not when Sherlock has changed out of perennially disheveled uniform and donned a bottle green jumper that fits him perfectly, right over a white shirt. His hair is tousled and lovely from the wind, he looks posh and put together and untouchable. Just because he can see the allure doesn’t mean he likes it.

“How nice of you,” she tells Sherlock, cocking her head. “We’ll have to find a way to thank you. Nice eyepatch.”

“John graciously allowed me to borrow it. And as for a thank you, I would suggest not talking to me,” Sherlock replies smoothly, and without another word, he walks off. What the hell. He immediately turns to follow him, but Catelyn grabs his arm. John takes a deep breath, notes that Sherlock hasn’t gone too far and probably just wants to get away from Catelyn because he doesn’t like her, and turns back to her, charming smile still in place.

“You promised me a dance,” she reminds him, and John quickly thinks of a response to that which isn’t as impolite as Please, for god’s sake, leave me alone, but gets the message across.

“I did, didn’t, I,” he says, which even he knows is dodging the answer, and Catelyn sees right through that too, because she looks at him expectantly like she’s waiting for him to finish that sentence. “And patience is a virtue, and all that, so maybe later?”

“Ah,” she lets go of him, crosses her arms over her chest. She’s kind of pretty, John decides. She has wavy blonde hair that she’s left open, it reaches down to her elbows. She’s wearing a scarf tied around her head and a pair of bright purple sunglasses like some kind of seventies starlet. “So good things come to those who wait, I guess?” She raises an eyebrow.

John points at her as if to say you got it. “Delayed gratification is key.” What the hell is he even talking about? At this juncture he’s not very sure. It’s like he’s running on autopilot, just opening his mouth and letting words fall out. He doesn’t like the way Catelyn is looking at him, somewhere between sceptical and interested. 

“Okay. Okay, if you say so,” she smiles at him, and it’s supposed to be flirtatious, and really, Catelyn could have anyone she wanted from here, so why him? John grins back at her, and then turns around her and swiftly walks away. Possibly too swiftly. He doesn’t really care.

He finds Sherlock a little further away, leaning awkwardly against a tree and looking suspiciously at the bottle of the beer someone must have placed into his hand.

John waits until he’s close enough before saying, “You have to stop abandoning me like that.”

“I was hardly a few feet away,” Sherlock replies mildly, lifting his head. “Besides,” he adds lightly- too lightly- innocent expression morphing into something mischievous and mocking. “I’m sure you could hear me breathing. That falls into the purview of your abilities, doesn’t it?” 

John groans, finally reaching him. “I told you that was a lucky guess. Are you ever going to let that go?”

Sherlock Holmes, letting something go... John wonders. Yeah, that’ll happen. It was a mistake, doing that, and honestly what was he thinking? In hindsight, the answer is obvious-showing off. Can he really be blamed? There are precious little things Sherlock is impressed by, and John was just..he was just..being an idiot. That would have worked on something a little more naive and a little less….Sherlock. No, Sherlock had been trying to figure out the source of John’s apparently miraculous hearing all week.

He’d be trying to finish his homework and Sherlock would be perched behind him, nose practically buried in his hair. “Sherlock,” John would say, pen stilling in his hand. “What...are you doing?”

“Hearing aid. Must be,” warm breath flutters over his ear, John resists the urge to shiver.

“Go away.”

“Is it surgical ?”

“Fuck’s sake-” John tries to bat him away with one hand, Sherlock hisses like a feral cat but leaves off. Good. The proximity was making him dizzy. 

Now Sherlock just scoffs at his poor explanation. “No such thing as a lucky guess. There are coincidences, and coincidences don’t exist. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

John needs to change the subject, quickly. “I thought you didn’t like that stuff,” he gestures his chin towards the bottle in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock gives him one last “ I know what you’re doing look and looks down at the beer. 

“I don’t,” he says musingly, letting it roll around in his palm. “Someone gave it to me.”

John decides to stand next to him so that both of them are leaning against the tree. Plenty of trunk to go around. “Really. Who?” He takes the bottle from his hand and chugs half of it down. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get drunk, he had no way of knowing what inebriation would do to him in a non-controlled environment, but this was beer. It would take a lot more to get him pissed enough to actually be a danger to someone else. 

Sherlock shrugs. “You know I don’t remember names. She was wearing a hat.”

“ She ? And that’s all she was offering? A drink?”

Sherlock, oblivious of the way his voice roughens, twists towards him so one shoulder leans against the trunk. “Yes of course. What else could she possibly offer?” John is about to respond- herself, probably- when Sherlock suddenly looks excited. “Do you mean recreational substances?” he lowers his voice to a whisper and leans closer, too close in John’s opinion. “Is someone trying to sell drugs?”

God of course he would think that. John blinks at him and then says hoarsely, “No, no one is selling drugs. Not that I’m aware of.”

Disappointed, he leans back. “No,” he agrees, nodding. “No one is quite clever enough to pull that off.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking vaguely upset. “Finnegan did try last year. He got suspended for his efforts.”

John hands the bottle back to Sherlock, who looks at it dubiously again before taking a sip. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Eugh.” (Possibly John’s hopes of seeing Sherlock drunk and pink-cheeked will not be realised tonight.)

“Who’s Finnegan?” Why does that name sound familiar? John tries to think back. Maybe he heard a teacher call it at some point of time. Still, that doesn’t explain why something dark and unexplainable stirs in his gut at the sound of it. 

Sherlock glances at him quickly before looking away, almost as though he’s avoiding eye contact. “You wouldn’t like him,” he says quietly. “He hasn’t been around for a few days, I take it he’s gotten suspended again.”

He shivers as soon as he says that, John assumes briefly it’s because of whoever this Finnegan person is- but the next moment he realises that it’s cold- quite cold-the wind that whispers through the trees is biting and unforgiving. And all Sherlock has to keep himself warm is that stupid form-fitting jumper. He’ll ask after Finnegan later. “Hey,” he says, “Let’s get closer to the Bonfire.”

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it, as though thinking better of whatever he had to say, and looks wearily at the crowd of people surrounding the crackling, now-several-feet-high bonfire. And then he shivers again, a momentary look of irritation crossing his face as though he can’t believe his body is betraying him. John smiles, can’t help it, really, and Sherlock scowls at him.

“Come on,” he insists, grabbing his forearm. Sherlock allows himself to be pulled away, albeit reluctantly. “It’ll be warm.”

“John, the people ,” Sherlock complains, but follows John anyway when he starts walking towards the fire.

“You’re turning blue,” John points out.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You should have worn something warmer.”

“Well I do recall owning a scarf at some point of time. Unfortunately I had to dispose of it because it had become a biohazard. Do you even know there isn’t a Dry Cleaners around for several kilometres?”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time I suffer a fatal injury,” John says dryly, and Sherlock scoffs behind him. 

Ah. It is warm. And really quite lovely. The cold doesn’t necessarily bother John, but he will concede that curling up next to a fire- well, standing. Standing. Yep. Sherlock stands awkwardly next to him, but he does reach out his hands and attempt to thaw them in front of the flames. He certainly tries, but he doesn’t seem to me able to control the tiny little moan of pleasure that escapes his lips.

“Sounds like you’re having a good time,” John teases, and Sherlock flushes pink.

“I will push you into the fire,” he whispers back, but there’s very little bite in it.

Someone passes around a bag of marshmallows and Sherlock affixes them onto two twigs and passes one to John. A few people around them are surprised to see him there, but no one bothers him. “I’ve never done this before,” he says dubiously, staring at the marshmallow like it’s something he’s pushed under his microscope. “Ah, well,” he brings it closer to the fire and let’s it heat up, and John does the same. For a second, he watches it, but he’s quickly distracted by Sherlock.

John watches him  pull the twig back from the fire, pucker his lips and blow on the flaming marshmallow. For no other reason than the uncontrollable curiosity that drives Sherlock to do 99% of the things he does, he pokes the marshmallow, hisses when it predictably burns his finger. “Is this…” he begins, and trails off uncertainly before bringing it closer to his mouth and giving it a lick with the tip of his tongue. John thinks distantly that perhaps he should stop staring, He thinks he should tell Sherlock to just get on with it and eat the damn thing already instead of doing...that. 

“Just eat it,” John tells him, shouting at him more like. 

“Your marshmallow is burning,” Sherlock says offhandedly, and then closes his mouth over the tip of the twig and pulls the sticky mess into his mouth.

“Yeah,” John says, because even though he might have heard what Sherlock said, he doesn’t quite know what he’s expected to do about it. He’s quite content to be staring at Sherlock's mouth, at the way his tongue flicks out and swipes over his bottom lip. 

Sherlock frowns at him like he thinks John’s gone insane, and then he leans forward and pulls John’s arm away from the fire. “It’s burning, you idiot,” he repeats, and John tears his gaze away and looks down at his hand, where, sure enough, there is a charred, unidentifiable lump where a marshmallow should have been. 

“Ah,” John says, and surprisingly, Sherlock breaks into laughter, letting go of his wrist. Pity, that, Sherlock’s fingers had just warmed up and they felt nice against his skin. 

“Here,” Sherlock hands him his own twig, which had a fresh, pristine white marshmallow pierced onto the top. He pushes it into John’s hand when John continues to stare at it like he has brain damage. “A minute would be perfect for ideal taste and texture,” he elucidates, “Anything more than that and it will burn.”

“Expert now, are you,” John rejoins, and plunges it into the fire obediently.

“Of course. It’s science. You would be too, if you paid any attention.”

John watches the fire steadily consume the marshmallow. “To what,” he asks absently. 

“Me, obviously,” Sherlock answers, and then, before John can respond to that extraordinary statement, says, “That’s enough, take it out.”

John obeys on autopilot, more than anything else, and to be completely fair to Sherlock, that does look like  a perfectly roasted marshmallow. He shoots an impressed glance at him, but before he can eat it, Sherlock beats him to it. Clasps his fingers around his wrist, (and obviously when Sherlock does things like that, John finds it impossible to function like a human being) and twists his head to pull it off the twig with his mouth.  “Mmm,” he says, pink tongue darting out to lick at the corner of his mouth. 

“You prat, ” John complains, and shoves him playfully at the chest. Sherlock is grinning, the corners of his eyes going all crinkl-ey, and he half heartedly lifts his arm to protect himself from John’s blows. “After all that effort-”

“Please, you’d be nothing without me,” Sherlock scoffs, but his eyes are dancing with amusement and his cheeks are flushed. John has a sudden urge to curl his fingers into the front of his jumper, pull him closer, and. And. But he can’t do that here, in front of all these people. Wait, he can’t do that, full stop. Hasn’t he been through this already. Sherlock raises a quizzical eyebrow, because John must be doing something weird like staring at his mouth again. “What-”

“John,” ah. Distraction. John turns his head, with the intention of giving far more attention than is warranted. It turns out to be- hm, what’s her name? John’s forgotten. The short haired girl who was offering him beer during class, aeons ago. Something with an R. 

“Rebecca!” John says, possibly with a little too much enthusiasm. He can feel, rather than see, Sherlock stiffen next to him. “Um. Hey.”

She seems to have followed Sherlock’s strategy of a minimalist costume. There’s a name tag stuck to her chest with “Erica” written on it. 

“Nice, um, costume,” he says, awkwardly. Now that the moment is gone, John wants it back. But as usual, Sherlock has withdrawn himself entirely. Damn it.

“I’ll just. I’ll be back,” Sherlock injects, in an odd tone of voice, and stalks off before John can call him back. There are suddenly more people around, and Sherlock can disappear into a crowd with frightening ease. He’ll find him though, that’s not the hard part. The hard part is getting rid of Rebecca.

“Yeah, well, at least I tried to wear a costume,” she says. John turns back to her, just in time to see her giving him a once-over with an amused tilt to her lips. She looks nice, John thinks off handedly. He tries to crane his neck and sniff the air discreetly, figure out if Sherlock is nearby. He can smell him, but only vaguely, and there are too many people here which means the scents are mixing, overlapping and confusing him. 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says graciously. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks, and she takes a step closer to him. She smells a little tipsy, John can discern the faintest scent of alcohol on her breath. Not enough for impaired decision making though, her eyes are sharp as ever. John has a feeling Rebecca has come to him with a very specific objective in mind. And he’s not sure if it’s the fact that she has grey eyes like Sherlock, or the fact that desire is still bubbling in his gut from wanting to touch Sherlock, but it doesn’t seem like an entirely bad idea. 

What’s the worst that could happen, he thinks. Sherlock’s disappeared anyway. Ten minutes, tops, and maybe he can get this out of his system. 

Yes. Yes, of course that would work. That’s what John should do. Maybe his body just needs it, or the Wolf, or whoever, the two of them seem dangerously interconnected these days. He’s barely even wanked himself off because Sherlock and him sleep next to each other, and he doesn’t really see the appeal of doing it in the boy’s loo.

But maybe this would help. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop fucking thinking about pinning Sherlock against a wall, having him still enough so that he can lick at that spot under his ear. 

So when Rebecca says, “I want to show you something,” John says, “Sure.”

***

This is a bad idea. 

This is a catastrophically bad idea. Rebecca has her hand halfway down his pants when John realises he’d rather not be here. Not that it’s Rebecca’s fault. She’s a perfectly nice girl. Clever hands, too. John would be into it if he wasn’t so fucked up. And if he wasn’t into someone else entirely.

Because that’s what he wants, he realises, and it leaves a sick taste in his mouth. 

She smells lovely, something floral and spicy but John can perfectly imagine bergamot and formaldehyde, overpriced body wash, fabric softener and rosin. He’s barely touched Sherlock’s hair but he can guess that it’d be soft, a little frizzy if it’s warm, and god, god, fuck, see John knows Sherlock has barely even touched another person but he’d be fine with that, actually, even better, because John could show him how he likes it, and then he could do the same to Sherlock, if he wanted, show him how good it can feel. 

John leans the back of his head against the tree and loses himself in the fantasy, until, that is, Rebecca licks the shell of his ear and John can smell her cherry-watermelon lip gloss. 

This is not good. This is not good at all.

He pushes her off, which takes a few seconds, because Rebecca seems to think John’s trying to feel her up and she becomes more enthusiastic in response. John twists his head to escape her mouth and tries again, says, “Stop, stop-”

She finally gets the message, peeling herself away, eyes narrowed. “What?

“Listen,” John starts, zipping his trousers. “This was great, but-”

“Oh my god, are you serious?” Rebecca scowls, pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe her fingers. “You could have just said you were g-”

“That’s really not it,” John mutters. “I’m sorry. Really. I just. Drank too much, and, well,” John shrugs, not really seeing the point of putting anything more into this pitiful excuse. “I’ll see you in class, tomorrow, I guess? I’ll make it up to you.”

John doesn’t wait for Rebecca’s reaction. He can say with a certain amount of uncertainty that it would not be a pleasant one. Maybe he can set her up with one of the blokes from the rugby team. 

Right now he just wants to get back to Sherlock. He should have known that something as simple as snogging someone else wasn’t going to get rid of, of whatever this was. Whatever it was that made his chest feel like that whenever he looked at Sherlock. 

Where is Sherlock anyway, he’s not at the spot where he left him. He can see the bonfire well from his vantage point, and Sherlock’s curly haired head would be unmistakable. He would have noticed immediately if he was actually there. John takes a step forward and sniffs; if he was nearby his scent would be clear and discernable. But all John can smell as of now is woodsmoke, the tang of sweat, alcohol, anything else but Sherlock.

Something prickles at the back of his neck. He tells himself to calm down- Sherlock could have gone anywhere. He could have gone back home, bored to death of waiting for John. He could have just wandered off somewhere- since when does Sherlock ever stay put in one place? He could have sneaked off with someone-

John clenches his jaw and jogs towards the fire, which isn’t as densely packed as it was before. He checks his watch, it’s gone midnight, most people would have left by now.

 He looks wildly around, sniffs again. Where the hell is he? He can’t have been gone long; faint vestiges of Sherlock’s scent still hang around the place. Maybe he did leave with someone, or go back to their room- Sherlock would have hated staying here with no one to talk to except the classmates he detests so much. John is about to turn around and head back to their room to check when he almost trips over something.

He looks down. It’s a bottle. One of the many beer bottles that have been thrown carelessly around once people were finished drinking. But this isn’t just anyone's- John crouches down on the grass and picks it up. This is Sherlock’s. He takes a whiff of the rim and it is unmistakable. So he stayed here, had a drink and- god what is that ? John wrinkles his nose and inhales deeper. That doesn’t smell right. Doesn’t smell like beer. Not entirely, at least. It’s something sharp and it burns his nostrils and makes John want to bear his teeth and turn away-

Hang on- this beer is laced with something. John stops breathing for a second, panic bursting in his gut and spreading. What could- who would have- but why ?

He lets go of the bottle, letting it fall to the ground with a thud. No, Sherlock definitely didn’t go home. John tries to quell the panic, but he is largely unsuccessful. It’s fine. It’s fine, isn’t it, this is hardly different from all the other times Sherlock had sneaked off in a snit and John had managed to find him. God, he would get so annoyed when John did that. How on earth did you know where I was ?

(Practice, supernatural ability, really quite textbook.)

John stands, looking around himself even though he knows it’s pointless. He’s not close. He can smell him, but only faintly, and it’s coming from deeper into the words. John isn’t sure which is more worrying- that he’d gone off himself while being potentially drugged, or that he’d gone off with someone.

When John finds whoever put whatever that is into his drink, he is going to rip them limb from limb. In fact, he glances up at the sky, at the almost-full moon and is slightly disappointed. A Shift right about now would be extremely convenient. He could have found him in seconds. God but now he just has this slightly above-average body and Sherlock is somewhere in these woods, alone, god, god, fuck. John stifles the panic, it’s paralysing him. What he needs to do right now is follow the scent, like he’s always done.

It takes him a moment to figure out a coherent direction. It’s windy, which means he’s picking up random scents along with Sherlock’s. He takes a minute, closes his eyes and attempts to concentrate on just one. There. That’s it. 

He follows the scent. It’s difficult like this, he keeps getting distracted every few minutes. Thankfully there aren’t any students around here anymore. Human scents are the most complex, the most likely to get mixed with something else and confuse him. The deeper he gets into the woods the darker it gets, which makes it even tougher to see. He trips a few times. He feels branches scratching at his face a few times, and the pinching sensation as the shallow cuts heal immediately. Finally the trees start to get further spaced from each other, there’s more light.

He’s close now, Sherlock scent is strong and clear, filling his nostrils. John stops for a minute, listens. The woods would be deathly still and quiet to anyone else; but if he concentrates, he can make out an almost deafening din; and beneath it all- there, voices. Coming from just a little further up ahead. Or just once voice, actually. The other is barely a murmur. Sherlock. It’s coming from just up ahead. John starts to run.

After a few meters, he stops. The trees clear away and he’s right at the edge of the woods- the lake right in front, dark and ominous looking and for a second John has a horrible, sickening feeling but the next moment he spots two figures near the boathouse. One of them is Sherlock- must be, he can smell him from right here. John can’t see very well but he can hear, and he doesn’t like what he hears, not at all. He can make out a few words, but it’s the way they’re being said that makes him sprint towards them more than anything else: Sherlock’s soft murmur can barely be heard over the low, threatening tone. The other person- male, slightly shorter than Sherlock, bulky and dark haired, has Sherlock pushed up against a tree, Sherlock’s own head ducked, arms lying uselessly at his sides. He’s so still.

John barrels forward, and there’s really no need for finesse when anyone else is touching Sherlock, like that, when Sherlock smells like fear and panic and nervousness, John does the only thing that seems right in that moment, which is bodily push the person away with the entire force of his body, send him sprawling into the grass with a muffled grunt of surprise.

“What the-“ he starts, but he’s interrupted because the next thing John knows, he’s straddling his hips, fist pulled back for a split second before he rams it into the boy’s cheekbone.

Again-

And again-

It takes three punches before the boy's self defense kicks in and he attempts to fight back- a hard throw to his eye that only serves to startle him for a second. He doesn’t register the pain. “Who the fu- Watson?”

“Shut up,” John snarls, and his knuckles connect with nose; a satisfying, sickening crunch, a howl of pain. John stops, his breath shallow, his gaze still vaguely tinted red with fury. The boy has his hands cupped over his nose, whining- but despite that, the momentary pause is enough for John to take a look at what he can see of his face and -

John knows him. John has seen him, barely a few weeks ago. Finnegan , that’s what Sherlock had called him, his own arms held back so that he could defend himself while he was being beaten by this, this-

He’s going to kill him.

John lands another punch, at his temple this time, and the boy tries to buck him off with his hips. “Stop-“ he gurgles, which only serves to make him angrier, because Sherlock had asked him to stop too, and he hadn’t, so he deserves this. He curls a hand around his throat. He could. He could. If he exerted enough pressure, it wouldn’t take him long. Finnegan looks up at him, squirms and struggles underneath him. “Get- off- fucking-”

“Stay away from him,” John growls. “Do you understand?”

“John, stop-“ that’s Sherlock, John doesn’t have time for that right now. 

John smells blood, and it’s familiar, it feels right. Part of him wishes he had the Wolf’s teeth right now, because sinking his teeth in and ripping out his throat seems like a good idea, it seems imperative.  What good does a warning do, anyway? He might as well get rid of him, and get rid of the threat. That’s what a real mate would do, eliminate the possibility of a repeat altogether. Finnegan makes a pitiful wheezing noise.

Something touches him, a gentle hand cupping over his shoulder faintly and he knows that it’s Sherlock, he still can’t control himself from twisting around violently on instinct, bearing his teeth. Silver eyes widen, he can taste the sudden, sour tang of fear on his tongue. He watches Sherlock step back, swallowing audibly and holding up shaking hands, almost in surrender. Almost like he thinks John is going to do something to him.

That makes him still.

He would never. He’d never. John takes a deep breath, the body underneath him is limp and so the threat is momentarily mitigated. He lets go of him. It’s fine. He can vaguely feel his jaw, he’s been clenching it so tightly it’s sore. He wants to open his mouth, say something calming, tell Sherlock that it’s alright and he would never let anyone lay a hand on him, ever, but it’s like  his jaw is wired shut.

“John,” he says, voice faint. Almost a whisper. John has never heard him talk that way. So cautiously. Afraid. He clears his throat and tries again. “John. You’re going to kill him.”

Sherlock sways violently before John can respond to that exaggeration, and in lieu of replying to that (he’s unconscious, quite far from dead, John knows how much pressure it would have taken to actually kill him.) John rushes to his feet and manages to catch his forearms to steady him before he goes tumbling to the ground. A second later Sherlock’s knees buckle and John has to wrap an arm around his waist, shifting his weight, letting Sherlock lean against him. “Hey, hey,” he presses a finger to his pulse and it’s unnaturally fast, his breaths are shallow and his gaze hazy. John brushes his finger tips against his cheek, tries to get him to turn towards him. “ Sherlock. You okay? Talk to me.”

Sherlock squints down at him, brows furrowed and he looks almost upset, like he’s frustrated with himself for not being at his best. “I’m...okay,” he says, slurs more like. “Is he dead?”

John spares a glance for the pitiful mess on the ground that is Finnegan, stifles the urge to grab him again and beat him into a pulp. “No,” he says, trying to keep the roughness out of his voice. He’s not going to spook Sherlock again. “He’s not dead. Just knocked out.” Sure enough, John can still hear his beating heart. No, he’s far from dead, unfortunately. 

Sherlock leans more fully against him, like he’s losing his balance. John tightens his arm around him, can feel the bones underneath his skin, frail, breakable. Vulnerable. He needs to get them out of here. Somewhere warm, safe, where he can guard him. Protect him. Not let anyone else lay a finger on him. 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock murmurs, his hand clawing into John’s front, gripping at his jumper. “I was drinking. And then. Then-”

John shushes him. He’s going to work himself into a tantrum this way, Sherlock hates not knowing this, not understanding. “It’s alright. You’re safe now, yeah? Let’s get you back to the room. Hey. Sherlock, look at me. Can you walk?”

John holds him by his biceps, keeps Sherlock as vertical as possible. Sherlock’s head is ducked, and a light shiver whispers through his frame. Right. It’s cold. And Sherlock’s unreasonably tight jumper is nowhere to be found, the first two buttons of his shirt undone. Purplish bruises blooming on the side of his pale neck, finger shaped. John feels a growl building in his throat and tamps it down. “Right, you’re freezing. Let’s fix that first.”

It’s...not easy. Sherlock is all limbs, John has to use one hand to keep him upright and the other to pull his own jumper off and over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock does not take to this at first; he makes several noises of protest and tries to fight John by ineffectually waving his arms around and calling John something colourful and creative he doesn’t quite catch. He finally manages, and even though Sherlock is glaring at him like a malevolent cat, at least he won’t catch pneumonia and die.

He flicks his gaze over him once, quickly, taking a mental stock of any injuries he might have suffered. Besides the bruises on his neck (and being drugged) he seems otherwise fine. “Did he hurt you, at all?” He pats him down the side, checking Sherlock’s expression for any flinching. Nothing seems broken. “Did he…” John looks at the bruises at his neck again and tries to swallow down the sick feeling rising in his throat. “Did he do anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head, slowly. “Just threw me around a bit.”

“Alright,” John decides, pulling one arm over his shoulder and wrapping another around his waist. “Let’s get back.”

He can still feel the anger simmering underneath his skin, but it’s not threatening to bubble over anymore. It’s...controlled. Getting Sherlock somewhere safe is very clearly the priority here, so why does anything else matter?

Sherlock groans when they start walking, fixed together like they’re in a three legged race. “Feel sick,” he complains.

“Yeah, I’d imagine. Don’t worry, you just have to sleep it off.” The trudge upward isn’t easy, but the fastest way of getting back to the school building is over the hill. John briefly considers just throwing Sherlock over his shoulder and making a run for it, but he has a feeling this would end up with Sherlock throwing up all over him. “Hopefully you’ll puke out whatever’s left in your system.”

Sherlock grimaces. “Finnegan?”

“He’ll wake up soon, he’s just unconscious.”

Sherlock makes a small mmm sound and for a moment, John thinks he might just be able to get them both out of the woods and into the campus, without getting into trouble. He’s pretty sure the gate is locked by now which means he will have to figure out some alternate means. The service entrance maybe. 

At that precise moment, however, Sherlock makes a panicked noise, and starts to twist away from John. John holds him tighter on instinct, heart suddenly beating ten times faster. “Sherlock! What are you doing?”

“John, we can’t leave him here, he’s going to get eaten,” he is told, very matter of factly. Sherlock continues to struggle out of his grasp. John frowns at him, holding him down fast. Sherlock can barely walk, if he let’s go he’s going to trip and break his nose or something. 

“ Eaten ? Pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Now can you just come with me, please? We need to get back,” he attempts to pull Sherlock away, along with him. He stops struggling, but he makes a few distressed noises. 

“You don’t understand,” he says fretfully. “It’s not safe. Not safe here. There’s something- great big dog, almost ate me-”

Ah.

For a second, a crazy bit of laughter almost bubbles out of his throat. Great big dog. In the index of things he’s been called before, that seems almost kind. Like a nickname, almost. An endearment. And he’s pretty sure that he’s never actively wanted to eat anyone. Bite, yes. Maybe throw them around a bit. Humans have never seemed particularly suitable for consumption to him, anyway. One of the inmates had told them they make you sick. Ah, well.  Sherlock keeps frowning, looking back at where he left Finnegan’s bloody, beat up body. John sighs. Trust Sherlock to start having a moral crisis now. 

“Alright,” he relents, and Sherlock visibly relaxes at the word. “I’ll come back later and move him.”

Sherlock looks distressed again, curling his fingers into John’s shirt. His hands are freezing. John tries to prise them off, rub them between his own palms. “No, no,” Sherlock argues, shaking his head.

“ Sherlock, ” John clasps his hands over his, tightly. Sherlock looks down at him, bright eyes confused and weary. “I promise no one is going to eat him, okay? I promise. Please let me take you back home, alright?”

Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds longer before letting out a shaky breath. “If he eats him, they’re going to get rid of him, you know. They’ll find him, and shoot him-”

“Shh, shh,” John fits a palm against one clammy cheek. Sherlock goes silent and still at the touch. He’s worried about the Wolf, why? John doesn’t understand. Either way, he needs to calm Sherlock down. This stress can’t possibly be good for him at this point. “No one will hurt him. I promise.”

Sherlock chews at his bottom lip, obviously sceptical. John prepares himself for the eventuality that he may really have to bodily throw Sherlock over his shoulder to get out of here. “Okay,” he says instead, in a small voice, nodding. “Okay, fine.”

John sighs, relieved, and fixes Sherlock against his side again, arm secure around his waist. He doesn’t try to make any more mad escapes, probably because he’s exhausted. He can hear his laboured breathing, and every few minutes Sherlock stumbles and has to latch onto John’s shirt. John has never wished more for the ability to Shift at will. He could just strap Sherlock down on his back and then he wouldn’t have to put him through all this useless walking.

“You went away,” Sherlock says, after a while, breaking the silence. John looks up at him, but Sherlock is still looking down at his feet, trying to keep his balance. He couldn’t read his tone, but it didn’t sound accusing, just very factual. It takes him a second to understand what he’s referring to, though.

“Well, actually, you were the one who went away.” Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise like he doesn’t approve of John’s answer. He can’t look at his face, because he’s stubbornly refusing to look at John.

“Dancing,” he repeats, in a mildly disgusted tone.

John feels a smile pull at his mouth, despite their current situation. Even drugged and hurt, Sherlock manages to sound petulant. “I hated every moment of it, to be honest.”

Sherlock snorts, disbelieving. “Why did you,” he demands, with less of his usual forcefulness, but it’s there, alright.

John manoeuvres them around a dead bird on their path. If Sherlock notices it, he will insist on taking it back with them. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, honestly. “It was a stupid decision, in hindsight.” Took him away from Sherlock, distracted him, led to this mess. Led to Finnegan touching Sherlock, trying to hurt him. John is supposed to protect him. 

Sherlock tilts his head a bit, so it’s almost like he’s leaning it on top of John’s. It’s oddly sweet, comforting. He probably doesn’t realise he’s doing it. John has a sudden urge to press his lips to his temple, nuzzle. Comfort. “You’re not stupid, I don’t think,” Sherlock tells him.

John raises his eyebrows. “High praise, coming from you.”

Sherlock mmms again, but this time it’s more like he’s in agreement. They stumble along together for a few more moments. “Did you enjoy yourself, the-” he waves a hand vaguely. “party.”

Presses up against him like he’s cold, John tightens the arm around his waist. By the time he’s not holding Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder by the wrist. They’ve laced their fingers together. He shrugs. “The parts when I was with you. Those were pretty good.”

Sherlock turns his head this time, and John isn’t sure what he’s doing, only that he inhales deeply and he can feel the lightest brush of his mouth against his skin. “I feel the same,” he says, quietly. Almost a whisper. 

***

John is thankfully correct in his assumption that they’d be able to use the service entrance. By this time Sherlock is dangerously close to falling asleep and bringing the two of them tumbling to the floor, so John has to work extra hard to make sure Sherlock keeps walking along with them. 

“Do you think you could stand while I open the door?”

Sherlock mumbles something which could mean yes, no, or the atomic number for hydrogen, John honestly has no idea. He does, however, assent to leaning against the wall, eyes almost drooping closed while John struggles with the lock in the darkness. They’d narrowly missed the matron, who was patrolling the hallways as she did once after midnight. Yes, finally. John carefully pushes the door open and then grabs Sherlock’s wrist, pulls him through the door. He shuts the door closed with his foot and carefully guides Sherlock to the bed, hand at the small of his back.

Turns out he doesn’t need to do anything else, because Sherlock practically falls into the mattress, making a low, pleased sound when he smushes his face into the pillow. Almost like a purr. John wants to curl into bed himself, but Sherlock still has his shoes on. He checks the door again to make sure he’s locked it, and then moves to the foot of Sherlock’s bed. Or is it his? John can’t remember at this point. Sherlock makes it a habit to fall asleep in whichever bed is cleaner, anyway. 

John slips off his trainers and socks, Sherlock doesn’t move at all. He still has his jumper on, that can’t possibly be comfortable. He stands there, unsure. This is ridiculous. He’s not going to- he’s just going to take the jumper off. John moves to the side so he can gently cup his hands around Sherlock’s bony shoulders and ease him on to his back. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter and he makes a small, annoyed noise, but he doesn’t wake up.

He barely struggles this time when John tries to pull the jumper off of him slowly. Damn it, this activity should have been completed before Sherlock fell asleep. Although he’s quite passive. Still. John doesn’t normally get to watch Sherlock while he’s asleep, nor would he attempt to do so, because that’s creepy and invasive. But he can’t help but look now, can he, the way his features are relaxed, almost peaceful. Sherlock never looks like that when he’s awake, always thinking, always moving, moody as fuck and hilarious. 

He takes a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding on. Well, he’d wanted to see him drunk. He’d got his wish, hadn’t he?

John wants to vomit. 

He throws his jumper back towards the empty bed and then moves to Sherlock’s belt, unbuckling it as quickly and efficiently as possible, slipping it through the loops quietly. The bruises look like shadows in the darkness. If that were John, they would have been gone by now. But Sherlock would have them for a few days, maybe even a week. He’d look at himself in the mirror and he’d remember that someone had tried to hurt him and John was almost too late. 

The anger doesn’t help. Not now, at least.

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter again, and this time they open. Hazy and unfocused, they look around before settling on him. “John…?”

John swallows down a lump in his throat. Stop that. He shouldn’t-

He leans over him, brushes back some hair from his forehead. His skin is cool, not feverish or clammy. Normal body temperature. Good. That’s good. And John has checked, so why is he still touching him. “Go to sleep,” he tells him, and moves his hand away. “You need to rest.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, and then reaches blindly in front of him until his hands catch on John’s shirt. Tightens his grip, pulls. It’s not particularly forceful, but John goes away, leaning forward until he has to brace a knee against the bed for support lest he go sprawling on top of him. Sherlock stares up at him, frowning, like he can’t quite place him. He wasn’t drugged with something memory- affecting, right?

He still smells a bit like beer, like his bergamot soap and shampoo. Woodsmoke. Roasted marshmallow. Sweat. Fear. It’s an oily, horrible scent, in that it sticks to you for a while afterward. John wants to hose it off of him. It makes him smell wrong. He swallows. “Hey, go back to sleep.”

Sherlock keeps holding on to him. “Did it hurt?” he asks, voice low, gentle, almost. He’s not slurring anymore, which is a relief.

John frowns at him. “What?”

He lets go then, lifts his hand and then John can feel his fingers against his face, feather-light. He can feel them trace over his scar. Oh.

John clasps his hand over his wrist and pulls it away. God but he’s so breakable. All humans are, to a point, but Sherlock more than the rest of them. Not in the normal way that you can hurt them, kill them, but in a different way. A far more dangerous way. 

He smooths his thumb over his palm. Sherlock's fingers twitch. 

“No,” John tells him. “Not anymore.”

It seems to please him, that answer. “M glad.”

 Sherlock’s hand goes limp in his grasp and a few seconds later John can hear him snore lightly.

He pulls the quilt over him, tucking it into the edges, making sure he’s warm. They don’t have a bucket, but John finds one of his earthen pots and puts it at the side of the bed. He can finally get rid of the poisonous looking thing if Sherlock pukes into it. The thought of Sherlock furious, incensed expression when he realises that John not only chose that thing for his vomit-receptacle, but did so knowingly, makes him laugh silently to himself. 

Sits on the edge of the bed, and maybe he should go to sleep now. He’s fine. He’s safe. John looks down at his hand, at the split open-knuckles that are already starting to heal, crusting over at the edges. All that will remain are the rusty brown stains of dried blood. At some point in the process of practically carrying Sherlock back to their room the old bandage had fallen off. There's nothing there anymore, just the faintest grayish scar. He flexes his fingers, once, twice.

It doesn’t even hurt.

Chapter Text

"Enjoying yourself, hm?"

Enjoying? No, not particularly. His head has started to spin, and he hasn't consumed enough alcohol for that to have happened. In fact Sherlock had calculated the optimal amount that would have made him tipsy enough to be amusing company but not so drunk that he would try to paw off John's jumper. Because he wanted to, truly. It was horrid. Only John would be able to don such a monstrosity and still look unbearably lovely.

That's what he'd been thinking about when that girl had come and taken him away. He'd been thinking about John's ugly, shapeless jumper and how much he wanted to tell John to take it off. And about the girl, who he thinks had been Winters, which is plausible because he wasn't entirely happy about it but he'd have been upset no matter who was attempting to drag John away.

What was he… oh. 

"What?"

Someone's pulling him away. Sherlock remembers asking and then Finnegan’s vice-like grip around his waist and then-

Oh. Struggling. He'd tried getting away, yes. Yes. Pushing him off and no- that wasn't helping, because his arms and legs had felt like lead. His mind had been slush at this point. He just knew that it was dark and he was too far away for anyone to hear him shouting and 

What do you want? He flails uselessly, but his wrists are caught and pinned against something, some rough surface and the air here is cool, and a little damp. Boathouse. But why-?

Stay still  you freak

I'm not- 

Hands at his throat. Squeezing and 

Can't breathe. He tries to say this. “I-” but the grip only tightens. He feels his vision growing a little dark. 

Can't 

Breathe 

"Stop-"

The voice is at his ear now. Something about the low, gravelly quality of it makes his skin crawl. "You have to stay. Or I'll have to tie you up. Just wait, okay? They'll be here soon and this'll be over anyway." It’s familiar. Why is it familiar? Familiar enough to make fear settle in his gut. A warning. He needs to get out of here, as far away as possible. Where is John? He tries calling for him, but even the effort of opening his mouth seems like far too much. 

None of this is making sense. And Sherlock hates it when things don’t make sense.

"Who?" he finally croaks. If he knows who wants him, maybe he could solve this. 

"Didn't give me a name. Stay still .”

He doesn’t remember anything after that. 

***

Oh, fuck.

Fffffuucckkkk.

He opens his eyes, just a little. A sliver. The light is too bright. Far too bright. Sherlock groans, turning over until his face is mushed into his pillow. He makes a noise that is so pathetic he doesn’t even recognise it as his own. He imagines that this is quite possibly what being run over a truck feels like. He doesn’t think he’s capable of moving, ever again. Might just stay here forever, in his nest of blankets. Allow his body to ossify, become one with the bedding. Someone’s left the blinds open, a little. Sunlight streams through, and he hates it.

It should be cold and dark here, like a crypt.

God, he wishes he were in a crypt.

Nausea rolls through his stomach, horrible and vile and the next thing he knows he’s up, hunched over and coughing, hand clasped over his mouth. Oh. He blinks. He’s vomited into the caladium. Whose brilliant idea was it to put it there? Now it’s going to get sick and die, probably. Ugh. He swallows down the foul taste in his mouth, squinting as he looks around the room. When did they get back here?

Speaking of they , John is nowhere to be found. He stares at the opposite bed. Judging from the intensity of the sunlight whispering through the gap in the curtains, it’s close to ten am. John would have been back from his run by now, had he gone for one. He hasn’t spent the night anywhere else (Sherlock is oddly glad about that) because the bed has clearly been slept in, half of the comforter trailing on the floor. The sheets are in a tangled mess at the foot of the bed, typical of John, who always seems to run hot even in October.

Hmm. It’s difficult to think, his head hurts. Feels like it's filled with cotton wool and his mouth feels disgusting and furry and where is John, anyway? How much did he drink? Why did John allow him to drink when he’s clearly not suited for it.

“Bloody hell,” he runs a hand through his hair, pushing some of it back from where it’s plastered to his forehead. Ugh, he’s sweaty, why is he so sweaty? He looks down at himself, did he fall asleep in his jumper? Oh. Sherlock blinks. He’s not wearing his jumper. Or his belt, just his white undershirt, and his jeans. Socks, no socks, his bare feet are resting against the floor. 

God but he’s so slow. He’s never touching alcohol ever again.

Party. There was a party? That much he is certain of. John made him wear that ridiculous eyepatch. He reaches a hand towards his face to check if he’s still wearing it, nearly jams himself in the eye. Hmm. Not a great deal of coordination yet, it seems. But he hopes he hasn’t lost it, John had given that to him, it had meant something to him, and John means something to Sherlock, so he can’t have just thrown it away. He stuffs his hand into his pocket, and his fingertips brush against the soft material. He wasn’t expecting to feel as relieved as he did. 

There had been...a bonfire, and marshmallows, and Catelyn Winters and then- something. That’s all he remembers. Screws his eyes shut like that will help him, but it doesn’t. There is a vague memory of someone pulling him away from the fire, but beyond that it’s empty. Inky blackness in his head, that’s all. He’ll ask John. John will know. Or he would if John was here. 

The moment he briefly considers actually leaving the bed and looking for him (John might even know where to find a cup of tea, because he always manages that with admirable regularity) the door to their room opens. Loudly. Practically bangs against the wall, fuck. “Ah,” John says, far too brightly, shutting it behind himself with an elbow. “You’re up. How d’you feel?”

Sherlock winces, grabs the sides of his head with both hands. “Shhhh,” he hisses. “Why are you so loud?”

John has the audacity to grin at him. Sherlock is relieved that he’s back here, because now someone can explain the gaps in his memory to him, but he also has on that infuriating, smug little smile that makes Sherlock want to throw things at him. “Here,” he says, and then dumps the suspicious-looking brown paper bag he’d carried in with himself into Sherlock’s lap. “You should eat that if you want to get rid of your hangover.”

Sherlock stares at him. “Hangover,” he repeats. Hm. He sounds like he has a bad cold. 

John grimaces at the sight of the now vomit-covered plant and moves it aside with his foot. “Glad we can finally get rid of that,” he mutters, and of course, John had done that. John has had it in for that plant since he came here. Sherlock wants to tell him off for it but he’s almost too tired to speak. “Here,” John produces a bottle of water out of nowhere and holds it out to him. “Drink that. All of that,” he adds, firmly. 

He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until he sees it. He grabs the bottle, snatches it out of John’s hand, almost, ripping off the plastic seal and then raising it to his mouth. He doesn’t stop until he’s drained the entire thing. Once he’s done he throws it on top of the other bed. 

“I see you’re continuing with the whole treating your roommate’s side of the room like a skip thing,” John observes. 

Sherlock wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He suddenly realises he has a lapful of food, apparently, going by the smell, and he can’t decide between being ravenous or being repulsed by it. He’s slightly worried he might puke all over it, which might upset John.  He decides to think about it later. He picks it up and puts it away so that he isn’t distracted by it. 

“You really should-”

“What happened. Last night,” he manages to croak. He turns towards him, just in time to see something flash in John’s eyes. He cards a hand through his hair nervously, and Sherlock notices it’s a little damp. Shower. Yes. Sherlock can smell the familiar scent of his citrus-y shampoo. 

Wait a second. “What happened to your hand?”

John pauses, frowns at him. “What?” Sherlock decides not to respond verbally to that, less because he can’t explain and more because full sentences are not entirely within his grasp right now. He gets up instead, and John takes a half-step back in surprise, still frowning. Sherlock reaches for his hand, clasps it around the wrist, pulls John towards him. 

“Uh-”

Sherlock holds the underside of his wrist in his palm. He can feel his pulse, thudding softly underneath the skin but more importantly he notices the split open knuckles. Or they were, at some point of time in the recent past, because they look half-healed now-but if John had gotten hurt before Sherlock would have noticed. He looks up at John’s face. There’s a darkened bruise around his eye, right in the corner, mottled purple, spreading over his cheekbone.

“Okay, look-” John starts, holding up his other hand as if to explain.

“You got into a fight,” Sherlock surmises. He feels a little sick, or sicker, something a little more visceral than mild nausea. John isn’t the one who needs protecting between the two of them, but Sherlock would like to, anyway. He’d like to keep John in this room so he doesn’t get punched in the eye by idiots who can’t keep their hands to themselves.

John inclines his head in agreement. “Yep.”

“With who?” Sherlock cranes his neck to see the other side of his face, his neck, scan for other injuries. This is the first time John has had a physical altercation with anyone at school. He’s careful that way, doesn’t raise his fists in an argument like the rest of the meat-headed population. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” John sighs, ducking out of the way with a muffled curse when Sherlock tries to grasp his chin to hold his head still. “Can you let go of me now, please?”

Normally, yes, Sherlock would have been slightly mortified by how long he has been holding onto John’s arm, but something irks him. He noticed something else, and if his head didn’t feel stuffed full of cotton wool he’d have been able to put his finger on it. He looks down at John’s arm again, and there- yes! The bandage. It looks like it fell off and John had hastily tried to tie it back on himself again. John’s shoddy workmanship is clearly discernible. 

“Hold still,” Sherlock commands, and then reaches for the bandage.

“What are you doing, stop-” John suddenly exclaims, and tries to pull free, but Sherlock holds on fast. It’s been tied poorly, one swift tug and it’s loose enough for Sherlock to pull it off. “You’re awful at this, you should have asked-” he stops, stares at John’s skin. “That’s not possible.”

“What am I, a science experiment?” John growls, and Sherlock lets go of him, still staring at him and frowning. John raises his eyebrows. “What? Why are you- oh, okay. I get it. Look-”

“That cut was six inches long,” Sherlock tells him, disbelieving of the words coming out of his own mouth.“And deep. It’s barely been a few days.”

“Yes, and?” John pulls down the sleeve of his jumper, deciding to forego further usage of the bandage. Understandable, he obviously doesn’t need it anymore. “It healed. Could you stop looking at me like that, please, and eat the breakfast I got you.” John cups the tops of his shoulders and pushes him backwards, forcing him back down on the bed.

Sherlock shakes his head.“That’s not possible, how did you-”

“But you can see the evidence and everything, yeah?” John crosses his arms over his shoulders and looks at him sternly like Sherlock is a misbehaving child. “So it’s obviously possible.”

A cut that deep would take more than a week, at least, and even so, Sherlock was so sure it was going to scar. He’s sure because he remembers feeling sad about it, since John already had so many scars. But there’s nothing there. Just John’s warm, tanned skin. “But-”

“You’re fixating.” John points out, and tries to hand him the paper bag. Sherlock bats him away. 

“I don’t want breakfast, I-” oh, no no no, not again. He cups a hand over his mouth, feels a roil of nausea weave through his body. Lightening quick. John grabs his plant and shoves it under his chin. Like clockwork, Sherlock upends whatever is aggressively trying to make its way out of his body. Both of them grimace as John lowers the pot. They really need to get rid of that. The room is starting to reek. John puts it as far away as he can, pushing it underneath Sherlock’s desk with his foot.

Sherlock makes a soft, pitiful noise, almost like a cat with heartburn. John wordlessly picks up an unwashed t-shirt from the many that litter their floor and hands it to him. It’s one of his football jerseys, he can see the bright yellow  W. Sherlock wipes his mouth with it.  

“Stop thinking about this, eat something and then take a nap, okay? You need to sleep this off.”

“Sleep what off,” Sherlock suddenly shouts, flinging the t-shirt to the ground. John’s careful, soothing voice is irking him, and he’s irked that he’s getting frustrated when John is being perfectly nice, what with making sure he doesn’t vomit all over himself and getting him breakfast and how the fuck did John’s cut heal that fast ? 

“I don’t remember anything. We went to the bonfire, and there were marshmallows, and Winters wouldn’t leave you alone- not that I care, and I definitely didn’t consume this much alcohol, because I knew the optimal amount, I didn’t want to get pissed, and there’s something on my neck-” he lifts a hand and brushes the skin of his throat, because it hurts, and what, are those bruises ? He looks up at John, and finds John looking back at him, his eyes fixed firmly on his neck.

His nostrils flare for a second, eyes dark, before Sherlock watches as he takes a deep breath and makes a visible effort to relax. 

Did the both of them get into a fight? Sherlock glares at him. “Are you going to explain, or do I have to deduce this myself?”

John purses his lips, looks at Sherlock like he’s about to tell him that he has a terminal illness. He opens his mouth once, and then closes it, and then rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. Sherlock is once again treated to the sight of his clear, unmarred forearm. Some kind of enhanced medication, perhaps? And where on earth would John lay his hands on that, he barely knows how to buy himself new socks.

“Look,” he finally says, hands on his hips. “I left you for a while, remember?”

“Yes, to shag Rebecca, I’m sure you had an enjoyable time.” He doesn’t try to control the vitriol in his tone. Not that he’s jealous. Because John is welcome to shag as many people as he likes. 

John has the grace to blush a little at that. Not that Sherlock cares. Did it really sound as scathing as it had in his own ears? He hopes not. “First of all, I didn’t shag her. We went through this last night, actually, obviously you don’t remember,” he says the last bit quietly, more to himself than Sherlock. Clears his throat and continues. “Anway, I came back, and I couldn’t find you. So I went looking for you. And you were near the lake. With, uh,” his jaw tightens, and there it is again, that hard look in his eyes. “With Finnegan,” he finishes, spits it out, almost.

Finnegan?

Sherlock stares at him for a good, solid couple of seconds, unable to decide what to say to that. Why would he be with Finnegan? Near the lake? No one hardly goes there, it’s supposed to be haunted. How drunk had he been, exactly, that Finnegan had managed to convince him that going to the lake with someone who had tried to stab him on more than one occasion was a good idea?

“I don’t- I don’t remember that.” 

“Of course you don’t, you could barely walk,” John snaps, upper lip curling. Sherlock flinches a bit, despite himself. 

“No, wait,” John screws his eyes shut, scrapes his hands over his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Finnegan is just a real piece of work, is all.” John sinks to the floor with a rough exhale, leaning back against his bed, knees drawn up. 

“I thought he’d been suspended,” Sherlock mutters. God his head hurts. He presses his fingertips to his temples. The bruises around his neck twinge. Right, now that makes a little more sense. Interactions with Finnegan hardly take place without violence. John’s black eye starts to seem plausible now, as well. Sherlock looks at him, tilts his head. “He’s the one you fought with. Why?”

John’s gaze flicks to his neck, and he shrugs. “Lost my temper. A bit.” Sherlock watches as he cracks his knuckles once, twice. So much restless energy, John is barely ever still. Running or playing football or brawling now, apparently. Why? Because Finnegan had tried to choke Sherlock, apparently? Did John tear himself away from Rebecca because he’d been worried about Sherlock? The thought makes his chest feel oddly tight.

He’d tried looking for him. And found him. Of course. John always manages to find him, somehow. Not that he was in danger, was he? Finnegan had presumably chanced upon him in his slightly vulnerable state, and Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for this, since he’d assumed he’d have been with John- and tried to lure him away. For what, Sherlock is unsure. Finnegan can threaten him with knives whenever he wants, he does it regularly already. 

“A bit,” he muses. “He’s alive, I hope.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. He holds up a hand as if to say who knows? “I have no idea. I left him in the woods.”

“You what ?”

John's slight smile widens into a full-out grin at Sherlock’s outburst. “Charming, how worried you are about the bloke who tried to drug you. I was a little more preoccupied with carrying you back to our room.”

Sherlock feels his entire face turn hot, and a swift tightening of his gut that makes him want to cross his legs. What part of that should he address first? Drugged, yes, that explains the gaps in his memory, the sluggishness still running through his veins, and the desecrated caladium that now sits under his desk. Obviously if he was drugged he wouldn’t have been able to drag himself here all by himself. John would have had to help. Carry his near-comatose self, rag doll-like, out of the woods and over the hill. John’s fit, it wouldn’t have been much of a bother. He thinks. 

Regardless, as much as he detests Finnegan, he doesn’t want him to get eaten by Wolf, which would be entirely possible if he was just lying there, unconscious and available. And what if someone finds out about Wolf? One sight of a half-eaten carcass and there’d be officials swarming about the woods, trying to find him. 

“If he-” he starts, and John waves him off.

“He’s fine, I promise. He’s in the nurse’s office. Must have limped back. Told her he fell down the stairs. Axley told me.” John has a self-satisfied little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he bites his lip like he’s trying to control it. Sherlock wants to press his fingers against John’s mouth. 

He clears his throat, loudly, nodding. “Good. Good. As long as he’s-” his voice cracks for a second- “alive.”

John rolls his eyes, getting up from the floor so he can sit next to Sherlock on the bed. The mattress dips with his weight. There’s a little bit of space between them. Sherlock wants to cover it, but he’s extremely aware that he probably looks like a mess and smells like vomit, so it’s a surprise that John wants to sit next to him at all. “Finnegan is fine, Sherlock,” he tells him firmly. “You have to tell someone, you know that, right?”

Sherlock turns to look at him in alarm. “No,” he tells him, brusquely. “No.”

John scowls at him, disapproving. “He drugged you.”

“And I’m grateful for the reminder,” Sherlock allows, and then moves away from John. He can’t sit next to him, it makes it difficult to think. Can’t stand either, apparently, because as soon as he’s on his feet his head spins and he has to flail a hand about wildly for support. John bolts from the bed and grabs him around his elbow, leading him back until Sherlock is leaning against the edge of his desk, John in front of him, looking determined and a little annoyed. Sherlock fits a palm on the surface of the desk, balances himself.

“He should be expelled,” John says urgently, and could he not stand so close? All Sherlock can smell is his stupid shampoo.  And John’s hair is a mess, he really should comb it sometimes. Sherlock could use his fingers, but John might not want to be prodded anymore today. “You’re just going to let this lie?”

Sherlock huffs. “You don’t understand, if Mycroft finds out-”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, Mycroft, my-” Sherlock pauses, frowns at John’s expression. His brow is furrowed, eyes a little distant like he’s trying to remember something, not quite looking at Sherlock. “You know him?” God, he hopes not. He can only imagine what a casual encounter with Mycroft would be like. Could have scarred John permanently. Would explain quite a bit, though.

“No, no,” John blinks a few times, shaking his head. “The name sounded familiar.”

“Could have popped up in a nightmare, you never know,” Sherlock suggests.

“Yeah, maybe- and don’t change the subject, you little sneak, I’m taking you to Lestrade today. And you’re going to tell him everything.”

“John, I appreciate this, but,” Sherlock worries at his lip. “Mycroft is my brother. If he finds out, he’ll be furious, and he’ll have me removed from the school. And I obviously don’t want that. Besides,” he adds, brightly. “I’m sure you threatened Finnegan admirably.”

John looks at him, twists his mouth like he wants to argue, but gives it up with a sigh a moment later. Sherlock hadn’t realised he’d been holding on to his elbow the entire time. He finally lets go of him, and he must have been gripping him pretty tight, because he can feel the blood flow back into his veins. “Sorry,” John says quietly, and then sinks into the desk chair. “Fine. Fine. This is stupid, but fine. He better watch himself, though.”

“Well, if he attempts again-”

“He won’t,” John cuts him off curtly. “He won’t bother you again.”

Sherlock swallows down the rest of his sentence. John says that so matter of factly, it makes a frisson of something run down his spine, pool somewhere in his gut. “Uh-” he says, elegantly, and then shuts his mouth. He’d never been scared of John before, but he can see why someone would be. John’s aggression is a switch; one moment he’s bringing Sherlock breakfast and telling him to hydrate himself and the other moment his shoulders are tight and his eyes are hard and his voice is vaguely threatening. Sherlock wonders briefly what happened between him and Finnegan, and then decides he doesn’t want to know. “Thanks,” he finishes, awkwardly. “Problem solved, then, isn’t it?” He fits both palms against the desk and heaves himself onto the surface. 

“Sherlock, look, just-” suddenly John is standing up, coming closer to him, crowding him against the desk and situating himself between the vee of his spread legs. Sherlock wants to scuttle back, plaster himself against the wall, out of instinct, but he’s frozen. Does John know he’s doing that? “Just be careful. Please.” 

“I-” his throat is so parched, mouth very dry all of a sudden. He swallows, tries to form a sentence again. Sherlock’s legs are nearly bracketing his waist, if he brought them closer they’d be wrapped around him. He could hook a finger into the collar of his jumper, if he wanted. Pull John towards himself. Hmm. Yes Sherlock would like to do that. He’s not entirely sure what would follow, but the proximity, yes, that would be lovely. 

“ Sherlock, ” John repeats, urgently. His eyes are so blue. A little dark now, that happens sometimes. “Careful. Do you understand? Promise me you’ll be careful.”

His voice is shaky as he answers, “Alright.” He doesn’t say, I think at this point I would promise you anything, but he does realise that, in a sudden moment of clarity. He’s already seen evidence of it, this need of his to keep John happy. He wore the stupid eye patch, went to the party. He eats lunch because John gets into a strop when he doesn’t. He keeps the window open when his experiments start emitting dangerous fumes. He does all of those things because it seems to calm John, make him happy. Being careful, well, alright, he can do that. It’s not as though he goes and asks Finnegan to have at him, does he? “Alright, I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” John says absently, not looking at him anymore. No, instead, John is placing his fingertips delicately against the side of Sherlock’s throat. “We should take you to the nurse, at least. These don’t look good.” He traces the patterns of the bruises, touch surprisingly warm and delicate. Not that Sherlock was expecting anything else. It does make his heart start thudding rapidly against his chest though, the feel of John’s calloused fingertips against the very vulnerable skin of his throat. He swallows. John can probably feel it.  His eyes are narrowed, like he’s having a good look at them. Sherlock wants to close his legs.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he says, voice a little higher pitched than usual. He bats John’s hand away. “I got along fine before you came along, you know.” He snaps that part at the end, he doesn’t mean to, it slips out.

“Fine, really?” John’s gaze shifts over to him, and he raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. He leans forward, hands resting on either side of Sherlock’s thighs. “Finnegan almost stabbed you.”

“Well that was-” he stops. Narrows his eyes at him. “How do you know that?”

He knows that caught John off guard, can tell by his barely perceptible flinch, by the way his voice hitches even though he immediately replies, “Finnegan likes to show off, doesn’t he?” He steps away from him, out of Sherlock’s personal space and grabs the paper bag of food, in a painfully transparent attempt to change the subject. “Anyway. Breakfast. Have some. I got you ham and cheese, is that okay?”

Hmm. Sherlock takes it from him, it’s little more than lukewarm now. Well. It’s a plausible enough explanation. Finnegan might well have shouted it from the top of his lungs, John is right, he does like to show off. But it seems like something John would have complained, gotten angry about. Why is he so uncomfortable with it? His ears are pink. “Did you get me tea?”

“Yeah,” John smiles, looking relieved. “Yeah, it’s in there. Cream and sugar, Teacher’s Lounge special.”

“You do have your uses,” Sherlock tells him, extracting the well known thermos. John sinks into the chair and swivels, depositing his socked feet on the table.

“I know. Remember. Breakfast, shower, and then a nap. In that order, preferably.” He cards a hand through his hair, pushing his fringe back a little bit. Sherlock’s eyes fall to his clear, unblemished forearm. Maybe if he took a blood test- John catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow.

“Let’s just call it genetics and leave it be, yeah?” Nudges Sherlock’s thigh with his foot, winking. Sherlock cocks his head at him, tries to look at him disapprovingly. There are far too many questions he has regarding John, and not enough answers. “Don’t,” John tells him, when Sherlock opens his mouth. “Do you know what we’ve learnt, though, from this entire experience?”

Sherlock starts to unwrap a slightly soggy sandwich. He knows John is changing the subject again. “No more parties?” he blinks at John innocently.

John exhales, leans his head back against the edge of the chair. “No more parties,” he agrees, solemnly.

A gust of wind blows through the gap in the curtains, lifts them into the air, and with it, ruffles John’s hair. Throws the sand-gold-cornsilk of his hair into sharp relief, and Sherlock has never really quite appreciated the way it looks in the sunshine. Lovely, that is, if he had to use a word. Pretty. Sherlock’s fingers twitch at their side, sympathetic to the want that sits low and warm in his gut.

***

Two days later, Sherlock comes back to their room after class only to find John absent. He waits for the rest of the day, but there’s no sign of him. Must have gone to meet someone. He tries to not feel anything about this. Sherlock doesn’t care, at all. Although it would have been nice if John had let him know before vanishing because he’d really been looking forward to tutoring him in Chemistry this evening. John’s actually quite average, but after Sherlock had bemoaned his lack of finesse in balancing equations on several occasions, John had cracked and said “Alright, why don’t you tutor me, then?” 

He finishes all his assignments for the coming week, plays the violin beautifully for a few hours after which he descends into several horrible, screeching noises until someone from a door down bangs on the adjoining wall and tells him to shut up. He nicks a sheep bladder from the Biology lab and experiments on it until he’s bored. It’s past ten when Sherlock realises that John may possibly not be coming home.

Not that he’s disappointed. It’s fine. Although it’s nice to have John all to himself all the time he’s aware that there might be other things vying for his attention. Sex, maybe. Not that John engages in...that...very often. Or at all, as far as he can tell. And Sherlock would be able to tell. Why not, though? John is seventeen. He must have...urges. The way he flirts with every female on his path should be proof enough. 

Sherlock clenches his jaw and picks up his violin. 

“Morning,” John says, or croaks rather, because his voice sounds awful, like he’s been chain smoking cigarettes for forty eight hours straight. Sherlock turns, startled, because he hadn’t noticed him slipping into class. Watches as he slides in next to him, and then immediately places his head down, forehead against wood, a hand wrapped around the back of his skull   protectively. 

“It’s three pm, and it’s the last class of the day,” Sherlock reminds him, or the back of his head, actually. “Where have you been?” he tries to make it sound like an honest question, but it comes out as more of an accusation. John’s isn’t wearing his blazer, as usual. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and half of it is untucked, like he was putting his uniform on while half asleep or drunk. “John?” He raises a hand and pokes his shoulder with a finger when he doesn’t respond immediately. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” he says, finally sitting up. He squints like the fluorescent lights are hurting his eyes. Professor Eckheart has already started teaching, writing something on the chalkboard. Sherlock lowers his voice to a whisper.

“You don’t look okay.”  John turns towards him, grinning weakly. His skin is pale, slightly ashen, and he looks exhausted, the hollows under his eyes more prominent. Sherlock stares, suddenly wanting nothing more than to take John out of the classroom and put him to bed. “Christ,” he mutters, and places the back of his hand against his forehead, checking for a fever but finding his skin cool. A little clammy, but not fevered. “Were you drinking?” He leans forward, sniffs. No, no alcohol either. Just the smell of his drugstore soap and nothing else. Something musky. It’s familiar, but he’s not sure where he’s smelled it before.

John closes his eyes, swaying forward a little. Sherlock hurriedly takes his hand away, wonders if John is about to pass out. “I’m fine, just tired, I, um-” he opens his mouth in a wide, toothy yawn. -”didn’t get a lot of sleep.” Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, he makes another low groan.

“Oh,” Sherlock pulls back, balling his hands into his fists and tucking them into his side. His cheeks feel heated and there’s something painful and heavy suddenly lodged in his chest. “I see.”

John lifts his head from his hands to look at him, probably wondering at his icy tone. Sherlock is about to open his mouth to apologise but John beats him to it. “Wait, you don’t think-” he laughs weakly, not his usually throaty, full bodied one, something much milder. He shakes his head. “No, no, no. I wasn’t with- I wasn’t doing- that. ” 

“Then what were you doing,” Sherlock hisses, ducking his head so that Ekheart doesn’t see them and throw them out of class. Usually that wouldn’t be a problem but he’s missed enough classes this term and if he misses any more they’re going to call Mycroft. Besides, John hates being thrown out. “Because you were gone an entire night. And now you look ill.” And you didn’t even tell me where you were going, he wants to say. I waited and waited and you didn’t show up. Sherlock hadn’t realised how worried he’d been until now, with John in front of him. Worse for the wear, but otherwise fine. 

Ever since that stupid party he’d been oddly anxious about John, and he isn’t sure why. If anything it proved that Sherlock was the one who couldn’t be trusted to be by himself and John was the one who was invariably pulling him out of situations that he’d landed himself in. Still, John had gotten hurt. Healed remarkably well from a black eye, actually, no one would know he’d brawled with someone if they were to look at him. 

“You seem very concerned about my well being,” John turns in his seat, throwing his arm over the back of his chair and smirking at Sherlock. Sherlock wants to hit him, only John looks fragile enough. “I just need to-” he yawns again. “get-some-sleep.” He grimaces again, wrinkling his nose like something hurts.

Sherlock looks away, right at the chalkboard where Ekheart is talking about something he couldn’t be less interested in. He crosses his arms over his chest so he doesn’t try to touch John again. “Why did you even come to class, you should be in bed.” 

“What can I say, I missed you,” John says smoothly, without missing a beat. He can hear the smile in his voice. Sherlock feels his ears grow warm, along with the back of his neck. He wishes John would put his head back down again and stop saying ridiculous things like that.

“Then tell me where you were,” Sherlock reaches to the side of his desk and takes out his water bottle from his backpack. “And hydrate yourself.”

He looks like he needs a complete meal, but Sherlock will settle for this. John takes the bottle from him. “I met someone. Family. It was an emergency. I got permission from the office and everything.” Sherlock watches him drink, the slow bob of his throat, and he knows for a fact that John is lying through his teeth.

“A distant relative?” he tilts his head, and John is too exhausted to notice the way Sherlock is observing him from top to bottom. The problem, of course, is that if John had a) been with a girl or b) fought with someone, any visible marks would have faded by now, given John’s semi-miraculous healing.

“Sure,” John murmurs, hands him back the bottle, and puts his head down on the desk again. “Let me know when class is over.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand. Why would he lie?

The bell rings about ten minutes over and he has to gently nudge John awake. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock tells him to go back to their room and decides that he’ll get him something to eat. John’s done it, how difficult could it be? John agrees absently, not even arguing. He gets up from his chair and with a wince. “Are you hurt?” Sherlock asks. He realises his hand is stretched out, about to touch, fingertips just about brushing the thin material of his uniform. He hurriedly pulls back. 

John shakes his head with a grimace. “Just sore,” he mutters. “I’m going to go pass out in our room, if that’s alright. See you.” 

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock watches him like a hawk as he picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He walks gingerly, favouring his right foot. “You’re limping,” he calls after him.

“M fine,” John waves him off and disappears into the hall outside. “See you soon.”

Absolutely not fine, Sherlock corrects. What on earth had he been doing? He wants to take a look at his foot, make sure he’s not injured anywhere else. Maybe later. First he needs to feed John something. He looks like he’d keel over any second. 

He nicks some leftovers from the cafeteria, sandwiches and juice boxes and fruit cups with extraordinary amounts of sugary syrup, stuffs them into his bag and slips out. 

He half expects Finnegan to come jumping out of nowhere as he’s walking down the empty hall, block his path and threaten to do something violent and invasive, but he isn’t disturbed. He’d almost run into him yesterday, when he was walking to the library. He’d been alone, John had gone for football practice. He’d seen Finnegan leaning against the wall outside the Physics lab, chatting with some girl. He’d looked at Sherlock, scowled, and looked away. Hadn’t even said a word. Sherlock could see the way he’d clenched his fists at his side, his subtly twitching eye.

Usually he’d resent the idea of needing protection, but it feels different when John is the one doing the protecting. 

“Sherlock, just the man I was hoping to see.”

Sherlock startles, he hadn’t even been paying any attention to his surroundings. Dangerous, that. At least this time it’s only Lestrade and Roxie, who bounds up to him and puts her paws on his chest, covering his face with saliva by way of greeting. “Hello,” Sherlock tells her, giving her the obligatory scratch behind her ears. As far as he knew, pets were absolutely not allowed on campus, much less inside the building. How Lestrade had managed to get around that rule, he’ll never know. 

“Down, Roxie,” Lestrade calls and she dutifully steps away, giving Sherlock’s hand a last lick before taking her regular place next to Lestrade. 

“Tell me this isn’t a lecture about missing classes,” Sherlock drawls, leaning one shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms. 

Lestrade raises a grey eyebrow. He’s not that old actually, but his hair has always been that specific shade of grey. “Have you been missing classes?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Absolutely not. So you can write to my brother like you always do, and tell him that I’m not actively trying to get myself suspended.”

“I don’t write to your brother,” Lestrade sighs, but they both know that’s not quite true. 

“Enough of this,” Sherlock waves his hand. “What do you want? I do have other things to do besides having a chat with my English professor, you know.”

“You realise I am also the dean-”

“Yes, yes, I’m not trying to injure your ego, I’m just trying to expedite things. What is it?”

“Nothing, really,” Lestrade shrugs. “Just wanted to know how you’re getting along with your roommate. I realise we didn’t give you a heads up beforehand, even though you were supposed to be rooming alone this semester-”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says quickly, cutting him off before he can say anything else. Nobody can think that he wasn’t perfectly satisfied with John, or else they’d move John to some other room, and Sherlock, Sherlock would be alone. No. “It’s perfect, actually,” he adds, which alright, might be laying it on a little bit thick, because yes, John does snore quite loudly and talk in his sleep, and he always seems to bringing dirt into their room, and he did break that window which he thinks Mycroft will have to pay for, but besides that, yes, John is absolutely lovely.

Lestrade looks surprised, and something cold and calculating passes over his face for a second. Too quick for it to mean anything. Could have been a trick of the light. Still, Sherlock tries to look genuine. “He’s very…kind,” he finishes, lamely. 

“Is he,” Lestrade’s eyes narrow, and Sherlock sometimes forgets that he can be surprisingly perceptive for someone so ordinary. “Hasn’t been bullying you or anything? Doesn’t wake you up in the middle of the night?”

“Why on earth would he wake me up in the middle of the night?” 

“He…well,” Lestrade looks uncomfortable suddenly. He purses his lips, runs a hand through his hair. Roxie gives a slow, drawn out whine. “Between us, he can be a very loud sleeper. Nightmares, and such. We wanted to give him a single room, but there weren’t any available.”

Nightmares? He’d never…yes, the talking and the drooling, but Sherlock had never deduced a nightmare. But Sherlock was a heavy sleeper, and maybe John had- oh. The thought is terribly disturbing, that John had woken up scared and upset and Sherlock hadn’t even been awake to tell him that it was alright, go back to sleep. “I don’t…” he worries at his bottom lip. “No, nothing like that. Perhaps he’s more comfortable with his surroundings here. He’s been a perfectly quiet sleeper. And besides,” Sherlock shakes his head. “Why are you telling me this? It sounds like something John should be allowed to keep secret if he wishes. Do you go around telling other students little tidbits about me as well, then?”

Lestrade glares at him. “What I told you right now was for your own safety.”

“You didn’t seem to care about my safety when I told you there was a wolf running around in the woods-”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Not that again-”

“I’m leaving, I have homework. Goodbye, Lestrade.” Sherlock walks past him without looking back. It feels wrong to talk about John like this behind his back. And why does everyone seem so sure that John would hurt him? John protected him. John was absolutely, ridiculously, irritatingly enthusiastic about keeping Sherlock safe. In fact, since John, besides the unfortunate boat house incident, Sherlock was remarkably fine. So if John had nightmares, which apparently never woke Sherlock up, he was allowed to conceal them. God knows how many things Sherlock was concealing. 

Like wanting to know how John’s palm would feel against his. 

He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Stops in the middle of the corridor. Thinking about that wasn’t going to lead anywhere good. He doesn’t care where John was before this. He doesn’t care what he had done before this, and he decides he doesn’t want to know. 

When he comes back inside the room, John is fast asleep. Passed out, uniform and all, right on top of the bedclothes. He’d managed to get his trainers off, but it seems he’d given up at that point and tipped over into the mattress. Sighing, Sherlock closes the door shut behind him and puts the food on their table. He’ll eat it when he wakes up. If he knows John at all (and well, to be honest, he’s in two minds about this)  John will be ravenously hungry when he does.

He doesn’t pull the sheet over him, because John will only kick it off in his sleep. He draws the curtains instead, switches off the overhead lights until the room is dark. John doesn’t move, just shifts a little in his sleep, snores peacefully on.He sleeps on his chest, head resting on his bent arms. It doesn’t look entirely comfortable, he imagines John will have a kink in his neck when he wakes up. His mouth is slightly open, which means John will drool all over his pillow. 

Sherlock can find no plausible explanation for why John would lie to him. He thinks fleetingly of Mycroft’s warning, his advice to be careful, but gets rid of the thought immediately. Whatever John had needed to do, it wouldn’t involve hurting him, that’s for sure. But why would he need to hide it, anyway? From Sherlock? He doesn’t like it, at all. He checks his trainers, but there’s no mud sticking to the soles. He’s wearing a clean uniform, which means he must have put the old one in the wash. And he’d taken a shower, so even if there had been any telling signs on his person, they’d been washed off. All Sherlock can deduce is that he had a terribly exhausting night. 

“ Trust no one but yourself,” Mycroft had told him, only once, years and years ago. He’d only been five years old but he’d realised what people do when they think there’s something wrong with you,  So Sherlock had always followed that, even though he found all of Mycroft’s advice distasteful. Until now. He couldn’t help but trust John. But for some reason, John didn’t seem to trust him. 

He sits down at his desk chair. He has orchestra practice in half an hour, but he’ll probably miss it. He doesn’t want John to be alone when he wakes up.

***

“Do you want to go to the village?” John tumbles into the seat opposite him, his tray laden with food. 

Sherlock glances up briefly at him before continuing to write. He scratches out a sentence. 

“I hope it’s because you want to buy new socks. The ones you wear have holes in them.”

John heaves a long-suffering sigh before taking a loud bite out of his apple.  “No. I mean. Fine, okay, I’ll buy new socks, if it means that much to you, Jesus.  I’m just tired of school lunches.” 

Sherlock looks down at his half eaten plate. John is right, the school lunches are vile. Would be nice to go out. They’ve been stuck inside their room for the last few days, and he has a feeling John has been growing increasingly restless. Not that he could do anything about it anyway, it was clear he was still exhausted from whatever he’d been doing that day.  John would sleep most of the day, only waking up to scarf down some food or go to the loo.  He looked slightly better now, if still a little washed out. 

Yesterday he’d been bouncing a stress ball off the walls of their rooms and he hit it too hard, resulting in a starburst crack in their window. They’d been keeping it hidden with their curtain and several layers of duct tape, but he’s assuming that as soon as the matron sees it they’ll be in trouble. It also means their room is perpetually freezing. Sherlock wonders how John still sleeps so soundly, he lays awake shivering, even after John had lent him his blanket. He imagines that if John really wanted Sherlock to feel warmer, he’d invite him to share his bed. Body heat would be a tremendously quick way of achieving comfort. 

Comfort? A nasty little voice says in his head. Sherlock pushes it down and away. 

Although how John had managed to break the window  in the first place, he’ll never know.  Sherlock had thrown his violin case against it once in a pique of rage and it had remained intact. 

Add that to the list of unexplainable things about John. 

“Alright,” he closes his notebook and pushes it aside. “I need to buy some litmus paper anyway. I think I’ve already nicked whatever was available in the chemistry lab.” To be fair, John has never complained about the school lunches, he was always hungry enough to not care what he was stuffing into his mouth. “But. Are you. Well?”

John frowns at him, pausing in the process of eating his sandwich. He puts it down, still frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t been to football practice, you haven’t gone for a run, you’ve barely been out of bed. I’ve been bringing you your assignments. In fact I think this is the first time you’ve eaten in the mess in three days. Should I go on?”

John scowls, grabbing his milk box with much greater force than necessary and rather aggressively sucking the straw. “I’m fine, ” he asserts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you, I must have caught something.” Sherlock’s eyes linger on his limp  hair, the greyness that still clings to the dips under his eyes, and the stubble that’s begun to prickle over John’s chin and cheeks. It probably would be best for John to stay here and rest, but neither of them do well in confined spaces.

Usually, Sherlock is not the one doing the placating. But he does it now, with a slight incline of his head and a (hopefully) understanding nod. “If you say so. Alright. The village it is.” 

John still looks at him suspiciously. It’s fine, if John does lose consciousness from over-exertion or something else, Sherlock knows basic first aid. He probably wouldn’t be able to carry John back to school, but he could always call for help admirably. And then of course, there’s calling Mycroft as a back up. Although he wouldn’t trust Mycroft with a hair on John’s head, so there’s that. 

***

Chapter Text

John had gone back for Finnegan the night of the party. He hadn’t wanted to, obviously. He’d considered just leaving him there to freeze. Would have served him right. The slightly murderous, riteously furious and ridiculously protective part of him had thought that it was a sound idea. But that would probably have raised more questions, and Lestrade would have known that it was somehow his fault. 

So he goes back. Finds Finnegan still on the ground, sitting up and groaning, arms curled around his middle. John feels a savage curl of pleasure at the sight. He lifts his head up, must have heard John coming towards him, and immediately he startles, eyes widening, trying to move away from him, get up, run back. Towards what, though? It’s just the lake. If he’d like to drown himself John would let him. 

“Yeah, don’t try that,” John tells him, and he’s beside him the next moment, grabbing onto his bicep, pulling him up. Finnegan curses, tries to get away from him, but John has probably bruised his ribs, he can’t remember, so he isn’t exactly able to. 

“Don’t touch me, don’t-” he hisses, and John would laugh at his ineptitude if he wasn’t so fucking pissed off. Bloke can barely walk. If John hadn’t come back here he would have frozen to death. He pulls Finnegan’s arm over his shoulder. 

Presumably he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Maybe because John is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. John is silent, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to be angrier, and then he really will leave the bastard right here. Once they’re inside the building, on the landing that is part of the service entrance, John twists him around and shoves him against the wall, forearm against his sternum. Finnegan takes a sharp intake of breath, regards John with cold grey eyes. There’s bruising around his nose, a split lip, bit of dried blood on his cheek. In the scheme of things John thinks he’s gotten off lightly. 

“Alright, Finnegan,” John says, very calmly. He swallows. Finnegan is so still, John doesn’t even think he’s breathing.  Just stares at John, trembling very, very slightly. John isn’t surprised. He hasn’t really done this in a while, but he does know that being on the other side of this can be terrifying. John has been in forced fights long enough for his aggression to have become a switch.  “What did you do to his drink?”

Finnegan doesn’t say anything, his nostrils flare and his lips stretch thin, pressed tightly together. John tilts his head, regards him. And then he knees him in the stomach. Finnegan lets out a rough exhale, almost doubling over but John keeps him pushed against the wall. “Let’s try again. What did you put in his drink? He could barely walk. What were you planning to do?”

“I wasn’t-”

John presses his forearm deeper, shifts it up so it’s pressed against his throat. “You don’t want to fuck with me, mate.”

“Alright, fine! Was just a bit of fun, wanted to teach him a lesson, take the piss, that’s all-”

For some reason, John thinks he’s lying. But it’s past midnight and Sherlock is alone in their room, and he doesn’t want to be away from him for too long, not when he’s like that. So he nods slowly, loosens his hold a little so Finnegan thinks he’s letting go and predictably tries to squirm out of the way. John takes the opportunity to grab him by the top of his head, ram it against the wall. Not too hard, he doesn’t want to give the bloke a concussion. Finnegan still gasps, blinks. 

“I’m only going to say this once,” John says, voice low, leaning forward so he can whisper it in his ear. “Stay away from him. Are we clear?”

“You know I’ll get you back from this, you think- think you’re a b-big man now-”

John curls a hand around his throat, squeezes a bit. Terribly frail, people. John could break his neck right now if he wanted to. And he definitely wanted to.  “ Are. We. Clear?”

“Yes. Yes, fine, fuck! I won’t touch him. Let go- let go of me now!”

John lets go of him. Steps back and nods at Finnegan, who doesn’t wait to be told twice. He fucking runs for it, or at least as much as he’s capable of, anyway. John leans against the wall and watches him, faintly aware of a heavy weight in his chest loosening a little. He thinks he’d displayed remarkable self control right now, if he’d listened to the Wolf, Finnegan would already be dead for touching Sherlock. 

He clenches and unclenches his hand, watches as the faint moonlight washes over the staircase. Waits until he can’t hear Finnegan trudging back to his room before he makes his way back to Sherlock. 

***

Four days later the moon is full. The tracker shocks him every two hours until he slips out of their room and into the grounds. He wishes he’d left a note or something. Sherlock will probably think he’s run off to shag someone. He seems to think that John spends all of his free time shagging any female who’s passably willing. 

If only he knew. 

***

By the time he makes it back to the grounds the morning after his Shift, John feels like death warmed over. This is the first Shift he’d experienced here, and it wasn’t pleasant. He never thought he’d miss the Center, but the Post-Shift medications would have helped with this, the aching in his joints, the crippling exhaustion. But they were weaning him off of the drugs. So he had to limp back to their room, his jaws sore from the phantom weight of his wolf teeth, body still faintly buzzing from the electric shocks his tracker would send him when he strayed too far away from pre-set territory. 

Sherlock must be in class, he thinks, leaning against the door jamb and peering into the room. The room is in its regular state of disarray, freezing, because the duct tape they’d pulled over the starburst crack in their window had started peeling and Sherlock hadn’t bothered to fix it. Arse. The curtains lift gently with the breeze. He must have been doing his homework or something, there are loose sheets of paper and pens scattered over John’s bed, and their thermos on Sherlock’s, empty with its cap off. 

His familiar scent hangs in the air. John closes the door shut behind him and leans against it, tipping his head back against the wood and breathing it in. A few minutes later the fog in his brain lifts a little, his heart slows down and he remembers how tired he is, and the bed, with its wrinkled bed sheets and covers that smell of Sherlock’s shampoo and sweat, looks terribly inviting. At the Center he’d just spend the next few days passed out, the white coats would be too afraid to approach him, assuming that they’d all be volatile and aggressive after their Shift. John would barely have the energy to eat, let alone try to attack someone. 

He’d be escorted back from the Compound to his room, hands in cuffs for his own safety. There were two guards behind them, with the silver-laced tasers they’d use to keep them subdued should they need to. He didn’t feel particularly safe around them. They’d quickly unlock the cuffs while they kept the door open, he could feel the heat of the taser that was trained on his back, his hair would stand up on end with the scent of silver. Not quite pressed against his skin but threatening all the same. His meds would be on the dresser, something to control the hormones that apparently made him aggressive, something to help with the sore muscles. A six pack of water bottles, protein bars. John would be hungry enough to scarf them all down, and then promptly slide under the covers and forget about everything else for at least three days.

Those days were the most tolerable. 

He checks the time on Sherlock’s alarm clock, just past eleven. A nap doesn’t sound too bad, and then he’ll go and find Sherlock, and Sherlock will probably have a bunch of questions for him. John will avoid all of them, and it’ll be terribly transparent because there’s scarce little you can get past Sherlock. 

Those are problems for later, though. He toes off his trainers and falls face first into Sherlock’s bed, right on top of all the stationery. A pen digs into his ribcage and he pulls it out, lets it roll over the mattress and onto the floor. Sherlock’s spare jumper is spread over the pillow and John doesn’t bother to move it, just nestles his head against the overwashed wool and falls asleep. 

Of course Sherlock knows John is lying, and John can tell that he knows. He feels sick but then he reminds himself that this is for his own good.

Actually there was a full moon last night, could you tell? Naturally I had to change into a werewolf and spend the last twelve hours running around the woods and trying to stay out of sight. 

Wakes up again from another nap and sees  Sherlock  fast asleep in his chair, legs outstretched and resting on the desk, head lolling.

His copy of Macbeth is open, face down on the desk. John doesn’t know how a play about murder and revenge would put Sherlock to sleep, and if John asked him he’d probably tell him that it was predictable and boring. There’s food on the desk too, John reaches for the fruit cup too because it’s closest, rips off the plastic cover and pours half of it into his mouth. 

Sherlock must have put it there, because John definitely didn’t. He clears off the rest of the food, Sherlock dozes on. John’s eyelids start to droop five minutes later and he falls asleep again, listening to the sound of Sherlock snoring softly as he drifts.

***

It’s getting steadily colder, October had blended into November so seamlessly that John hadn’t noticed when the trees started getting barren and the nights started getting longer. He likes the cold, though, it’s the heat he can’t stand. Most nights he has to lend his blankets to Sherlock because he shivers, curled up underneath the covers, John can almost hear his teeth chattering. He goes to sleep with his socks on, which shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. John tells him he just runs hot when Sherlock asks him about it. He’s rapidly realising that the number of times Sherlock is willing to let things slide is going dangerously high and sooner or later, he’s going to start asking better questions. 

“That’s where the butcher’s daughter killed herself, I think it was sometime around 1987, at least. She hung herself from the tree, and they didn’t even find her until a week later. I imagine there wasn’t much left of her, there used to be loads more crows around here, must have picked her clean,” Sherlock cycles ahead of John so he can point to said tree more effectively, and it looks much creepier now that John is imagining a young girl hanging by her neck from one of the branches. 

“So you do know some natural history,” John tells him, speeding up a little to catch up. Sherlock’s scarf has unwound itself and hangs precariously around his neck, he wonders if he should cycle a little closer and fix it for him. Maybe not. “You were being unfair, I think, the village isn’t that boring.”

“Oddly, though,” Sherlock continues, ignoring him. They speed past the tree and continue onward, the wind blowing his hair back so John can see the line of his jaw, the pale curve of his neck. He clears his throat and looks away, at the deserted street up ahead. “The branch wouldn’t have been able to carry her weight for that long, I looked it up and that specific species has notoriously weak wood. One week and the whole thing would have come crashing down.”

John swerves around a large rock, his whole bike squeaks ominously. “So…what, somebody killed her and strung her up there by themselves?”

“Balance of probability would suggest,” Sherlock replies smoothly. “You’re learning.” He turns to him to smile, and it’s an annoying, indulgent little smirk that irritates John to no end. Still pleases him a bit, though, being praised. Go figure. 

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” John mutters, leaning forward so he can rest his forearms against the handles, slow down his pace. Sherlock speeds up ahead anyway, only looking over his shoulder to grin at John. John rolls his eyes and lets him ride in front. Stupid protective instincts always force him to stay a little further behind Sherlock at all times, because it makes it easier to keep watch. It’s irrational, and inconvenient, but it is also something that he’s realising can’t be helped. He’s made peace with it. Besides, as the Halloween Party had so brilliantly proved, Sherlock might be in need of a tiny bit of protection anyway. 

His hair peeks out from underneath his cap, it’s too long now for him to tuck it underneath so the curls just hang over the back of his neck, around his cheeks, disturbed by the wind that whistles past them. 

“Oh, and John, did you know that- fuck! ” 

It happens much too quickly for John to do anything about it, what with him being too preoccupied with staring at Sherlock. He watches Sherlock try to swerve out of the way of something, violently twisting his bike so it turns to the side, and he almost falls off of his seat. John speeds forward to help him, but Sherlock has already hopped off of his bike, letting it fall to the ground with a loud clang. 

John brings the bike to a halt and stares. Jesus, christ, it’s a fucking dog. Must have ran onto the path and caught him off guard. John is still sitting on his bike, one foot on the ground while he watches as Sherlock kneels on one knee and calls to the dog, hand outstretched, making little cooing noises. Christ, really? It could be a stray. It could be riddled with diseases. It could- he doesn’t now, but John doesn’t particularly like dogs, even though he technically shares part of his DNA with them. Hasn’t ever really felt any kinship with this specific species. 

He dismounts and tries to approach the scene carefully, he doesn't want to upset either of them. Sherlock isn’t the only one here who would be spooked by sudden moves.  “Sherlock, do you really think-” he starts, but Sherlock just throws him a glare which John interprets as be quiet. The dog approaches Sherlock slowly, head bent and ears pinned against his skull, but the moment he sniffs at Sherlock’s head his body relaxes, and he starts wagging his tail, shoving his nose into Sherlock’s neck, licking him. 

“Alright, that’s enough-” Sherlock mutters, trying to move his face out of the way of its searching, enthusiastic tongue. John tries to step closer, but the moment he takes a step the dog fixes him with his black eyes and growls. John notices the tension in his haunches and pauses, holding up his hands in a I mean no harm gesture. Figures. The feeling has always been mutual. Most canines tolerate him, at best. They prefer to steer clear of him. They can tell he’s not as human as they’d like him to be. 

 “Oh, she doesn’t like you, does she,” Sherlock muses, running his hand over the back of her head, keeping his voice low and soft as he tries to calm her. “Down, girl.”

“Yes, well,” John scowls at the dog and crosses his arms, but keeps his distance. “I seem to have that effect on dogs.”

She’s cute, though. Some kind of retriever mix, probably, golden-brown fur and floppy ears but the shape of the snout is different. Her tongue lolls out as she looks adoringly at Sherlock. John resists the temptation to roll his eyes. 

Sherlock scratches behind her ears, and his expression is…soft. He looks enamoured with the dog, and why is John jealous. John would try to pet the thing too, but it keeps throwing weary glances at him like it thinks John is going to take him away from his new best friend. 

“She’s run away, or probably just wandered off. Well cared for, though, look at how shiny her coat is, and her nails have been clipped recently,” he tilts his head and buried his fingers in the scruff at the back of her neck, locates her collar, and takes a look at the nametag. “ Daisy. Your owners are terribly dull of course, but I suppose you can’t have everything.” The dog rolls over, puts her paws in the air and whines beseechingly. Sherlock looks amused, obligingly scratches her belly. “She’s far too friendly to be a stray. Where have you come from, hmm?”

“You’re good. With. Um. Dogs,” John finally says. Brilliant, that was a very eloquent thing to have said. It should be surprising, how ridiculously sweet Sherlock is with the dog, considering the only interactions John has witnessed between Sherlock and animals involved dead ones. But then again, this is the bloke who would rather lure a filthy, great cockroach onto a sheet of John’s homework and set it free outside rather than just kill it. The kind of bloke who initiated conversations with giant wolves. 

“I had one. When I was younger,” Sherlock tells him, and his voice sounds a little odd. Sad. John steps closer, careful not to make any sudden moves lest the dog launch itself at him. Slowly lowers himself to his knees. Daisy makes a soft growling noise, but doesn’t move. 

“What was their name,” John asks, and he wishes he could do something, touch him. Put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I named him Redbeard. He died a few years ago. He  was a good dog. Terribly clever,” he frowns, hand stilling for a moment in Daisy’s fur before he resumes stroking her back. 

“I’m sorry, that must have been awful,” John says quietly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s never had a pet, kind of out of the question, considering his lifestyle. But loss, yes, John understood loss. It must be difficult to lose something that loved you unconditionally. Not that he remembers his parents, only Harry. John had never stayed long enough anywhere to call home, and by the time he’d been picked up and shoved into the Centre he had lost all concept of it anyway. 

Sherlock shrugs. “All lives end. He was old, he fell ill. It happens.”

John doesn’t like the way he says it, with that sense of forced detachment, almost as though somebody had taught that to him. Like he was repeating words without really understanding them. Or believing in them. He clears his throat, and decides, sod it. He shifts a little closer, and cups a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder. He startles, slightly, looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t grieve them. I think that’s important. Feeling the loss. Otherwise what’s the point? That’s like acting like they didn’t even exist.” He feels Sherlock’s bony shoulder tense under his hand and then relax. He looks at him for a second more, eyes unreadable until he purses his lip and looks away, nodding. 

“Yes, well. I still miss him, sometimes. Here,” he holds out a glove covered hand. John stares at it, and then up at him, frowning.

“What-?”

“Pet her. You clearly want to. Just be careful,” Daisy hasn’t growled or made any other threatening noises for the past few seconds, so John doesn’t really want to tempt fate, but Sherlock looks so determined, and his hand is right here, fingers spread wide, palm upturned, and that is. Tempting. “Just-” Sherlock clasps his wrist and pulls him closer. “Just let her sniff you, a bit.”

Daisy is watching him, and John thinks that he’s about a second away from having a few fingers bitten off (and that’s not the problem, obviously, the problem would be explaining the matter of cellular regeneration to Sherlock) but the dog just leans forward and sniffs at his hand. Sherlock has a hand cupped over the back of her neck, stroking gently, and that’s probably what is keeping her calm. John has a feeling that Daisy, like the rest of her extended family, would rather not go through this interaction at all. It’s Sherlock she likes. He can’t blame her. 

She sniffs, and John slowly reaches beneath her chin and scratches. Her fur is warm and smooth. Sherlock’s hand is still clasped around his wrist, but he lets go. How did they get so close, their knees are practically touching, and that shouldn’t be driving John as mad as it is. 

“There you go,” Sherlock says softly, and he’s smiling. Eyes crinkling at the corners like John loves to see. “See? She likes you after all.”

“Yeah, like is probably a strong word,” John corrects. Daisy’s eyes flutter closed and she seems to be enjoying the scratching, but he doesn’t quite get the whole bum-wiggling and tail-wagging that Sherlock did. Ah, well, he’ll take it.  

“Well you can’t please every female you meet, John,” Sherlock says admonishingly, and John just snorts. “Although not for lack of trying.” Their bikes lay forgotten on the side of the street, and Daisy starts to sniff at Sherlock’s coat pockets like she thinks he’s hiding treats. 

“Daisy, there you are!”

They both look up to see a bloke jogging towards them, and before either of them can take a good look at him, Daisy shimmies out from underneath their hands and bounds towards him. They watch as she practically jumps on him, tries to lick at his face as she gets on her hind legs to reach him. 

“And that must be the man who gave her the least interesting dog name in the history of dog names,” Sherlock deduces dryly, and completely unnecessarily, because even John could tell that much. He stands up, brushing the dust off his trousers and John follows suit. He can’t help the tiny bit of irritation that flickers in his chest, because that was nice. The dog was making Sherlock happy, and he was smiling, with the- the eye crinkles and everything and that bloke couldn’t have, what, waited for a few minutes longer? 

“Alright, get off me,” the bloke says to her, tries to bat her away. Daisy obliges and drops back down to the ground, mouth set in a wide, toothy grin and tongue lolling. Sherlock throws him a glance, one eyebrow raised, John gives him a tiny shrug. Should they just-?

“Hi, hi, sorry, I didn’t,” the bloke finally says to them, smiling. “I’m Matthew. Thank you for finding my dog,” he covers the distance between them in a few quick strides, holding out a hand. He doesn’t look much older than them, maybe a couple of years. Probably at uni or something. Sherlock awkwardly takes his hand and gives it an unenthusiastic shake. “She’s been running off a lot recently,” he explains, shaking John’s hand next. “Learned to dig.”

“Yeah well, dogs will be dogs, I suppose. I’m John. This is Sherlock,” John gestures to him with an incline of his head. Sherlock’s lips are pursed, and John can practically hear him deducing the poor bloke, and even though he’s used to being the object of Sherlock’s calculating gaze, it can be pretty unsettling on the first time. 

“She’s running away because she’s bored,” Sherlock drawls. “Pay her more attention.”

The bloke laughs, nodding, accepting. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Guilty. Haven’t been around much. You’re right.” His eyes are on Sherlock, and John didn’t notice a few seconds back but the bloke isn’t bad looking. Fit, in a way. He looks at Sherlock a tad bit too long, eyes flickering a bit downward in the least subtle once over John has ever seen. John tilts his head fractionally to the side to listen, and yep- that’s a quick heartbeat. He can feel his hands curl into fists. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock- is that Irish? Never heard it before.” Jesus Christ . John resists the urge to roll his eyes and scoff. Honestly, he’d be jealous if this bloke wasn’t an idiot. Cute dog, but that’s where the redeemable qualities end. 

“Couldn’t tell you. Anyway-”

“Um, are you- are you from the village? Haven’t seen you- or you,” he adds, nodding at John like an afterthought. “Around here.”

“We’re both students. At the school,” Sherlock informs him blandly. Right, that’s really the extent of transparent chatting-up that John can take. He doesn’t like the way Matthew keeps staring at Sherlock’s mouth, and even though there’s no reason for him to be jealous, he’s already started digging indents into his palms. Not to mention the sudden urge to stand in front of Sherlock and bare his teeth at the bloke. That would probably not go down too well. 

He recognises the instinct for what it is, and it isn’t fair of him to be territorial about Sherlock. But friends are territorial about each other, aren’t they? Besides, the bloke is an idiot. Sherlock wouldn’t be interested anyway. Sherlock isn’t interested in anyone, John would have noticed if he was. Not that it’s any of John’s business, though, because Sherlock can do whatever he likes. Whomever he likes. And that’s- hmm- not a thought John should be having, not an image he needs in his mind right now, Sherlock. Doing someone. He’s not. He shouldn’t. He - fuck . 

“We should go,” John says loudly, and he’s not sure if he interrupted any conversation, but he doesn’t particularly care. “See you. And Daisy. Bye, Daisy.” Fingers curl around Sherlock’s wrist, and Sherlock looks down at him with faint alarm. 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, sorry if I kept you,” Matthew’s cheeks grow a little ruddy and John feels a little sorry for him. Not much, though. Not enough to let him chat Sherlock up while he’s standing right there. “Um, maybe I’ll see you- both of you-um, around?”

John has already pulled Sherlock back and is busy picking up his bike. He can feel Sherlock looking at him, and when he looks up, his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. Sherlock casually ignores the bloke’s question, instead throwing a leg over the seat of his bike. Daisy rushes over to him for a last cuddle and he obliges her. Matthew is watching the two of them, with what John thinks is a very wistful look in his eye. Honestly, though, he’s too old for Sherlock, so isn’t that kind of creepy anyway?

“Sure,” John answers for him. “See you, mate.” 

“See you,” he answers back faintly, but John is already riding away. A few seconds later Sherlock catches up with him. 

“And what was all that about?” 

“What was what about,” John replies, deciding to play dumb. He should be a little mortified, Sherlock is too fucking smart not to have seen through all of that immediately, but he’s too smug and calm to feel motified. Maybe once the feeling fades, yes, probably that is when John will start feeling terribly embarrassed by his behaviour. 

“You practically dragging me away from Daisy’s owner,” Sherlock reminds him unnecessarily.

“He was chatting you up, it was annoying,” John exhales through his nose, trying to make it sound casual, and not like it tied his stomach into knots. 

“ What ? Don’t be ridiculous.” John twists his head and Sherlock has his eyes trained with a great deal of concentration on the road ahead, the only thing betraying him are his bright pink cheeks. John can’t help the smirk that spreads across his mouth. 

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “You’re serious, how did you not notice, you! He was clearly-”

Sherlock scoffs, shaking his head, only glances at him once to glare at him. Some of his curls have been teased free from under his cap by the wind, bouncing over his forehead. “He was making small talk. While tedious, it’s hardly an indication of romantic interest.”

Fuck, he really doesn’t know. And John is so rarely the one with an upper hand in conversations like this, Sherlock is the smarter one almost 99% of the time. And he doesn’t mind that, ever, kind of gets off on it actually, which is something that has taken a while to admit to himself. But human interaction, well, he’s not an expert in it either but he can obviously tell when a bloke wants to have a go at someone. 

“ Romantic ? Definitely, given enough time, I suppose. I meant he wanted to shag you, though.”

Sherlock’s knuckles tighten over the bike handles. They’re white, and John can feel his pulse, quick and unsteady. His skin must be a little flushed, John would love to brush his fingers over his cheek, his neck, make sure. He worries at his bottom lip and John tries not to look at that, tries not to feel a tiny bit satisfied at the way Sherlock is practically squirming. 

Sherlock evidently doesn’t know that he’s strikingly attractive, and maybe that is for the good, because he is terribly good at manipulating people. 

“I see you’ve chosen to be even more obtuse than usual today,” he finally mutters, after a few seconds. He resolutely does not look at John. 

John snickers, because he’s a bit of an arsehole, but Sherlock looks adorable when he blushes. “ Sherlock, blimey, is that Irish? God, what a lovely name, where on earth did you get it from? Are you foreign ?” He cycles closer to Sherlock, tipping his head and fluttering his eyelashes. Sherlock glances at him and rolls his eyes, shaking his head, trying to cycle away further. 

“I will knock you off your bike, John,” he threatens. 

John smirks, tries to catch up. “Alright, alright, I’m done.”

“Got that out of your system?” he raises one dark eyebrow, his voice practically dripping with disdain. 

“For now, but are you sure you want me to come with you next time? I mean, do you want some alone time with Matthew, or-”

“Oh my god.”

***

Sherlock insists that John buys new socks, but John has a suspicion that it’s only so he can slip into the chemists’ across the street to buy litmus paper or formaldehyde or whatever it is that is longer available at the Chemistry lab at school because Sherlock has depleted their supplies. John spends ages aimlessly walking around the shop until he decides to drag Sherlock out of the chemists’ by the collar. Leave him there too long and he’ll end up buying something corrosive, and John is sick of having to ask Sherlock specifically not to burn holes inside his shoes.

He’s starving, the toast and marmalade he had for breakfast (and practically force fed to Sherlock) barely enough to tide him over for an hour. 

“Let’s eat something, my treat,” John offers. “Where do we go?”

Some cafe just on the other end of the bend, with greasy table tops and posters advertising their food items that are definitely not from the last decade. Sherlock makes them sit next to the window and he points at the people walking past, makes deductions about them. He seems almost disappointed when it’s all mundane, dull things. Cheating spouses and the like. Wrinkles his nose in disgust like they’ve personally wronged him by not plotting some sort of elaborate murder. 

John listens, hands cupping the sides of his coffee cup because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. He’d like to touch, curl his finger around the little curl that has sprung free from his cap, tug and watch it bounce back into position. He doesn’t, though, he listens to Sherlock’s stream of deductions, interrupted only by a scoff or a roll of his eyes. Barely catches all of the words but he doesn’t mind, he’s content to just watch. The elegant movement of his fingers, the graceful tilt of his head. John stares and he can’t look away, never can when it comes to Sherlock. John finds his gaze drawn to him all the time, magnet-like and inevitable. 

“There’s a reason why they don’t keep us together. Not for too long.”
John turns to her. Alice has slowed down the treadmill to a brisk walk. He looks around and no one has noticed yet, White Coat 002 is more concerned with checking 1490’s heart rate. They weren’t supposed to know each other’s names. They told each other anyway. 1490, though, hadn’t. Not yet. He’d just been brought in two days ago, hollow eyed and silent.  Maybe John will try talking to him. 

“What are you talking about,” John asks her. He turns down the speed too. 

“We Bond. Pair Bond. It happened to Riley and Khadija, and I think that’s why-”

“They said they moved them because Riley was sick.”

Alice makes a face, shakes her head. It makes her short, spiky dark hair swish around her face. “No. Remember when they tried to take Khadija, and she just- let out that- growl, I’ve never heard it when you’re not in Form. I think they don’t like it. Because then we’d love each other more than we’re afraid of them, and I-”

She sighs, and doesn’t say anything else. Brows furrowed and lips pursed like she can’t get anything else out. John looks ahead at the spotless tiled walls, and he decides to talk to her later, maybe when they’re on the grounds. He thinks she’s right, but not in the way she means. He spoke to Lestrade about it once, Pair Bonding had seemed like a stupid myth. 

“Of course it's true. Animals do it all the time. And that’s fine. For them. For you guys, though,” he’d shaken his head. “It makes you unbalanced. Violent. Protective. It’s not right, you’re dangerous enough.”

“John?”

John blinks. Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed and one hand is halfway across the table like he was about to shake him. “Alright?”

“I-uh,” John blinks again, shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, I was just…” he sighs, and pats Sherlock’s hand tentatively. “Just thinking of something.”

Sherlock still looks at him oddly, clearly not believing him. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Because I was just telling you something extremely interesting about the couple that  just came in, and you missed it.”

“Well tell me again,” John leans back against the seat and waves his hand around. Get on, then.

John pays the cashier at the til, but when he turns around Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Typical. He sighs. 

“He, um, left while you were paying,” the cashier says. She smiles apologetically at him. “My boyfriend’s the same, you know, never in one place!”

John twists around so quickly he almost gives himself a crick in his neck. “Oh, no, we’re not. He’s not. I’ve never. We’re just-” what is he even saying? Not even complete sentences, christ, pull yourself together Watson. His cheeks are burning and he feels very warm and why would she say that. 

“Sorry!” the cashier flushes just as pink. “Sorry, I just assumed- sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” John tries to smile at her but it feels weird. “Keep the change. Bye,” and he practically flees the cafe. 

Do people make that assumption about them often? Probably. John isn’t sure what to think about that. Ideally  nothing, since he and Sherlock are just friends and going down that train of thought is definitely not good for his mental stability. Self control is scarce as it is nowadays. 

Anyway, where is Sherlock? Hopefully not trying to look for more murder hotspots. John looks around, down the nearly empty street, and tries not to be worried. Sherlock is sober, and he knows this village even better than John does. There’s honestly no cause for him to panic, not in broad daylight, the Halloween party was a one off affair and John was perfectly capable of protecting him, and he was definitely not allowing anything like that to ever happen again. 

He follows the scent, tries to keep calm even though nervousness skitters down his spine. Something isn’t right, and that’s not just his panic speaking. This is a dead end, there’s a low stone wall that separates this village from the next, and there’s nothing here except for a boarded up pub and a dingy hardware store.  Here, he should be here somewhere, the scent is strongest, so where-?

“Beautiful, beautiful, you’d never know, but for the teeth. Allow me-”

John’s head whips to the side and he sees them; Sherlock up against a dumper, shock still, a short, stocky bloke in an overcoat in front of him, hand on his chin. What the actuall fuck? For a moment John doesn’t move because he’s heard that voice somewhere, it feels like, but the next moment he watches as he actually puts a finger inside his mouth, and then he’s running for it, hooking an arm around his throat and wrenching him back. Shoves him against the opposite building. 

“That’s enough of that,” he growls, pressing his forearm into his throat. The man is an inch or so taller than him, pale, dark glasses, he’s dressed in a shabby overcoat and smells strongly of cheap aftershave. John’s grip falters for a moment because he knows him, doesn’t he? That cut over his cheek. A vague memory tries to resurface in his head, a rough hand over his flank. It grows back if you cut it off? 

“Two of you,” the man wheezes, even as John can feel a growl building up in his throat. Besides the obvious assault five seconds ago, John knows this man is no good. Evil. He doesn’t know why, he just does. “They told me there was just one,” he continues. “Are you a pair? The sheer implications of a pair bond-”

John panics, what the fuck is he even talking about? He can feel Sherlock behind him, breathing heavy and shock still. Without thinking John lifts his arm away only to wrap his hand around the man’s throat, and then rams his forehead against his. A practised move, he’d learnt it years back. He predictably loses consciousness, and John lets go of him and allows him to collapse to the ground with a pathetic thud. 

He stares at him for a few seconds, heart hammering under his ribs, his vision a little dark at the edges. He knew. He knew what he was, and how the fuck would he? Who was he? And where did he come from? John’s fingers start to shake. 

“John? Are you-”

Oh, fuck. Sherlock. Sherlock is still here. Of course. He’s a bloody idiot. John turns around, and immediately reaches for Sherlock. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, are you okay? Here, let me,” he looks down at him, pats down his front, takes hold of his hands. If he wasn’t here, if he wasn’t here on time- John shudders. He doesn’t want to think about that. “Are you alright?” He looks fine, no visible injuries. He must be terrified, though. 

“John, stop. Stop, I’m fine, who was he? Do you know him?” John pauses, his hands at Sherlock’s hips. His head is ducked, and he exhales shakily. 

“I don’t know. Wait,” he lets go of Sherlock, turns around and drops down to his knees against the crumpled pass that is the unidentifiable man, and turns him over on his back. Sherlock hunkers down next to him, doesn’t touch, not yet. John glances at him, sees his eyes tracking over his body, pausing at certain points but John obviously doesn’t follow his train of thought. He stays quiet. 

He shoves his fingers under his coat, pats at his pockets until he finds a wallet. The ID card he extracts says nothing, just a name. Alexander Petrov. Does it sound familiar? John squints. No. He lives in London, apparently. What was he doing here? Nothing to do with the Baskerville Research Centre a train station away, John assumes. And grimaces. He puts the card back and shoves it into his pocket.

“Well?” Sherlock asks, impatiently. “Do you know him?”

John shakes his head. “No, I just thought…”

“His coat is expensive, but it’s old, he’s had this bit at the collar restitched,” Sherlock’s elegant fingers tap the corner of the wool collar, black thread on black. “Notice how he has several cuts along his jaw? Presumably that is from this morning, could be because of a cheap razor but going from the frankly unhealthy pallor of his skin I’d say it’s the result of a hangover. Recently unemployed. Academic, from the watch. Hmm.”

John is impressed, as usual, but doesn’t find that the information is useful to him. He pats along the man’s body just in case, maybe he’ll find something else, maybe- oh. Oh, shit. He freezes. Sherlock shifts next to him. “What? What is it?”

John wordlessly pulls the overcoat aside so that Sherlock can see the pocket inside of it, and the gun peeking out over the top. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, unperturbed. “I’d assumed as much. Don’t touch it. Come on. Get up.” He stands, makes a hurry up gesture with his hand. 

John shakes his head, mystified. “I don’t understand, how did he-?” he stares at the bloke’s face, too afraid to take off the glasses because what if he remembers, and what if he isn’t supposed to? What if John forgot for a reason? He had a fucking gun. He could have used it. He could have used it on Sherlock. John feels sick, bile building up in his throat. 

“John, this is not the time for you to have a moral crisis,” Sherlock says urgently, and John feels him come over and tap his shoulders. “We have to get out of here, he’s going to wake up or someone will see us. Come on.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“ Oh for God’s sake , look, I’m bleeding. I need a doctor.”

“What?” John shoots up, so quick it almost makes his head spin. Sherlock even backs away a little in surprise. “Where? Did he hurt you?” John wildly looks him over, hands hovering uselessly in front of him, ready to hold, or catch, or-

“I’m fine, I just needed you off the ground, let’s go,” Sherlock quips, and catches him around the forearm, spinning him around and dragging them both out of the alleyway. 

“Oh you f-”

“I’ve had worse. Walk faster. No, not that fast, don’t look suspicious. ”

“Oh I’m sorry we’re not all masters of stealth like- sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. This is my fault,” John runs both his hands into his hair, lets out a deep breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s nobody’s fault,” Sherlock waves him off. They’re both finally in front of the cafe where they left their bikes. The whole place looks weird now, surreal and strange. John just stands there while Sherlock unlocks them both from the bike stand, and why is he being so useless right now? Sherlock’s the one who got violated in an empty alleyway, and he has a frankly suspicious sense of calm.

“John. John, ” Sherlock snaps his fingers in front of his face and John blinks. 

“What? Yes. Yes.” He nods, swinging his leg over. “Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” 

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock turns to him, gaze unreadable. His hair is dishevelled, and his collar is crooked. There’s a bit of grime on the corner of it, from being pushed against a filthy dumpster.  His knuckles are white where he has them wrapped around the handle of his bike. John wants to put his hand over his. Wants to pick up that gun and shoot that man between the eyes for touching Sherlock. Too late now, unfortunately. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, after a beat. “Are you?” He raises an eyebrow. 

That startles a laugh out of John. A short, slightly sarcastic one, though. “Oh yeah, splendid.”

Sherlock nods, mouth twitching a little in amusement. “Let’s get out of here.”

They’re silent on the journey back, matching speeds, for once. Or maybe John is just keeping up. He’d rather not let Sherlock out of his sight. They don’t say anything until the brown-red outline of the school is visible near the horizon, but Sherlock doesn’t drive straight ahead. He takes a left, towards the woods. John doesn’t care. He’s just glad they’re not in the village anymore. 

“So,” Sherlock says, finally breaking the silence. He slows down. “Are you going to tell me what that was?”

John looks at him, and Sherlock’s eyes are fixed straight ahead. The rigidity gives it away though, Sherlock has never been very good at hiding how desperately he wants answers. 

“Why do you think I know?”

“John,” he says, in a vaguely admonishing tone of voice. 

He hadn’t realised they’d ridden towards the boathouse. There’s no pathway here, so their bikes had slowed down on the grass in any case. The water is calm today, steel grey and silent. Sherlock dismounts, lets his bike fall to the ground with a dull clang. John follows suit, but he’s too exhausted to stand, suddenly. He lets his knees give out with a relieved sigh, lets his bottom hit the slightly damp grass. 

“He was obviously looking for you,” Sherlock reminds him, looking down at him with his arms crossed over his chest. 

John glances up at him and then away. Great. How does he talk his way out of this one? “No, he wasn’t. He looked familiar, but I don’t know him, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know me. I told you.”

“You’re hiding something,” Sherlock bites out, sounding exasperated, and it makes John turn towards him in surprise. “What is it? What are hiding? And why ? Why from me?” 

John scoffs, shaking his head. “God, you think I could hide anything from you? It’s impossible to keep secrets from you, you prick! You know everything!” John stands up, suddenly angry, and he doesn’t know why he’s angry. Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth hangs a little open. 

He’s not angry at Sherlock, at least he doesn’t think he is, but wouldn’t it be bloody fantastic if Sherlock tried to make this simple? If he didn’t have that ridiculous razor sharp intellect, those fucking gorgeous eyes that you could barely get anything past. Wouldn’t it have been so much easier? Why’d John have to go and fall for someone who was so bloody clever? Of all the people he could have fancied, it had to be Sherlock. 

(Wouldn’t it be easier if John didn’t fancy him at all, though? Then Sherlock would be safe. Away from him, and his stupid, ill advised, dangerous infactuation.)  

John wants to tell him. It sits on his tongue, tempting him. The truth will set you free, right? The truth will also make Sherlock think he’s a nutter.  

“Well I’m sorry I can’t turn it off, John, I’m sure it would be terribly convenient for you to not have to lie to me all the time,” Sherlock snaps, but it’s not as harsh as he meant it to be, because John can see the hurt flicker across his face, and guilt drops into his gut like a leaden weight. 

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sherlock’s gaze softens, just a little, shoulders slump. He runs a hand through his permanently messy hair, worrying at his bottom lip. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I should have been there,” John grits out, his own frustration bleeding into his words. His fault. Always his fault. 

Sherlock gives a short, dry laugh.  “Don’t be ridiculous, you think I couldn’t have gotten rid of him if I wanted to? He was an idiot, a simple knee strike to the solar plexus would have done the trick.”

John stares at him when he realises what Sherlock means. “You can’t be serious.”

“What? I wanted to know what he was going to say,” Sherlock looks at John like one would an overbearing parent. 

“You nutter!” John shouts, closing the distance between the two of them. Sherlock’s cheeks flush pink at the proximity, any other moment and John would have liked to enjoy that. “He had a gun, or did you not notice that? Maybe I should have taken it out, waved it around a bit!” 

Sherlock’s lips part, and John can hear the soft exhale escaping his mouth. Close enough to touch, he could twist his fingers into the front of his jumper, shake him a little. He wants to. His fingers prickle with the effort of not grabbing him, cupping his hand against the back of his head. You promised you would be careful, he wants to say. Sherlock’s multicoloured eyes are fixed on his, and John raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t,” he mutters, looking away, scowling.  “If someone saw us, that bit would have been difficult to explain,” he rolls his eyes, sinks down into the grass, sitting cross legged, pale fingers stretched out on the grass. 

John shakes his head, briefly wonders how he’s going to keep Sherlock alive till the end of this term. He sits down next to him, and the two of them are silent for a few moments. He watches the sun creep lower over the edge of the water, glances at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Sherlock’s hair always turns auburn in the sunlight. 

“Is he going to come after you again, you think?” 

John takes a deep, long suffering breath. “He wasn’t after me. He was, I don’t know, some kind of pervert, probably. Now that I think about it, we should have reported him.” It sounds ridiculously transparent, even to him, and he wishes he was more like Sherlock, able to come up with plausible lies on the spot. 

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. “You know I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is you think you need to lie to me about.” They look at each other, blue against grey, and Sherlock’s mouth is set in a determined line. 

“What if the source of the lie is traumatic?” John raises an eyebrow, challenging. 

Sherlock’s lip twitches. “It is traumatic. But not in the way you want me to think. You’re lying for some other reason. Nice try, though, appealing to sentiment,” Sherlock nods his head, impressed. “But you know me better than that, John,” he turns away from him, his eyes straying to the water. John swallows, lets his gaze run over the vulnerable line of his nape, the way his hair hangs in loose curls against the skin, brushing the edge of his collar. 

***

That night John dreams about Harry. 

He remembers this. How old is he? Ten? Eleven? He’s standing on the pavement, and it’s raining. There’s a suited man behind them, holding an umbrella. There was another suited man standing at the curb, next to a sleek black car. 

 Somebody had put Harry in a raincoat, it was bright pink and expensive, and she had boots too. John was glad, at least she wouldn’t get cold and sick. Harry was crying, though, her eyes red and her nose drippy. Her small, cold hands were clasped in John’s. 

“When will I see you again?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” John says. He does know, though. The answer was never, Greg had told him so. Greg was nicer than the other people at the center. He was the one who’d explained to him what he was, after they’d brought him in, shaking and bleeding, he’d almost torn himself to shreds with panic. “Soon, I think.”

“Okay. I’ll write you letters,” Harry says, and she hugs him. It’s a tight, warm hug. Harry is smaller than he is, so her head just about fits under his chin. 

When she pulls back, it’s Sherlock. Dark haired and silver eyed, and he doesn’t say anything. Just cocks his head and looks at him. 

“Sherlock? What are you-”

“Look up, John,” he says, and points to the sky. John obeys, and there is the moon, huge and threatening and pale. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, but it doesn’t come out as a word, a growl, more like, and before he knows it, Sherlock is letting go of him in panic, because where his hands should be there are paws. 

“What the fuck,” Sherlock is hissing, trying to get away from him. “What the fuck are you?”

John wants to say something, calm him down, tell him that he would never hurt him, but wolves can’t speak. All he does is bark, and Sherlock just looks terrified. 

I’m sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m-

He gasps awake, blinking in the darkness of the room. He sits up, grasps at the wall because he feels lightheaded and dizzy. Like he’s about to vomit. He’s drenched in sweat, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it through his whole body. 

Outside, the moon is just a sliver. 

Next to him, Sherlock sleeps peacefully on, his arm hanging over the edge of the bed. 

John leans against the wall and lies awake for hours.

Chapter Text

Distant, slightly unhinged relative asking for money?

Could be a repeat occurrence, maybe that’s what had kept John away the last time, the reason behind his mysterious exhaustion. 

The explanation Sherlock comes up with at first is almost comical. Not just because John is just shy of eighteen and not sitting on a secret fortune that Sherlock would have deduced by now, but also because he thinks such unhinged relatives would, at the very least,  know what John looked like. Some idea of basic colouring at least; Sherlock is tall and pale and looks like an upside down mop at his best, John is golden haired and broad shouldered, and really, it would be impossible to confuse the two of them. 

The bit about the teeth is what confuses him the most, though. Sherlock is aware that the spectrum of sexual proclivities is wide and deep, and especially, considering, if someone should be interested in an underage teenager such as himself, deviancy would make a brief appearance, and, maybe, it wouldn’t be terribly far fetched to imagine that it was Sherlock’s teeth that made the man take notice in the first place. 

But it doesn’t fit, because the man did not look like a sexual predator, Sherlock would have known if he had, and he remembers the way he was being looked at when the man had him pinned against the dumpster. 

He didn’t look like he wanted to do anything remotely sexual. He looked fascinated, the gleam in his eyes borderline fanatical but not because he wanted to bundle Sherlock away in a car with tinted windows and have his way with him. 

Until he’d shoved a finger inside his mouth and looked disappointed, like he’d expected something else. Better teeth?

And what’s more, he’d looked at John the same way. Brief confusion; he hadn’t expected to be interrupted. But the moment John intercepted and immobilised him, he’d looked just as interested. Pleased, even. 

Two of you? 

Two of you…two of what? Did he think he and John were related? He hadn’t caught the whole thing, the man’s voice was pitched too low, too feverish and excited for Sherlock to catch all of it. 

Two of you…the implications…pair bond…

The words made next to no sense. Either Sherlock is missing something enormous, or he really was just a nutter and they would have done everyone a favour by going to the police. Sherlock had considered it, but in his experience the police was incompetent more often than not and he didn’t want John too close to anybody with a gun. Not because the man might have used it on the two of them, but because John would have disarmed him and used it instead. Could have led to a messy situation. Could have led to the appearance of Mycroft, which Sherlock preferred to avoid. 

“Have you been cheering me on then?”

Sherlock swiftly turns around to see John, leaning against a tree, smug smile in place, which momentarily derials his train of thought. He ignores the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks, and tries even more valiantly to ignore the way John’s football jersey is rumped and covered with dirt and grass. He reeks, of course. Sweat and dirty rainwater and mud. Sherlock doesn’t find it pleasant at all. 

“Didn’t seem like you needed anymore cheering,” Sherlock replies dryly, casting a glance to the small group of girls gathered on the other side of the football field. John lifts his head to spare them a brief look, grimaces, and then seats himself next to Sherlock on the grass. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I think it would have really boosted my morale to see you holding up a sign with I Heart John Watson written on it.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Desmond has been favouring his right ankle, did you notice? You should tell him to take a week off or he’s going to fracture it, and you’re going to be out one player before your big game.”

“Or you could do that,” John concedes. 

“Anyone can make a glittery sign,” Sherlock mutters darkly. One of the girls is trying to catch John’s attention. She keeps craning her neck to look at him, lifts her hand half heartedly to wave until she realises that John isn’t paying her any. It shouldn’t please him as much as it does.

This isn’t the first time Sherlock has watched John play, of course, but usually he watches for a few minutes before he inevitably gets bored and tries to find something else to occupy his time with until John comes back. He hasn’t the faintest idea why he stayed here and watched the whole thing this time. He’d brought  a book with himself, but he’d quickly abandoned it in favour of trying to figure out The Mysterious Case of the Pervert/Deranged Relative/Someone John Knew From Juvie and Is Now Looking For Revenge of Some Sort.

He spends most of his time these days trying to figure John out, he thinks, the thought sudden and bitter in his head. He pushes it away immediately. 

John has the book in his hand, mouths the title before he grins, and puts it back down on the grass. “You shouldn’t read this before bed, it’ll give you nightmares,” he advises. 

“Your snoring gives me nightmares.” Bald lie, obviously. John doesn’t snore. John is a terribly quiet sleeper, save for the few times Sherlock has caught him muttering. 

“Says the man who keeps me up until 3 am because the middle of the night is a perfect time for an impromptu violin concerto.”

Sherlock smirks and tries not to feel too bad about that. Besides, the violin-playing helped John sleep.

The rest of John’s team has decided to take off their shirts, and are now taking turns soaking each other with a garden hose. The groundskeeper looks on stonily, presumably fantasizing about wrapping it around their throats. 

John’s jersey is still on, though. He wonders if John is feeling hot enough to take it off. Probably, since John feels hot all the time, but his clothes remain on. Which is probably for the best. There’s a smidge of dirt on his neck, Sherlock’s fingers twitch with the need to rub it away but his hands remain stubbornly at his side. 

“Well did you at least bring me something to eat, or were you just here to take advantage of the lovely view?” John asks, gesturing vaguely at the field full of sweaty seventeen-year-olds.  

“You should ask Alicia Turner,” Sherlock tilts his chin towards the hopeful group of girls. “I’m sure she’ll bequeath you her lunch if you ask her nicely enough.”

John looks at them, frowning, and the girl nearly falls out of her seat in excitement. She smiles brightly, waves. John waves back awkwardly, before turning back to him. 

“I’m not stealing anyone’s lunch,” he defends. 

Sherlock shakes his head, heaves a long suffering sigh, and digs an orange out of his bag. He’d nicked it from the cafeteria on the way here, knew John would be hungry as he always is. John makes a pleased noise, something between a hum and a groan. Sherlock starts to peel it. Honestly, it’s just an orange. 

“I’m taking short leave this weekend,” he says, separating the orange into two halves and handing John one, the same time John says, “I need you to tutor me for midterms.”

They pause, look at each other. John’s mouth slightly parted, sandy eyebrows raised. “You first,” he says quickly. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Sherlock answers, peeling an orange segment, looking down at his lap instead of John. “My father is home, which he usually isn’t, and I suppose I won’t see him for another year if I don’t go this time.” It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d argued, Mycroft had insisted. 

“This is ridiculous, he dumps me in boarding school so he can fly around the whole world, and I’m supposed to be at his beck and call?”

“How lovely the world would be if we were all masters of our own fates, and did not have to occasionally bend to the will of others,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “He’s our father. You don’t have to like it, but you still have to come.”

Sherlock had wanted to bash the receiver against the wall. “Why? It’s not like you take him out to tea every weekend he’s  in London.”

“Father and I are very rarely in the same city at the same time,” Mycroft says tightly, and for once, Sherlock would have liked it if he'd just let the propriety slip and say what he was really thinking. Unfortunately neither of them have been like that. He sighs, sounding weary even through the phone. “Sherlock, it’s a matter of two days. Surely you can put your adolescent angst aside for two days and come home.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock had said, and hung up, knowing full well that he’d be going anyway. 

“I’ll tutor you when I come back on Monday,” he adds, biting into a bit of orange. It’s too tart for his taste.

“You’ve never spoken about your father,” John says lightly, carefully, unwilling to cross boundaries, if any. 

“Nothing to say,” Sherlock looks up, eyebrow raised, hoping John drops it. He does. Looks at him intensely for a second, the blue of his eyes the same colour of the sky. Sometimes the angle of sunlight makes his scar look grey and ashen.

“So just the weekend then,” he says, clearing his throat and looking away, still sounding overly casual. He’s frowning, lips a hard line like he’s concentrating on something. 

Sherlock nods. “Just the weekend. It’ll be dull. Father will insist on asking me about school, how I’ve been getting on, ” he makes quotation marks in the air. “The housekeeper will make roast beef, because it’s his favourite. I’m planning to break into his liquor cabinet and come to dinner roaringly drunk, maybe then he’ll stop trying. Mycroft will be furious. ”

John laughs, a bright, surprising thing. It smoothens out the tenseness of his shoulders a bit. “Ask your housekeeper to record that, I’d like to see it.”

“Absolutely not. You can get me drunk when I’m back,” he offers, only half hopefully. Considering that the last time Sherlock consumed alcohol was such a scintillating success. John probably thinks the same thing, because he raises a sardonic eyebrow at him. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says mildly. 

Sherlock watches the frown creep back into his face, and wishes he could put his fingers there and smooth it out. It’s just a weekend. It’s not like he wants to leave either. Earlier he didn’t hate it so much, he’d have borne the dinner and the banal conversation and spent the rest of his time outside his home, smoking with the university students in the next town over or making things explode in the garden shed. 

He has a sneaking suspicion he’ll be thinking about John the entire time. Worrying. Fretting. He wants to tell John not to go to the village while he’s gone, but that would be unfair because John hates being confined on the best of days and being alone will probably make it worse. 

Not that he would be alone, if he didn’t want to be. Sherlock looks at the girls, their long legs and short skirts and braids and thinks of the scent of cherry flavoured chapstick on John’s skin, and feels sick. 

He’s sure John will find something worthwhile to do with his time. It’s not like Sherlock is the only thing in his life. 

***

The large C stares back at him from his answer sheet, almost mockingly. Sherlock scowls down at it, knowing full well that making faces at his test scores won’t magically change it, but trying anyway. He hadn’t even glanced at it when Lestrade was handing them out, just stuffed it in his bag while he’d tried to ignore Maxime’s attempts to pass John notes during class. 

He doesn’t even like English lit, but at this point he thinks Lestrade is just doing this for petty revenge. Of course it’s unethical and Lestrade doesn’t seem like the sort to torment a student, but Sherlock has been remarkably snappish to him lately, and he’ll admit it wasn’t nice of him to tell him that the state of the tie he’d donned that morning bore all the marks of a night of passion gone terribly wrong. Lestrade hadn’t asked him to stay back after class, or threatened to call his parents, but it seemed he’d just gone the easier route and given Sherlock a near fail. 

He’s terrible at English lit, though. A B would have been respectable, a correct representation of his ability. 

He takes the paper and walks out of his room, maybe he can threaten Lestrade in some way. A C is going to bring down his overall average, for God’s sake, and he’s even been attending all his classes. 

It’s Wednesday evening, which means John is at practice in the field, and the school corridors are nearly deserted. Lestrade usually goes to the pub where he attempts to get a leg over a willing female; Sherlock had witnessed this last year when he’d snuck out of his room. 

He knocks on his office door, but there’s no response, even after two whole minutes. He knocks again. “For God’s sake…” he twists the knob, and miraculously, it opens. There’s no one in the office; but there are papers strewn around on the desk and Lestrade’s jumper is hanging precariously over the edge of his chair. The window is cracked open. Roxie is stretched out on the cracked leather sofa, she raises her head to regard him sleepily. Not wanting to excite her he closes the door shut. Clearly he’s still somewhere in the building. Sherlock will find him. He doesn’t have Watson level senses, but he’ll find him. 

He takes a left, he might be in the English classroom. He isn’t. But he can hear the low thrum of voices from here, a few hissed words thrown in, like two people are having an argument. Where-? He turns back,  keeps walking towards the source of the sound. Stops in front of one of the empty classrooms; the door isn’t quite locked, and he can hear more or less clearly. 

“-broke his nose, bruised his ribs, and a nasty black eye. You’re lucky he lied and said he fell.” Ah, Lestrade then. He kneels against the wall, cocking his head to listen closer. 

“He drugged him. You’re seriously not going to do anything about it?” Sherlock freezes, his heart starts to thrum rapidly under his chest. What is John doing here? And why are they- they’re talking about him. Definitely talking about him. It occurs to him that he should be angry, Sherlock had told John that he didn’t want to tell anyone about the fucking Finnegan incident, but here was, spilling it to Lestrade, of all people. 

Lestrade’s voice is low and furious when he replies. “I could have, if you hadn’t interfered. You could have called me. You could have told the matron. Anything except compromising yourself like that.”

John laughs, bitter and sarcastic. “And Finnegan would, what, wait ? Wait for me to call you? You should have fucking expelled him when you had the chance. He’s going to end up in a hospital at this rate.”

“If I expel him, he will tell me what you did, and I will have to expel you too, John, do you realise that? You attacked another student, viciously I might add! Do you want to leave? You’re never going to see him again that way. You know what would happen if I have to remove you from here.”

“Use Suggestion like you did last time.”

“Any more of that and he’s going to get brain damage. Be logical.”

There’s a beat of silence. Sherlock realises he hasn’t been breathing for the past few minutes, and that he’s freezing. 

“You know what,” John finally says. “This is your fault. I told you I wasn’t ready-”

“ You are not supposed to get attached, ” he hissed at John, the sound of a dull thud like Lestrade had banged his fist against a desk. “This was a rule, and an important one at that! You know what happens when you pair bond! The one rule I expected you to follow and you fucked that up the moment you laid eyes on him.”

Pair bond. Like-? He must have misheard. He leans closer, hair’s breadth away from pitching forward and sprawling spectacularly into the classroom. 

John’s voice is low and dangerous when he responds. “You told me to make friends. All of you did.”

Silence, and then Lestrade, slow and laconic. “Your friend, is he?”

“Fuck you, Greg.”

He hears Lestrade take a heavy breath. “I have to call the Center about this. This is bad news.”

“Are they going to take me back?” He can hear the edges of panic in the sentence. Even Sherlock’s insides crawl up, take John back where? 

“You can’t leave the campus again. It’s obviously dangerous. Did the man say anything else?”

“No.” He can’t see John, but he can imagine the way he spits out the word, stubborn, angry, fists curled at his sides. 

“John. I understand your concern about him. He’s…he’s a good kid. It’s not that I don’t care. Or that I’m not fucking pissed off when someone hurts him. I’ll keep a better eye out from now on, yeah? But you know I’ve got a responsibility here. You. This entire thing is fragile, one wrong step and it could go crashing down and then you’re the one who gets hurt.” 

John is stubbornly silent.

“I should switch your rooms. I was wrong about this, this is obviously not-”

Sherlock almost barges in at that point, doesn’t care if they find out he’s been eavesdropping, but John beats him to it. “ No,” he almost shouts. “No, you can’t do that, are you mad? He has no one looking out for him.”

“Protecting him is not your responsibility.”

“No, it’s yours, and you’re doing an excellent job, aren’t you?”

“John-”

“You’re all the fucking same,” John spits, and then there are footsteps, coming closer. Sherlock panics and realises John is about to come out of there, and while he’s not exactly embarrassed, he thinks John might be. He rushes away from the door, sprints down the corridor and ducks into the closest room; the boys’washroom. Fantastic. He leans against the cold tile, breathing hard and more confused than he’s ever been in his life. Which isn’t saying much, because Sherlock is rarely confused.

He resists the temptation to slide to the floor, hands in his hair. He realises, with a surprising sense of objectivity, that he’s lost his answer sheet. Maybe John will find it. Maybe John will sniff him out and find him on the floor of the boys’ bathroom and ask him what he’s doing there. 

Sherlock has questions. Millions of them, buzzing around in his head like angry flies, bouncing off his skull. How the hell does John know Lestrade? What the fuck is the Centre? Who is they ? John was in juvenile (wasn’t he?) is there some sort of team of probation officers watching his every step? And what in the bloody hell is a fuckng pair bond? He feels ill, he hasn’t felt this way in a while, and he’s unsure exactly what he’s feeling. Confused? Yes. Bewildered? Yes. Hurt? Mildly, although he doesn’t want to admit that. John doesn’t, after all, owe him anything.

Who is John, really? Someone he shares a room with. They eat meals together, sit next to each other in class and have mildly interesting conversations together. Sometimes John carries Sherlock back to their room when Sherlock is too drunk and drugged to do it himself. Sometimes Sherlock thinks about what John’s hands would feel like on his bare skin, but that’s clearly his problem. But the point is maybe he doesn’t know John, after all, and maybe John doesn’t want him to know anything either. 

The thought shouldn’t affect him like it does. 

He tries not to think about he has no one looking out for him, and Lestrade warning John to not get attached. What does that even mean? John isn’t attached. From their heated conversation, it looks like John keeps him company because he pities him. That makes sense.

Suddenly the toilet flushes. There’s the sound of the cubicle being unlocked. Sherlock doesn’t care. Until there’s a loud bark of laughter, and he looks up to see Finnegan. Oh. Oh, fuck. Sherlock’s blood freezes and he decides he’ll introspect about the nature of his and John’s relationship later, he does not want to be in an empty washroom in a nearly empty building with Finnegan. As soon as he moves to his feet, however, Finngan makes an “ tsk, tsk” noise, and strides quickly towards him, until he’s blocking the exit. 

“Finnegan,” Sherlock says evenly, taking a step back. 

“ Finnegan, ” he mocks. Takes a threatening step towards him. Sherlock swallows, wonders if he could just rush past without being caught. Finnegan’s nostrils are red and he has a slightly manic look in his eyes which leads him to believe that he wasn’t exactly using the washroom for what it was intended for. He doesn’t even have anything on him, not even the answer sheet which he could have used to poke him in the eye, at least. His pyjamas don’t even have pockets. 

“I apologise for interrupting your evening routine,” he continues. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Finnegan laughs, cruel and short, and before Sherlock has a chance to defend himself, he has him pressed up against the sink with a hand at his throat. He immediately flails, scrabbles at Finnegan’s fingers. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Finnegan sober is volatile. Finegan in the throes of what is clearly a cocaine high is…worse. 

“Your boyfriend goes everywhere with you, I can barely get you alone,” he tells him, sounding genuinely put out. It’s the way he is currently squeezing Sherlock’s throat that lets him know how he really feels. “Sniffing around you all the time.”

He lets go, and Sherlock tries to take the momentary reprieve to run for it, but Finnegan succeeds in turning him around, one hand pinning his wrists against his back and the other twisting in his hair, shoving him up against cold, white tile. “Always fucking thretaning me.”

“Now what are you planning to do with me when we’re alone, Finnegan?” It would have been flirtatious, in any other context, but Sherlock’s aim is to piss him off enough to distract him, and this always seems to do the trick. It’s the only thing he can do, right now. 

Finnegan snarls, the hand in his hair tightens, making his eyes water. “Shut up, just shut the fuck up. I know you think nothing can touch you with your little pillow-biting watchdog around, but maybe he’s the one who should be careful, Holmes.”

“Get off of me,” Sherlock says, as mildly as he can. He’s suddenly scared, and not because Finnegan will do something to him.  “And don’t even think about-”

“There’s something fucking weird about him, and I’m going to get back at him for this, so you can try keeping an eye on your guard-”

“I said get off, ” Sherlock snarls, raising his leg and stomping as hard as he can on Finnegan’s foot. It catches him by surprise more than anything else, and his grip slackens and he falls back. Sherlock takes the opportunity to spin around and strike him across the jaw. Ow. Pain lances up his hand, right up to his shoulder. He imagines it’s going to bruise. Finnegan startles, hand moving to where Sherlock punched him. And Sherlock should run, only he’s slightly entranced by his own right hook. Lovely piece of work. 

“You fucking-” Finnegan growls, advancing towards him, but Sherlock hooks a leg around the back of his knee and pulls. It’s a smart move, just physics. Finnegan predictably goes sprawling on the floor, probably brushing his chin badly in the process.

This time he decides not to wait around, and runs out of the loo. Locks it from the outside for good measure. Surely Finnegan wouldn’t mind spending the night there. 

He’s not sure where he’s going when he starts walking, it’s easy enough to get lost in the building if you don’t have a definite direction in mind. All the walls of panelled oak look exactly the same, and the carpeting is thick and masks the sound of footsteps. It’s silent in the evening, deathly so. Sherlock can hear the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Adrenaline, probably. His mind is blissfully blank for a few minutes, probably because the pain in his hand is making it difficult to think. 

He walks, and doesn’t see where he’s going. Suddenly there is John in front of him, and he must have been about to barell his way right through him, because John’s hands are on his shoulders, stopping him. “Sherlock?” He’s still in his filthy football clothes, bag slung over his shoulder. Must have stormed off the field and straight into Lestrade’s office. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says lightly, their eyes meeting. “Hello.”

And all of a sudden he remembers that Finnegan had him up against the bathroom wall not five minutes ago, and his threat rings in his ear. Maybe he’s the one who should be careful. 

John frowns at him, his hands are still on his shoulders. Warm and lovely, does he know how that feels? “Hi,” he replies, carefully. “What are you- don’t you have orchestra practice?”

“Wasn’t in the mood.”

John is still frowning, and it’s unbearable, Sherlock wants to touch him, the need is sudden and viscous. Sherlock wants to put his fingers on the skin between his brows, and then he wants to tuck his face into John’s neck. He’s not sure what would follow, but, yes, he’d like to do that. Just to see. You’re still here. Not being taken away anywhere, not being threatened. Safe. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, what the hell happened? Are you alright?” John hands slip from his shoulders and run down his sides, and Sherlock shivers. “You’re shaking. Sherlock?”

Is he? He looks down, holds up his hands in front of him, and yes, his fingers are trembling. John curses softly and cups one hand in his palm, turns it over. His knuckles are already red and swollen. “What the hell,” a dangerous edge creeps into his voice. “Who did this?”

Sherlock releases a shaky breath. “You should see the other bloke.”

John looks at him like he disapproves of the levity. “Sherlock Holmes, have you been brawling?”

“No, I've been punching the walls for my own amusement. Of course I’ve been brawling. Although brawling is a little excessive, it was just a punch. Are we quite finished?” 

“Who the fuck- ” John starts, eyes turning dark and flinty. Sherlock has seen this happen enough times to know that he should put a stop to it immediately, or John will sniff Finnegan out and beat him to a pulp. Again. Broken nose, bruised ribs, black eye. Hearing the injuries spelled out so matter of factly makes them seem much worse than they are, even though Sherlock knows that Finnegan must have deserved it. 

He thinks of the village, and John snarling in the man’s face, elbow at his throat. He remembers being frightened, just a little. Not because he thought John would hurt him, that was impossible, but the violence in John’s hands, yes, that had worried him. 

“Stop that, stop it,” Sherlock says brusquely, and John’s eyes snap up to meet his, annoyed. “You don’t have to do that. I handled it, didn’t I?” he holds up his bruised hand, flexes the finger a little and winces at the pain. “I’m not completely hopeless.”

The anger in John’s gaze flickers and fades away, and his lips pull into a reluctant smile. Sherlock could be wrong but he looks a little proud. “Never said you were hopeless. But I’ll teach you how to throw a proper punch. Did you tuck your thumb in?” He raises his hand and traces a finger over Sherlock’s knuckles. “Next time, we can avoid this.”

Sherlock swallows. 

“Can you tell me who it was, though?” John drops his hand and raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

Sherlock clears his throat and starts to walk. Proximity to John always does funny things to his head, and  this evening was turning out to be far more taxing than he’s expected. “So you can go and threaten the perpetrator and get suspended for the effort?” he calls back. “I don’t think so.”

***

He’s going to go mad, he thinks. 

Sherlock’s general approach to unanswered questions is to observe and deduce, or extrapolate from a fixed point and come up with a working hypothesis.

Unfortunately, when it comes to John, there is little to nothing to deduce and no fixed points. John Watson eludes definition, and there isn’t enough data for him to come up with a hypothesis. He can’t ask, he’s tried that before and John is remarkably immune to Sherlock’s particular brand of information mining. John is indulgent, excessively so, but he rather thinks that if he cornered John in their room one day and asked, “I need to know what the hell you’re hiding from me, so that we can ensure you stay here where you belong,” John would not cooperate.

He places his violin carefully inside his case after the orchestra practice he’s attending after three weeks of absence, and wonders what it would be like to not have John waiting outside so that they can walk to the canteen together. 

***

“Got you something.”

Sherlock looks up from where he’s tuning his violin at his desk to see John entering their room and closing the door behind him. “Is it tea?” 

“No, it’s something better,” John says smugly, and walks up to his desk. He slaps a thin paperback on top, grinning. 

“What could possibly be better than tea?” Sherlock puts the violin down on his lap and picks up the paperback, scanning the title. “ Best Theme Songs of All Time, ” he muses, flipping through it. Ah. Violin music. He allows John a smile before reading through some of the titles. “Imperial March, that sounds promising. Ghostbusters, less so.” He looks up. John is toeing off his trainers and sinking down into his bed. “Am I to be given an explanation?”

“Maybe you could learn something contemporary. It could be a challenge for you, something to do over the weekend. You did say you’d get bored.”

Sherlock scoffs. “None of this is a challenge for me. A three year old could have learnt this. Paganini’s Caprices, now that’s challenging.” he sighs. “But alright. If it means that much to you, I’ll have a go at- Hedwig’s Theme, ” he wrinkles his nose at the title and puts the book down. 

John looks strangely pleased. “Hope you’re not taking Tim with you,” he says, eyeing their new, also slightly poisonous plant that rests on their window sill. Sherlock had been unbearably upset at the loss of the last one, which had predictably died a few days after he’d desecrated it in such a humiliating fashion. John had bribed one of the gardners for this one, which Sherlock had found even more flattering than the plant itself. 

“Why? Is he keeping you company while I’m gone?” Sherlock flips open the book at random, scanning the title. Bella’s Lullaby. Hmm. He gives an experimental swipe across the strings. 

“Yes,” John answers. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him.

“So I’m being replaced by a plant.”

“A flowering plant, you should be flattered.”

Sherlocks hums, non committal. “If you consume too many of those flowers, it would cause multiple organ failure and you would die,” he points out.

“Like I said, you should be flattered,” John reminds him dryly. “I’ll try not to eat Tim.”

Sherlock smiles, warmth flickering in his chest, but he tries not to concentrate too hard on it. Two days. He’ll be back here, soon. With John. The only reason he hadn’t threatened to run away if Mycroft forced him to come was that Finnegan was also on short leave. The most John would have to fear over the weekend was Catelyn inviting him to another ill advised party. 

***

“You’ll be fine, though?”

“Hm?” Sherlock can’t find his socks. The blue ones. He’s very fond of them. There! He grabs for it where it’s nestled next to John’s sweatshirt under the bed, and stuffs it into his bag. He stands up, looks at John where he’s leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “What do you mean?” 

John worries at his bottom lip.“Safe?”

Sherlock frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be safe?”

John fixes him with a look, and Sherlock thinks of men with dark glasses and fanatical eyes, Finnegan with knives hidden in his sleeve.  His hand still hurts, although the peeled skin is already starting to heal. He could ask the same thing to John, but it almost feels ridiculous. He doesn’t know how to explain that it doesn't feel quite right to him either, leaving.  It’s not like they’re joined at the hip. He fixes the strap of his bag where it’s started to slip. 

“I’ll try not to be  led astray by strange men in the middle of the night,” he answers sardonically, steps closer towards the door. Not that he can leave without John moving. 

John tilts his head up so that he can meet his gaze. Eyes fiercely blue and bright. “Don’t joke about that.”

Sherlock resists the temptation to straighten his collar. “I’ll be fine. Mycroft is…annoyingly protective. He’s got eyes on me all the time, you know. Cameras, minions.”

John’s mouth makes an aborted attempt at a smile, like he’s not sure if Sherlock is joking or not. How he wishes. “That’s…a little creepy?”

Sherlock stretches out an arm, lets his fingers brush over the cold metal of the door knob. His wrist brushes against John’s hip, and a step closer and he’d practically have John caged against the door. He swallows, not sure why the thought makes him feel very warm. “Obviously,” he says. “It’s never stopped him though. I’ll just-” he makes an awkward movement, but John takes the hint and slips out of his way. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, um. Bye.”

Sherlock opens the door. “Monday?” 

John smiles at him, and that’s lovely. He could stare at that for hours. “Monday,” John agrees, and Sherlock slips out before he does something stupid like tell John he’s going to miss him. He hears the door shut behind him and feels extremely sad for reasons he cannot fathom. He takes the staircase down to the office. 

He’s barely waiting in the corridor in front of Lestrade’s office for five minutes when the door is pushed open with near aggressive force, and Mycroft comes storming out of it. He hears Lestrade say something from inside, but he doesn’t catch it entirely. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, when he sees him. He quickly schools his expression into something polite and vaguely disinterested- the way he  usually looks. “You look well.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, he’s still panting a little heavily. Whether from exertion or anger, he can’t tell. 

“Have I caught you in a compromising pos-” he starts, but Mycroft just strides up to him, catching him around the shoulder and spinning him around, guiding him forward so that they’re both walking.

“I’m changing your rooms,” he announces shortly. “Your dean isn’t particularly inclined-”

Panic bursts in Sherlock’s chest, white-hot and sudden. “ What ?” he wrenches out of Mycroft’s grasp, turns around to glare at him. Must be something near-violent in his expression, hopes there is, because Mycroft looks surprised at the outburst. His hand is still in mid air from where he was clutching on to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Mycroft’s surprise vanishes just as quickly, and is replaced by something cold and unpleasant. “Your roommate-”

Sherlock bristles. “His name is John, and we’ve had this conversation already.”

“Yes we have, and now I’m finishing it. You are not to stay with him. It isn’t safe. I’m forbidding it.”

“ Forbidding it ?” Sherlock gapes at him, something very much like fury causing his fists to ball up. “Since when do you forbid anything?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow, and he breathes hard through his nose like it’s an effort to stay calm. Sherlock feels like sending his fist into his jaw. “You are my brother,” he says tightly. “I have your best interests at heart-”

“Mr. Holmes, I’d suggest you take a moment to think this through,” someone says, and the two of them turn to see Lestrade standing outside his office, presumably having heard their admittedly loud conversation. 

Mycroft fixes him with a smile that Sherlock knows other people find cold and terrifying. A smile that is rarely perfected by someone not even twenty-five, but Mycroft has always worn his authority like a well fitting coat. “I would suggest, ” he says, smoothly, with only the vaguest thone of a threat. “That you step back in your office before I find someone else to fill this position that you feel so strongly about.”

“Really? Now you’re threatening my professors?” Sherlock snaps, just as Lestrade really does step back into his office, shutting his door with more force than is warranted. 

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Mycroft counters, and he’s not even looking at him, just turning away to walk down the length of the corridor so that Sherlock is forced to follow him like a puppy. 

“I understand just fine,” he hisses in return. “I understand that you’re pathetic. The moment I find someone tolerable, someone who I actually like, you go ahead and ruin- ”

“If you think I do this because it gives me some sort of pleasure, you’re more immature than I thought,” Mycroft turns around and then his hand is around Sherlock’s bicep, firm but not painful. “Don’t be foolish. It can’t be completely beyond your ability to be logical, despite this infatuation.”

Sherlock glares at him. “It’s not an-”

“That boy isn’t to be trusted,” Mycroft interrupts him, in that particular tone of voice he uses with his minions, a tone that is supposed to breach no argument. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch. He glares at Mycroft, his own lip curling. “You are not to sleep in the same bedroom as him.”

Sherlock wrenches free. “No.”

Mycroft laughs, light and disbelieving. “We’ll talk about this at home. Clearly your ability to think rationally has been compromised. I did think you’d bypass this adolescent phase of obsession entirely, but I was wrong. I find myself disappointed.”

None of you know him, he wants to shout. And neither do I, to be fair, but I trust him, isn’t that enough ? It’ll be something tedious, whatever it is that has Mycroft convinced that John is dangerous. John, who touches him like he’s afraid he’ll break, who brings him back poisonous plants because Sherlock likes them. “If you think,” he starts, voice trembling only a little.

“Don’t even try to argue with me right now,” Mycroft bites out. Sherlock can tell he’s holding on to the last vestiges of his self control with great effort.

“Sherlock, you forgot-um.”

John.

It’s Mycroft’s expression he looks at before he turns around. He goes pale; nostrils flaring and lip curling faintly in disgust. Sherlock spins on his foot and there is John, standing there awkwardly, Sherlock’s scarf in his hand. He holds it out. “You forgot…this,” he says slowly, eyes straying to Mycroft. Something flashes in them, they narrow, like he’s trying to place him. 

“Oh,” Sherlock takes it from him. Their fingers brush together. “Thank you. Er,” he can feel Mycroft’s glare, even though he’s not looking at him. Truly a terribly inconvenient time for John to be here, and at any other time, Sherlock would have been pleased, John following him just to return his scarf. “This is my, brother-”

“Mycroft,” the hand is outstretched before he can finish his sentence. “John Watson, yes. My brother speaks very highly of you.” 

John stares at the hand, and then at Mycroft, and at Sherlock, for a quick second. “That’s nice of him,” he replies carefully, taking Mycroft’s hand. 

“I find myself curious as to what you’ve done to deserve it.” 

John glances at him, confused. “I, um.”

“Ignore him, John,” Sherlock advises him, twisting his head so that he can direct a malevolent glare at his brother.  “It pleases him to be a pompous tosser. I’ll see you on Monday,”

John nods, turns back to Mycroft. “Right. I feel like we’ve met?”

Sherlock notices the slightest spasm in their handshake, a flicker of discomfort across Mycroft’s face. Squeezed too hard? John lets go immediately, his fingers flexing at his side.

Mycroft gives him a thin lipped smile, hand slipping into his pocket. “Oh I do think I would have remembered the pleasure, Mr. Watson.”

“Are you done?” he snaps. “I apologise John,” he mutters, but John isn’t even looking at him. His eyes are fixed on Mycroft, and Sherlock can’t understand why. When could they possibly have met? The thought seems ridiculous. Reminds him of someone, perhaps. He brushes his fingers across John’s wrist, if only to get John to stop looking like that; troubled and vaguely nervous. Blue eyes shift towards him. 

“Goodbye, John,” he says.

“Yes. Yeah. Bye. Did you-”

Mycroft’s hand closes around his shoulder. “Come along, Sherlock, we’re going to be late. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Watson.”

He’s being dragged away before John can finish his sentence. 

“Enough. I think that was a perfectly adequate farewell. Now stop acting like a lovesick teenager and get in the car,” Mycroft tells him, and Sherlock stops trying to crane his neck to look at John. Mycroft’s death grip on his shoulder makes it difficult. They’re already outside, it’s freezing and Sherlock finds himself wrapping the scarf around his neck. 

***

They don’t talk for the remainder of the journey. It’s a three hour drive and they spend it in stony silence. The only form of communication they share is when Mycroft offers him a cigarette at some point in the middle from the pack of Marlboro’s he keeps in his pocket. Sherlock takes it only because he doesn’t have any on him, John keeps finding and binning them any and every chance he gets. 

Mycroft drops him at their home and drives off, with a short, “I will be picking Father up from the airport, we should be home by eight.”

He spends the rest of his evening in his room, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He used to like being back in his room, before. He detested the tiny, drafty room at the end of the corridor at school, at least his bedroom was his . There was his microscope, gleaming and pristine on his desk. His collection of old newspapers with the crime parts circled in red ink. His skull, leering at him from the top of his wardrobe. 

He should like it. 

But the room feels cold, and empty, and far too quiet.

***

Dinner is a stilted, awkward affair. His father asks him the same banal questions, Sherlock answers them. He shifts his food around on his plate, eats half of it and hides the rest of it under his napkin. He doesn’t have much of an appetite. Mycroft keeps up the conversation because someone has to. When  Father passes his fourth drink he grows slightly teary eyed and starts talking about their mother, which Sherlock has always found tiresome. 

Not because he doesn’t miss her. He doesn’t remember her at all, so it would be difficult to miss her. Sometimes he looks at the pictures hung up in the sitting room and feels a twinge of something. Longing, perhaps. She died a year after he was born. Accident. Mycroft probably remembers her, but they barely talk about her. In any case, maybe he is expected to feel the loss of a mother acutely, but he doesn’t. 

He’s always been rather self sufficient.

Mycroft keeps looking at him during dinner like he’s going to throw his plate on the floor or storm out. They haven’t talked directly to each other since he picked him up from school. It would be terribly satisfying to make a scene, though. 

It’s after dinner that he stands at the doorway to his study. Mycroft has his own flat in London, a posh, expensive affair at Pall Mall but he had his old bedroom converted to a study anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to look at him and think he ever was a child, it would be undignified. He’s at his chair, idly looking through a file. There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the desk.

Sherlock leans against the door jamb.   

“You think it would make a difference, if you changed rooms? What good would that even do?”

Mycroft doesn’t startle, must have known he was there the entire time. He doesn’t even look up, just flips a page. “There are a dozen different public schools in the area. Eton is still an option.”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course. If I don’t obey you, you’ll relocate me somewhere else. What am I, a fucking chess piece?

“Sherlock-”

“I would never forgive you,” he says simply, truthfully. Mycroft sighs, closing the file and looking at him, fingers steepled under his chin. 

“Your safety versus your forgiveness, what a difficult conundrum,” he muses.

Sherlock tilts his head, scowling. “It irks you, doesn’t it? To see me happy? You’d prefer it if I was fucking miserable like you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Sherlock walks into the room, stands in front of his desk. “I tell you I’m happy, I tell you I have a friend. That I’m perfectly safe with him.”

Mycroft looks at him, and there’s pity in his eyes, which is far more infuriating than the careful blankness he’d been affecting till now. “Why am I not surprised that you would choose to pursue the most convoluted romantic relationship possible?”

Sherlock’s cheeks grow warm. “Romantic, I never said-”

“Please,” Mycroft cuts through him. “Spare me. You do realise I’m the one who taught you to observe.”

Sherlock purses his lips, skin still slightly fevered. He could perhaps argue with Mycroft that he taught himself to observe, and Mycroft provided a few helpful tips, at best. He decides not to. “I don’t want to leave,” he says, instead, and if it comes out sounding like he’s begging, he doesn’t care. 

Mycroft takes a deep breath, scraping a hand over his face and he looks very, very tired. “Clearly.” He reaches out for the tumbler and knocks back half of it. “I’ll think about it.”

Sherlock feels exhausted too, suddenly. He wants to climb upstairs to his room and slip under the covers, sleep away the rest of the weekend until it’s Monday and he can look at John again. He turns around to leave, figuring it’s the best outcome of the conversation that he could have hoped for.

“He’s not what you think he is,” Mycroft says, just as Sherlock is about to turn the corner outside the door. He pauses. “It would do you well not to allow misplaced loyalty to blind you.”

There’s a dull clink as he puts his tumbler down. Sherlock tries not to go back inside and smash it to the ground in a pique of rage. “Are you going to elaborate?”

“No.”

“Then fuck off.”

And then he slams the door behind himself, rushing to his bedroom. Tugs Best Theme Songs of All Time out of his bag and places it on his music stand, turns to a random page. He picks up his violin where it’s lying across his bed and sets his bow across the strings, and starts to play Hedwig’s Theme. 

***

Chapter Text

This time John is in a cage. He paces, paws going thud thud thud against the metal floor. He’s panting, hard. He hates this, hates it so much, the space is so small and John wants to be outside, where he can run. The lights are too bright and they hurt his eyes, he sees better in the dark when he’s like this. Loud noises everywhere, voices buzzing like bees.

“This is John-”

“I don’t want his name. What is his number?”

Harsh footsteps and then there are two faces swimming in front of his vision, behind the bars of the cage. One of them stands a little further than the other, hands in his pockets. John doesn’t like the way he’s being looked at. It makes him uncomfortable. A growl builds in his throat, and he steps closer to the edge, baring his teeth. 

The whitecoat looks at his clipboard. “1607.”

The other man steps closer, and he’s not frightened at all. He should be. “1607. You’re the one who showed some potential. Hmm. I don’t see it. Not yet. Hopefully you will prove me wrong.” Tap, tap, against the metal bars. Pale grey eyes bore into his, and John snarls. The man flinches, but only barely. “You still haven’t managed to Shift outside of your Cycle. So many resources, such little results. I suppose we’ll see.” 

The man steps away, and then the two of them are gone. He can hear them talking as they leave the bright, white room. 

“Put him down for the Rehabilitation Programme. I want a Status Report on 1605,1606 and 1608.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has 1607 been embedded with a tracker yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Impatience and annoyance, the sharp tang of it fills John’s nostrils. “I hope you aren’t waiting for a special invitation, Mullins.”

“No, sir.”

“Has he attacked anyone? 1607? Any more night terrors? Aborted Shifts?”

“Not for the last six months, sir. I’ve kept the most recent Status Report on your desk.”

“Very well. And try not to keep him in the cage during the entirety of his Shift. You have a compound, yes?”

Nervousness. John paces. “We need to run tests, it’s not safe-”

“He’ll be in a school with children by next year. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I must get on. My little brother seems to have gotten himself suspended yet again.”

John wakes up to a dark, unfamiliar room. He blinks away the last vestiges of the unsettling dream and tries to sit up. His head hurts, and his t-shirt is damp, he’s sweated right through it in his sleep. He leans a shoulder against the wall, puts his forehead against it. Someone snores loudly next to him.

John turns his head, more out of habit than anything else. He was used to looking at Sherlock to anchor him after a bad dream. The shape of his body underneath the covers, the mess of riotous curls poking out from underneath. Sherlock isn’t here, not in this room, though. Branson is sprawled out on the next bed, arm hanging over the side and covers half on the bed and half on the floor. He snores again, fidgets and then drifts back to stillness. 

He’d thought Lestrade wouldn’t do it. He’d made a pretty good argument, he’d thought. Turns out when your big brother, who pays quite a lot of money to the school to ensure they don’t kick you out, wants your roommate shifted to another room, there’s scarce little you can do to prevent it. 

The room is bigger, and the window isn’t cracked and it doesn’t smell faintly of mildew. 

It’s far too clean and Sherlock’s clothes aren’t strewn carelessly on the floor, no poisonous plants gracing the window sill and no melted toothbrushes lying innocently on John’s desk. 

He hates the way it smells. It grates on his every nerve and makes him anxious in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. 

He falls back against the pillow, which is also faintly damp. He’s quite sure he won’t be able to sleep tonight. 

Wonders what Sherlock is doing right now. Tinkering about with an experiment, no doubt. Taking apart the computer just because he can. Burning through his wardrobe door with acid because he wants to know what would happen if he did. 

Bent over his desk, curls whispering along the back of his neck. Sometimes John would lean over him, ask What are you up to, then? just to get a whiff of him. Pinecones and nitroglycerin, paper and cigarette smoke. 

***

John is stretched out on the field, on his back after an early morning run, lungs still burning from the last lap when Branson appears out of nowhere, standing above him. “Your boy’s back,” he tells him. 

John scrambles to his feet, his heart suddenly picking up paces that in any other situation would definitely mean an imminent cardiac arrest. “What? Sherlock’s back?”

Branson bites into the apple in his hand. “Just saw him when I was coming back from swim practice.”

John doesn’t wait to thank him, just rips off and sprints towards the housing buildings. He’s been shifted to a completely different block, but their old block is much closer. He runs across the field, because it’s a  short cut, even though the girls’ football team is currently making use of it. Someone swears loudly at him, shouts, “ Wanker!” and John only feels a little bad about ruining their game.

Up four flights of stairs because they’re on the topmost floor, and down the damn corridor, to the very last room. John finally stops in front of the open door, one hand reaching out to grip the doorway for support while he pants. 

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, and god he looks so lovely. Hands on hips, staring at John’s perfectly made bed which is now devoid of his pillows and sheets. John is looking at him from the side but he makes out the deep scowl, the flinty stare.

“Sherlock,” John says, and he turns his head, scowl vanishing and replaced by raised eyebrows and the oh of his pink mouth. 

“John-” he starts, and then a muffled oof as John rushes towards him and wraps him in a hug. God but he’s never done this before and why not ? His forehead rests against the delicate jut of his collarbone and his arms around his boyish waist, but Sherlock is all hard lines and flat planes against him. He smells strongly of cigarettes, must have smoked one on the way, just the faintest undertone of rosin and something else that John can’t place. 

He resists the temptation to nose along the side of his neck, press his lips under his ear. Sherlock is stiff against him, unyielding, and John can feel the tenseness in his body. 

It occurs to him to be mortified, he did just force an embrace on Sherlock, until he feels a cautious touch on his bicep, and then Sherlock is hugging him back, arms around his shoulders, relaxing against him.  

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says quietly, voice a low rumble. Warm, so warm, John can hear the slightly erratic beat of his heart. Sherlock’s breath rushes past his ear. 

He clears his throat and pulls away, because godgodgod maybe he shouldn’t have done that. His skin itches with the need to do more, push him against the desk, slip his hands under the jumper to get at the skin underneath. He’s a hair breadth away and Sherlock is looking down at him, cheeks flushed and pale pink mouth parted slightly. John takes a step back. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, not quite looking at him. Sherlock has flung his bag on the floor but placed his violin with reverent care on the bed. Typical. “I was, just. Um. Good to have you back.”

Sherlock, still slightly pink, ruffles a hand through his hair. “Good to be back,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He takes a quick look around the room, twirling in place. “Where is-?”

John sighs, clenches and unclenches his fist. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I tried, but your brother”

Sherlock’s mouth twists in displeasure. His eyes are fixed on John’s bed, stripped bare. “I thought he wouldn’t,” he says softly. “Should have known he would remain a reprehensible, twisted, fucking twat! ” He rounds that off with a spiteful kick to the bedpost. 

“Sherlock-”

“I’m never going to forgive him, that utterly slimy wanker, ” Sherlock continues to spit, looking around for something else to destroy, probably, and he picks up an old, unwashed mug that’s been sitting on John’s desk for ages. John quickly spurs into action, fearing that he might actually injure himself. 

“Nope, put that away,” he quickly orders, catching him around the forearm and gently bringing it down. Sherlock glares at him, like he can’t believe John would prevent him from systematically annihilating their room out of anger. “Sherlock,” he says again, firmly, and Sherlock’s grip softens enough for him to take away the cup and put it on the desk, out of his reach. 

Sherlock’s mouth is set in a hard, straight line. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his back against the open window. Pale sunlight sifts through, lights his dark hair in shades of auburn. 

“I’ll talk to Lestrade,” he says, determinedly. “I’m sure I could find a way to blackmail him.”

John shakes his head. “Don’t, Sherlock. Don’t do that,” Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet his, surprise eched in his features. “Of course I want you back here,” he reassures him, and Sherlock’s gaze softens. “But I don’t think Lestrade can do anything about it when your brother specifically…requested it,” it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he says it. “Apparently he doesn’t want a delinquent sharing your room. I mean, I can’t blame him, I’m terribly dangerous.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, unimpressed by John’s attempt at levity. “I’ll blackmail my brother, then,” he decides, almost cheerfully. “This is ridiculous. I’ll put in a request myself. I’ll tell them you’ve had a positive influence on me, that you’ve taught me about the importance of discipline, and-” he waves his hand. “All that.”

John laughs softly. “Doubt it’ll help, but alright.” 

“Who’s your new roommate?” 

John leans a hip against the rim of the desk. “Branson.”

Sherlock scoffs. “He’s an idiot.”

“Could have been worse, though.”

Sherlock makes a disbelieving nose, turning around so he can pick up Tim. He looks at it with a strange look in his eyes, thumb stroking the tiny ceramic pot. “What could be worse than this,” he sighs, putting it carefully back on the sill. “Do you have any idea how… inconvenient all of this is?” he waves a hand at the entire room. “Who’s going to bring me tea?”

“I can still bring you tea. It’s not that difficult.”

“It won’t be the same. ” Sherlock looks at him as he says that, and John’s chest throbs at the look on his face. Don’t do that, he wants to say. Don’t do that to me. 

“Let’s get out of here,” John says quickly, before he does something stupid. Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow at him. 

“The woods, I don’t know. Just out of this room. Do you want to go to the lake? I’ll let you smoke.” John is already walking backward, hand outstretched like he’s trying to lure Sherlock out. Sherlock takes a look at his upturned palm and bites his bottom lip, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to put his finger on something. 

“No, you won’t,” he corrects, but he’s already peeling himself away from the wall, walking towards John, picking up his coat. 

“No, I won’t,” John admits. “You can tell me about your weekend, and you can collect the soil you’ve been obsessing about since last week.” They step out into the hallway and John closes the door on the strangely empty room. If he had stayed there any longer he wouldn’t have wanted to leave. 

“My weekend was an absolute nightmare, which should be obvious, even to you,” Sherlock tells him dryly. “The soil sounds promising, though. I learnt the music, by the way.”

“What, all of it?”

Sherlock smiles, the secretly smug smile that stretches his lips when he’s done something unpredictable, something impressive. “All of it.”

***

It’s not unbearable. It should be, but it isn’t. 

There’s a shouting match a day later when Sherlock stays back after English class and corners Lestrade. “Change our rooms back this instant,” he’d said. “Or I’m telling Mallory that you’ve been shagging the nurse as well.”

“I think Mallory knows that already,” Lestrade had replied tiredly. He’d glanced at John like somehow John was the cause of all this. 

It hadn’t come to much, and while John had enjoyed watching Sherlock spit and snarl at Lestrade, he didn't think it was entirely necessary to knock all those chairs over on his way out. 

They spend most of their time outside, anyway. Technically John only has to spend the night in his room. Not that he sleeps. A room without Sherlock in it is entirely non conducive to that. Sherlock notices the hollows under his eyes and asks about it and John tells him that the room is too bloody hot. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, disbelieving, but doesn’t say anything. 

Even when he sleeps in his new room, he dreams. Old memories, bits and pieces. Sometimes Harry. Sometimes Sherlock. Sometimes the Center, he’s stuck in a cage and being stared at like he’s something in the zoo. Phantom pain in the eye when he wakes up, his skull still buzzing from the old injury. 

It’s fine. Four hours of sleep a night should be enough for him. As it is, he passes out in Sherlock’s room during the day often enough. 

It’s the only place in the entire building where he feels calm enough to close his eyes. Drifting away to the sound of Sherlock tuning his violin or the scratch of his pen against paper as he finishes both his and John’s homework because he couldn’t stand the sight of John struggling through differential equations. 

He doesn’t let Sherlock out of his sight. Sometimes Sherlock slips away because he gets distracted, or because their chemistry professor said he was allowed to use the leftover pig fetus for his experiment and he forgot to tell John where he would be. John stays close enough that he can smell him, tries not to smother him too entirely. He’s pretty sure Sherlock notices the hovering, it’s not like anything escapes his attention. He doesn’t say anything. 

Sherlock doesn’t offer that they run off to the village the following weekend, which is a relief. He doesn’t know how he’ll explain if Sherlock does ask.
God but he’s so tired of the secrets. It’s a stupid line of thought, but sometimes it’s all John can do to not just tell him. 

“You should come running with me,” John tells him once, when he opens the door to find a slightly out of breath Sherlock waiting outside his room, holding his bag over his shoulder, one forearm against the doorframe. It was a long walk, and they were late for their first class. He thinks Sherlock might have jogged part of the way. “Build up some stamina.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock had muttered. 

“Alright, Sherlock?” Branson grinned at him amiably, patting his shoulder on his way out, side stepping John easily. He was a slight bloke, quiet and kept to himself. He took to Sherlock like one would a stray cat; wary at first, and then reluctantly affectionate. It helped that Sherlock had informed him that Grace Singh would not be averse to shagging him. 

“You should sleep,” Sherlock had told him. “You look ill.”

“You know what I’m thinking of? Pots and kettles,” John closed the door shut behind him. “Let’s get breakfast, I’m starving.”

“It’s safer this way. Even if you don’t think it is. You can hate me all you want, but the more you stay away from him, the quicker this- ” Lestrade waves a hand at John, like that will somehow encompass everything he feels about Sherlock. “will fade. Maybe you can make other friends. Imprinting on one individual isn’t socialisation.”

He’s sitting across from him at his table in the canteen. Technically John had been waiting for Sherlock but Lestrade had decided the empty seat was for him. Some students stare at them. Probably looks like John had questions about Macbeth. 

“I don’t want to socialise.”

“Well, tough,” Lestrade leaned back, crossing his arms. “You have to. I have to report it if you’re willfully refusing to engage.”

John scoffs. “Have at it.”

“John, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. You know what would help? You should- physical urges, those are perfectly normal. Girls- boys, whatever you like, I don’t know.”

John stares at him before his cheeks turn pink and he feels hot under his collar. What the fuck. “Stop talking,” he says quietly. Lestrade looks just as uncomfortable as he is, but he ploughs on, uncaring that John wants to pick up his milk box and empty the cold liquid all over his head. 

“I’m serious, John. It’s an important part of socialisation. And it could help. Getting over this.”

John looks at him and asks, calmly, “Are you suggesting I fuck Sherlock out of my system?”

Even the idea of it repulses him. The misguided attempt at the Halloween party had been more than enough. Sexual actvities were confined to the furtive, guilty wanks he had in the boy’s loo, mind straying to Sherlock’s throat, his mouth, his sharp little hipbones. 

Lestrade glowers at him, cheeks ruddy. “Don’t be crass. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he breathes, pushing away from the table and picking up his bag. He knows where Sherlock is, he’ll find him. They can eat lunch by the lake. Anything but listen to Lestrade telling him that he should shag more people in the pursuit of research. He hears Lestrade sigh irritably behind him, but he doesn’t wait to listen to the rest. 

“Oh, I was coming to you,” Sherlock says as soon as he sees him striding down the music corridor. His violin case is slung over his back. He raises his eyebrows when John grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around. 

“Change of plans, let’s nick something from the pantry and go to the lake,” John suggests.

“Okay,” Sherlock agrees immediately. “You had a run in with Lestrade.”

“How do you-never mind. Yes.”

“Do you think maybe we could slash his tires?”

Sherlock would probably do that if John gave even the slightest indication of not being completely averse to the idea, so he dissuades him of the plan immediately. Sherlock looks extremely put out. “Your moral compass is tedious, John,” he complains, and John laughs, because this is so not about his moral compass. If only it really were that simple. 

***

It all goes to hell exactly one week later.

***

Tedious, tedious, tedious. Pants and socks go flying behind him. John’s old jumper that he didn’t deem necessary to take with him. Probably for the best, it’s hideous. It’s not in John’s old wardrobe. Well, technically John’s. Sherlock had used it often enough, stuffing books and newspapers there when there wasn’t enough space in the room. 

He crawls on the floor, searches underneath the bed. All he gets is a faceful of dust and a cap-less ballpoint pen that must have rolled away from his desk and found a home on the floor. He stands and puts it back on John’s desk. Even without most of John’s belongings, it’s not entirely empty. Sherlock has heaped things on it; a pile of clothes, his violin, his laptop. 

I see you’re taking advantage of my absence, John had told him, and even though John had meant it as a joke, Sherlock had felt a strange sort of vacuity open up in his chest. John had slid his fingers over the empty bit of space there, and Sherlock had just lied and said something about it being more convenient.

He  can’t find his old notebook, and it’s driving him insane. There were very specific notes, and if he didn’t find them then his progress would be lost and he’d have to begin the experiment all over again. 

He goes searching in his own wardrobe again, shoving his hands underneath messy piles of jumpers and uniform trousers, each shelf a disappointment. Trainers and more socks and-hmm. Sherlock’s hands close around a pair of rumpled, dark blue trousers. It’d been stuffed into the corner, hidden underneath a spare blanket. He pulls it out steadily, curious.

When the thing is in his hands he realises they’re not his, there’s a tear in the knee that he doesn’t recognise. Sherlock stares and stares, doesn’t understand what he sees. The overwashed blue cotton is covered in tiny, curved brown hair. He’s quite sure these are John’s, judging from the length, but as far as he knows, John does not have a dog, and the last time they’d encountered a dog was in the village. John had been wearing jeans. 

It shouldn’t matter, except something is extremely familiar about it. He picks up one tiny spiral with forefinger and thumb and squints at it. Puts it in the palm of the other hand so he can see it better. Where had he- oh. Sherlock throws the trousers aside and scrambles to his feet only to get to his desk. He slides open the drawer, plunging his fingers into the mess of stationery and brings out a clear plastic bag. 

Topaz coloured eyes, hot, muggy breath against his neck. Sherlock shivers, and holds it up to the light. Similar, definitely similar. But were they the same? And if they were, what did that tell him?

That John had had a run in with Wolf?

If he asked John, John would tell him the truth. Except John is at football practice and won’t be back for at least an hour and Sherlock doesn’t want to wait. 

Sherlock tries not to get too excited, but he can’t help it. He puts the bag on his desk and bends over to pick up the trousers, raises it to his face and sniffs. Musty, unwashed. How long has it been sitting there? 

He wants to go to the lab to check. Not exactly a well equipped forensics department, but there’s a microscope there, at least. It’s Saturday evening and there shouldn’t be anyone around, which means Sherlock will be able to break into it without being seen. He carefully rolls up the older bag and puts it inside his pocket, before he painstakingly plucks the ones stuck to the trousers with a pair of tweezers. That goes in his pocket as well, and then he leaves his room and locks the door. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock is not even afforded the time to get a good look. He has them both on a slide and under the microscope, fingers on the knobs, trying to magnify it just enough when there’s an arm around his throat, pulling him back and wrenching him off of his seat. 

The chair is knocked over, and Sherlock fingers reach up, scrabbling. He tries to shout, but the pressure against his throat makes it difficult. Finnegan, no doubt, he thinks, through the panic, before he can turn around to see, someone is putting a sack over his head. It smells like uncooked rice. Sherlock blinks, attempts to see through the material. 

He struggles, obviously. Jabs his elbows into whoever is at his side, tries to run. Scratches at the air ineffectually until his arms are being pulled behind his back and something is being wrapped around them. Belt, from the sudden scent of leather in the air. It’s uncomfortably tight, cuts off his circulation almost immediately. 

“He’s like a fucking fish, can’t we just knock him out?”

“No, I want him to be awake for this bit. Hello, Sherlock.” He can just about make out a figure standing in front of him, but Sherlock recognises that voice entirely too well.

“Even for you this is a bit excessive,” he says.

Immediately following this he has his breath knocked out of him with a rough punch to the gut. He doubles over, coughing, but someone (one of Finnegan’s other cronies, he’s assuming) grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him upright. His feet slip on the linoleum floor as he tries to find balance. 

Sherlock tries to think through the fear. He’s immobilised and there are three people here, not to mention the fact that he’s bound; fighting is out of the question. He could try shouting but he’s assuming that the moment he raises his voice one of them is going to knock him out with a quick hit to the back of his head. The possibility is further derailed when Finnegan says, “I’d like you to shut up, though,” and lifts the sack only high enough to shove something into his mouth. Piece of cloth, could be a sock. Could be a handkerchief. He’s not sure. 

“We’ll take the service exit,” he hears. “Go on.”

The hand on the back of his neck tightens, and he stumbles as they turn him around towards the door. Could he maybe swing his arms up and catch whoever is behind him in the chin, and then sprint down the length of the hall? Possibly, but he won’t be able to get this fucking sack off his head quick enough, and if he’s blinded he could trip and fall. 

The stairs are difficult, he almost slips twice. “Can’t we just-” the voice asks again. 

“No you can’t. You alright there, Sherlock? Don’t worry, I’ll take that off of you soon enough.”

Sherlock stays silent, not willing to give him the satisfaction of listening to him trying to speak through the gag. 

He thinks of John, playing football  in the field and coming back to find their room empty. At least thirty more minutes till the end of the game, unless John stays back to talk to the other players like he does sometimes. That would delay this. John would go looking for him as soon as he wouldn’t be able to find him, though. But then what? 

Maybe he should be the one to watch himself. 

Sherlock feels bile rise up in his throat. No, maybe John shouldn’t come looking for him. He hopes he doesn’t. He hopes John will just stay in his room and wait for Sherlock’s inevitable return. Bruised and bloodied but he’ll definitely come back. It will probably be difficult to convince John to stay put once he sees him, though.

They’re outside a moment later, cold wind rushes past Sherlock’s legs, whispers under his jumper. He shivers. He can’t even hear anything except for the twigs underfoot, the service entrance is far away from the main building and this time, even if he shouts, he doubts anyone would hear him. Where are they taking him? Deeper into the woods, he imagines. This is presumably revenge for something or the other. They’ll beat him, Finnegan will threaten him, he’s used to this. He just doesn’t want John to be here.

His foot sinks into mud a few times. He trips over a few stones. He remains stubbornly quiet throughout, even though the leather is starting to abrade his wrists, catching on his skin with each new movement. 

“Are you sure no one will be there?”

“Ask me that one more time, Scott, and I’m going to gut you.”

The cronies have doubts, then, interesting. 

They stop when Sherlock smells the lake. It’s a clear, crisp scent that he can smell even through the sack. It’s always colder here, a bit more humid, the silence even more oppressive when it’s only broken by the occasional cawing of a crow. 

Someone takes a swipe at the back of his legs with their foot and Sherlock falls to the ground with a thump, knees hitting damp grass. The sack comes off after that, and the cold is biting and fierce. Sherlock has to squint several times to acclimatise himself even though the sunlight is weak and muted. The sun is starting to set. No one’s touching him anymore, at least. 

Finnegan drops to his knees in front of him, and catches his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He smells like cheap vodka, and his pupils are pinpricks. Sherlock’s mouth is terribly dry. 

“I had you here. Almost. Remember? I had a whole thing planned, but your boy caught us before that. But it’s fine. I don’t take things lying down. This time you can watch him, huh?”

Terror whispers down his spine. Finengan wrenches the sock out of his mouth and he coughs, bending over and panting. Finnegan twists a hand into his hair and forces him up, baring his throat. His heart hammers so loudly against his chest he can hear it pulsing in his ears.

“I thought I was the one you were obsessed with,” he says hoarsely, looking up. His eyes are watering at the corners. “What does John have to do with this?”

“Oh I’m not letting you off the hook either,” Finnegan purrs, and then backhands him across the face. Sherlock nearly falls over from the force of it. Blood fills his mouth, sharp and metallic. He spits some of it out but the rest drips down his chin. Finnegan swipes a hand across it, and it stings. He smears the blood across his skin, and smiles. 

“Where is he?” he looks up at Scott and Eric, he’s assuming. He was there when he’d seen Wolf for the first time. Sherlock can see them now, standing to the side, attempting to look threatening. None of them can match the malice in Finnegan’s eyes, though. 

“Should be here soon,” Eric says. “We left him a note.”

They’re talking about John. Fuck, fuck. 

“Finnegan,” he says feverishly. “This is moronic. You’re going to get caught.”

Finnegan’s eyes snap back to meet his, and his lip curls with disgust. “Yeah, and? They’ll expel me. At least I’ll do this before I go.”

Sherlock eyes him wearily.  He has a bruise on his cheekbone that he thinks is a souvenir from their kerfuffle in the boy’s loo.“Do what?”

Sherlock gets a fist in his nose in reply. Blood. More of it, this time in his nostrils, and for a few, blinding seconds he can’t breathe. He curls in on himself, blinking past the dark spots in his vision. He wonders if it’s broken. Suddenly he realises that he has no leverage. If Finnegan doesn’t care about getting caught, what else is Sherlock supposed to do? 

And it’s starting to get darker. They shouldn’t even be here at this time.

“Where the fuck is he?” Finnegan roars, getting to his feet, directing the question to Scott and Eric “One fucking job, I told you I wanted him here.”

“I’m here. Now let him go.”

Sherlock is still staring at the grass. He can see where his blood has stained it, and he is almost too terrified to lift his head. Please, please, please, he thinks. Let me be hallucinating. Let John not really be here. 

“Watson,” Finnegan, this time. Sherlock watches from the corner of his eyes, his dirty trainers switching direction, turning forward. “You’re late. Bit rude, don’t you think?”

The dull sound of footsteps on grass. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“Fuck you and your fucking agreement, you cock sucking freak ,” Finnegan spits, and then his fingers curl into his hair, wrenching Sherlock up and backward so that he has no choice but to look up. He can see John, not quite close enough to touch but just far enough that their eyes meet because of the angle of his head. John looks at him, eyes burning, his jaw tight and rigid. He’s pale and his blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and Sherlock notices the way his chest rises and falls like he’s been running. Looking for him. 

“Sherlock,” he says, quietly, voice rough with fear, and then he’s moving towards him.

There’s a rush of movement at his side and then cold metal at his throat. Finnegan presses the blade in, not enough to cut, but almost there. “Ah ah ah,” he admonishes, and John stops, eyes straying away to Finnegan. His nostrils flare Sherlock notices the way his hands shake like they do sometimes when he’s angry. 

“I can’t decide what would be more fun. Making you watch or making him watch,” Finnegan muses. 

“Put the knife away,” John tells him, voice almost calm. He raises a hand as if to placate, pacify. “You know this isn’t going to end well.”

“Or what? You’ll beat me? You did that already. I still got your little boyfriend, didn’t I?” The grip in his hair tightens just as Finnegan digs the blade into his skin. It stings and then he can feel warm blood trail leisurely down his throat. Any deeper and he’s going to nick an artery.

John’s eyes fall to his throat, his fists clench and unclench, and he looks up at the sky. What-? Sherlock follows his gaze. Is he trying to tell him something? Is it going to rain? All he can see is the sky. Clouds. 

“John,” he says, slowly, carefully. A warning, but he doubts John is going to take it as one. John glances at him shortly. 

“Don’t worry, I’m working on it,” he says tightly. 

“You should leave.”

John snorts at that, just as Finnegan says, “Yeah, actually. You could leave. I’ll take good care of Sherlock , Watson, don’t worry. You can have him back tomorrow.”

John’s lip curls, eyes dark and heated, but his voice remains level when he speaks. “You want me, yeah? You want to get back at me? Fine. I respect that. Let Sherlock go and call your cronies off, and then maybe we can settle this like men.”

“That’s not going to work on me, Watson,” Finnegan says, and then his mouth is next to Sherlock’s ear, the stink of alcohol stinging his eyes. “What do you think, Sherlock? Should I slice your throat so that he can watch?”

Sherlock swallows, and his eyes meet John’s wide and desperate. Please leave, he tries to say. Please please please

“I am going to fucking kill you if you hurt him,” John whispers.

Finnegan snickers. “I’ve already hurt him, you idiot. Look at him. Now come here so I can call your bluff.”

John takes a step closer, and then he curses. Glances up at the sky again, and why does he keep doing that? Sherlock frowns at him. “John,” he says again, and this time John looks at him, almost apologetically. 

“Do you trust me?”

“Touching,” Finegan drawls.

Sherlock licks his dry lips, tastes copper on his tongue. “Yes,” he says, the honesty of it so much like carving his chest open. 

John nods briskly, once, and then with one last burning gaze, sprints off in the other direction, deeper into the part of the woods that isn’t even part of the campus. 

Sherlock’s stomach drops, and he’s not sure if he should feel terror or relief. Do you trust me? More than anybody else. He stares at the place John was standing a few seconds ago and feels panic claw at his sides nevertheless. Why would he go there? It wasn’t safe. If he’d gone to ask for help he should have run in the other direction, towards the bloody school building. 

Do you trust me ?

Finegan whistles, and he feels him let go of his hair. The blade leaves his throat. He stands up next to him. “That was…disappointing,” he muses. “You think he’s coming back?”

“He might come back with someone,” Scott suggests. 

“Who? There’s no one there, you idiot. The woods go on for miles. Ah, well,” Finnegan moves around him until he’s standing directly in front. Tips his chin up with a finger. “Now what the fuck do I do with you? Watson left you here for me.”

“Are you looking for instructions?” Sherlock asks dryly, and predictably, Finnegan kicks him hard enough in the chest to knock the wind out of him, and tip him over onto the grass. He takes in a few rough, shallow breaths before he’s kicked again, the tip of Finnegan’s sneaker shoving hard, against his stomach. 

“He left you here like day old rubbish,” Finnegan spits. “Like he doesn’t even care. How do you feel about that?”

“Finn-” Scott starts, misgiving in his tone. 

“Shut up, just shut the fuck up. All of those bloody threats, and for what? He’s not even here,” Stomps, right on his ribs. Not enough to break them, but hard enough. 

“He’ll come back,” Sherlock rasps, because he’s incapable of shutting up. Even on the ground, pain lancing through his entire body like fire, and it won’t stop, he won’t stay quiet. Something terribly wrong with him, he thinks, he remembers Mycroft telling him that if he wanted people to respect him he should know when to keep his lips sealed.

Sounded like utter shite, even then. 

Finnegan kicks him again, once, twice. He feels the crack rather than hear it, like his ribcage is being squeezed. He can’t breathe. It’s the kick to the head that really does him in, though. 

Speech becomes impossible, his vision goes dark and agony radiates through his entire skull. He can’t even cry out in pain because his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat. Finnegan leaves him alone for a few seconds, probably to watch him squirm on the ground. He tries to get up, but a foot holds him down, right on top of his shoulder.

“I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with you.”

Sherlock blinks, hard. Tries to think of something to say, and comes up blank. 

“Finn.”

“Do I just leave him here?”

“ Finn. ”

“What? What are you- Jesus fucking Christ.”

The foot slips from his shoulder and Sherlock is relieved, because maybe that means he’s done. Maybe Finnegan has had his fill and will just let him stay here, curled in on himself, and Sherlock could go to sleep. And then he hears the growl. Low, deep, threatening, and very, very familiar. 

He tries to roll over on his front and sit up, but it’s hell on his ribs. 

He thinks he might have a concussion, and he’s hallucinating, because he’s watching Finnegan and his cronies step back, away from him, horror clear on their faces. It couldn’t be. Or it could. Sherlock didn’t want to be here after dark for a reason. He tries to push himself up by setting his shoulder against the ground, but then he stops. 

Wolf. 

It really is him. 

It- he- isn’t interested in Sherlock, though. Sherlock watches, heart lodged uncomfortably in his throat as it stands a little further away, head bent and ears flat against its skull. Teeth bared in a snarl. The growling won’t stop. He should be frightened. He should. All he feels is awe. He must have forgotten how enormous he was, not having seen him for so long. Or how his fur wasn’t quite one colour- gold and brown and black mixed in. Or how the scar slicing over his eye, down his snout looked so painful Sherlock wanted to touch, comfort. 

What? 

This was a wolf. A wild fucking animal. Sherlock must be losing blood, somewhere, he thinks, bleeding out from a wound he is not aware of, to be thinking like this. 

Suddenly the wolf pounces, and there is a scream. Sherlock pushes himself up, rolls over on his side, even as the pain makes him breathless. 

Finnegan is on the ground, Wolf poised over him, teeth inches away from his face. There’s a tang of ammonia in the air- must have pissed himself. Sherlock can’t entirely blame him. He watches as Wolf growls at him, one paw over his chest. The claws glint ominously. He can hear Finnegan hyperventilating from here. His cronies have fled, must have taken advantage of the distraction and run off. 

Sherlock is still, wondering if there’s any way they could get out of this without dying horribly. Looking at Finnegan, and the way Wolf has him pressed into the ground, probably not. 

Inexplicably, Wolf moves. Lifts his paw and slouches away from him, just enough for Finnegan to slip out from underneath him, and scramble to his feet. He takes one look at Sherlock, at the animal, and then makes a run for it. 

 Sherlock thinks Wolf will run after him like he did the last time, but he doesn’t. He stays rooted to the spot, the line of his body tense and anticipatory as he watches Finnegan sprint back up the hill and over. Tail erect, vibrating slightly at the tip. Sherlock isn’t sure what makes him freeze when the animal snuffles, licking its maws and turning back towards him. Fear. That would be clever. A perfectly normal response when you’re being stared down by an animal.

But it’s not that. He’s not sure what it is. 

“We should stop meeting like this,” he slurs, and thinks that he’s hit his head very hard.

The next moment gets even stranger. The wolf comes closer,  closer, he’s standing over Sherlock. He can smell him now; musk and fur and something strangely familiar. The animal bends over him, sniffing along his jaw, his neck, and then suddenly he can feel its breath at his back. Muggy air washing over his wrists. He feels a wet nose against his skin, the hard, unyielding surface of its teeth, just barely scraping over his hands, until there’s a soft ripping nose and blood rushes back into his hands with such force it’s painful.

“Ow.”

The wolf moves a little further away, doing something that looks like pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, never leaving, but not staying quite still. Sherlock swallows, feeling light headed as he sits up, easier now that he has the use of both hands. His muscles still scream in protest. He rubs at his wrists, they’re red and rough, crusted over with blood that has left rust cloured lines down his arm. 

“Now how on earth did you do that?” He looks at his hands, flexes them experimentally. Nothing broken.

The wolf makes a soft noise, and then pads towards him, sitting back down on its haunches. Sherlock lifts his head and stares at him, and the wolf stares back, eyes bright gold and glittering. He should run. Maybe Sherlock is already unconscious and this is just the result of some feverish dream. Wolf’s ears twitch like he’s trying to get rid of a fly. He’s big, Sherlock thinks again. Sherlock has to tilt his head up to meet its gaze. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him. He lifts a trembling hand, and sets it, feather light, against his jaw. The fur is softer than he’d thought. The wolf is  still, staring at him with its unblinking eyes. Sherlock rubs a little, digs his fingers into the fur behind his ears. His eyes grow half lidded the next moment, and the animal twists his head, nuzzling at his palm.  

Oh. Surely this isn’t normal behaviour for wolves. Or is it?

“I think I’m hallucinating,” he admits. 

The wolf bends forward and licks him, a thick wet stripe over his cheek. 

“I have to find John,” Sherlock says, voice leaving his mouth in a rush. “He’s going to come back here, and I- I don’t know. Will you eat him? Why am I asking you. Why am I talking to an animal. I have to-” he gets up, and immediately crumples back down to the ground because his legs are trembling, just as Wolf suddenly growls, shifts towards him, almost like. Almost like he doesn’t want him to go?

Sherlock grits his teeth through the pain. “Well I can’t very well stay here. I think I’ve sprained something. My ankle, most likely.” 

Wolf gazes at him, steady and watchful. And then settles down on the ground, sphinx like, paws stretched out in front of him. 

“Why’d you do that,” Sherlock asks, and resumes his petting. He brushes his hand over the top of his head. Maybe Wolf will fall asleep soon and Sherlock can slip away. Look for John, wherever he is. “Save me. Both times.”

A bright pink tongue lolls out. Wolf pants. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

There is a low, answering growl and Sherlock pauses, his hand stilling in his fur. No. Couldn’t be. Or maybe?  “That’s impossible. You can understand me?”

Wolf licks at his forearm, gives a low, steady whine. “Of course it could also be a coincidence. One bark for yes, two barks for now. How’s that?”

(He’s doing this. He’s actually doing this. He must have gone mad)

Wolf barks. 

High, sharp, but unmistakable. A single bark. Sherlock stares at him, and feels as though the ground has just slipped out from under his feet. “You must be joking.”

Two barks. 

Sherlock’s head spins. He wishes he had something to hold on to, but the only thing here is a giant animal. “Did you escape from the Baskerville center? I know what they get up to there. I’ve seen Mycroft’s files. Some of them, at least. A genetically modified wolf is a plausible enough explanation.” 

Wolf lets out a noise that sounds almost like a sigh. One bark. 

“Roll over,” Sherlock commands, and he receives a small nip on his arm by way of reply. 

“I’ll agree, that was insulting. Can you put a paw up?” An unenthusiastic paw scratches against his thigh. He imagines this interrogation might not be entirely pleasant. His head has started to hurt, and it’s getting colder. The tips of his fingers are starting to turn numb. His eyelids droop a bit. 

“Do you know John,” he says, voice soft. “Have you seen him? Blonde. Bit short but don’t tell him I told you that,” hmm his words are starting to slur together. Not an entirely good sign after a head injury. The back of his head throbs. 

The wolf seems to consider his questions, before he gives one, short, sharp bark. 

“Would you be able to tell if I’m dreaming?” 

A cocked head, inquisitive. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and feels himself pitching forward. Oh, he thinks vaguely. Here’s the unconsciousness. Or possibly he’s waking up? He should find out soon. Forward, forward, until his face is buried in coarse fur. It’s thick, and warm. Sherlock can hear the steady thrum of the creature’s heartbeat. He finds it almost reassuring. 

He’s supposed to find John, he thinks, and the thought sends a sickening wave of guilt into his stomach. Where is he? Sherlock should be looking for him. It’s cold, and John would never have left him there, like that, so he can only assume that Finnegan got to him. Or something. He should. He should-

He feels Wolf curl around him, and it’s so warm and perfect. Warm breath puffs against his ear, he feels a low rumble under his skull that almost sounds like purring. 

Do you trust me?

He drifts.

Chapter Text

John wakes up human, and a little cold. 

His nose is buried in something soft and fuzzy, John nuzzles it aside until he’s touching bare skin. It’s cool against his lips. Hmm. That’s nice. That’s lovely. John tries to shift closer, and the movement makes everything hurt, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Fffuucckkk. He rolls over onto his back, eyes flickering open to meet the sky, grey and dull and the colour of dust. 

He sits up, ignoring the dizziness that always comes after a Cycle.  And suddenly notices that there’s someone lying next to him. Curled up tight, hands clasped near their chest. Shoulders small and curved inward. The gentle rise and fall of his ribs. Sherlock. What. Why-? How did they- 

Last night comes rushing back to him, the memories more like flickering images in his head. A note. Running through the woods so fast he thought his lungs would burst. Sherlock, on his knees, a knife against his throat, blood on his skin. Panic like lightning arcing through his chest, bright and terrifying. 

A hand in his fur, Sherlock’s voice, soft and gentle. John dragging him away by the collar once he’d passed out, back to where he’d Shifted, somewhere safer. Keeping him warm with a cuddle. 

John is so, so fucked. 

He stands up,  early morning chill raising goosebumps on his skin. He tries not to think about being curled up against Sherlock in the nude. His clothes must be around here somewhere, he’ll wake Sherlock up once he has his trousers on. Sherlock doesn’t even move, but the cold will wake him up soon. John looks up and finds a crumpled ball wedged between the lowest branches of the tree. He pulls it down, drags his trousers up over his legs. They’re a little damp. He’s zipping himself up when Sherlock starts to fidget. 

He makes a low, miserable noise. It must hurt. John tamps down the sudden fury and the need to punch something, and focuses on what he’s going to say once Sherlock sees him. 

Sherlock is quick to wakefulness, sitting up the next second, twisting around, eyes wide and panicked, blinking rapidly until he sets them on John. Blood is still caked under his nose, his mouth. A bruise, dark and ugly, just under his eye, breaking the continuity of his pale skin. “John,” he gasps, and then, “You’re here. I thought-” he shakes his head, eyes squinting shut, before they fly open again. “We were here the whole night?”

John swallows. “Yep.”

“You came back,” he whispers, more to himself than to John. He looks around himself wildly, like he’s searching for something, like something is about to jump out of the bushes. John is frozen in place like an idiot. How the fuck does he play this? A dozen responses crawl up his throat and die. “I’m sorry. I should have- I don’t know what happened. Did you-?” And then he’s getting up, struggling to his feet. John rushes towards him on instinct, steadies him with his hands on his hips. 

“Easy,” John advises, and Sherlock’s gaze drifts to his, too slow for John’s taste. 

“ Did you. Are you hurt?” he asks, and his eyes slide from his face to his chest, his torso, cheeks pinkening a little. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt.” Like he’d only just noticed. 

John feels like laughing, a crazy little chuckle fighting its way out of his mouth. There’s a thin red line along Sherlock’s throat,tendrils of blood still drying on his skin, he can barely stand up straight, and he’s miffed because John is shirtless. “Long story,” he decides.

Maybe he could just distract Sherlock. They need to get to the nurse in any case, John could just-

“When did you come back,” Sherlock asks, a cold palm curling over his shoulder as he tries to keep his balance. “Did you see it? Did you see the Wolf? I can’t have hallucinated it again, John. I know he was there. He. I touched him, and I honestly thought he was going to kill me, but he didn’t. He didn’t. ”

Something in Sherlock’s voice makes John’s chest throb, and he doesn’t know how to explain it. He sounds helpless, like nothing makes sense to him and Sherlock hates it, hates it when things don't make sense, when they don’t line up perfectly and why does John feel guilty about that? It’s not- it’s not like he can tell him the truth. “I know,” he tells him. “Sherlock. We need to go to the nurse. You’re hurt.”

“You know?” Sherlock stares at him. “You saw him then? I wanted to look for you, but I didn’t know what he would do if he saw you. I was so scared when you left,” he whispers the last bit, voice growing soft and muted. John tries to prop him up against a tree, walking them backwards so that Sherlock is leaning against the bark. Sherlock lets him, body uncharacteristically pliant. 

“John,” Sherlock says, his name turning cautious in his mouth. “Are you-”

John lets his hands slip away, and he runs one through his hair. “I never left, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes turn bright and alert, they bore into his and his mouth curls with confusion. “What do you mean you never left,” he demands. “I saw you leave. I saw you…” trailing off uncertainly, gaze narrowing. 

This would be a good time, John thinks, to come up with an explanation. Not that Sherlock would make a leap of logic and come to the truth. Because he wouldn’t. But John’s head hurts and Sherlock smells like blood and sweat and pinecones and the things that John wants to do to him right now are dangerous and inappropriate. His body is still buzzing with awareness, and he’s exhausted. He’s so fuckng exhausted with this.

“Sherlock,” he starts, thinking maybe he’ll just start talking and let a story find itself.

"Wait,” Sherlock says, slowly, softly, interrupting him. 

A penny dropping is one thing. He can see it happening to Sherlock, except he imagines it keeps spinning and spinning in place while Sherlock tries to piece together a narrative that is logical, and comes up short.

John clutches the back of his head where a headache is starting to build. He sighs. “I did come back. And I got rid of Finnegan and his cronies.”

Sherlock's mouth falls open, a little. “No,” he says slowly. “Hang on a minute. You didn’t. I would have remembered.”

“You do remember, though,” John points out. “Think.”

He thinks fleetingly that he’s possibly gone insane. Or at least Sherlock will think he’s insane. But yesterday Finnegan almost killed Sherlock right in front of John and maybe that could have been avoided if John had told him the truth. All these secrets, and what for? For Lestrade? For the Center? Sherlock obviously wasn’t going to go about shouting at the top of his lungs that John was a werewolf. So who was John lying for? 

Maybe Sherlock will stay away, if he knew. Maybe this was finally what convinced him that John was dangerous and he’d do best to stay as far as possible. Because it was John’s fault, wasn’t it? He thinks of the sharp blade against Sherlock’s throat, blood bleeding through the cut, his hands bound behind him, defenseless, and John can’t protect him, not like this. 

John had asked Sherlock if he trusted him, and Sherlock had said yes. 

What was he supposed to do? Keep lying?

Sherlock’s voice is clipped and short when he replies, his eyes cold. “If this is your idea of a joke, John-”

“If I was joking, you’d be laughing.”

A cold wind picks up and rustles through the trees, whistles past his ears and ruffles Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock shivers visibly, eyes screwing shut in frustration. “I've gone mad,” he continues, and who is he talking to? Himself or John?

“Sherlock, look at me,” John says, fingers tapping against Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock obliges, only for a second, before batting his hand away, eyes flashing. 

“I’m not in the mood for a mind game right now, this is ridiculous. I don’t know what I was thinking, I obviously hallucinated the entire thing. Why did we spend the night in the woods, John?” Sherlock has one hand in his hair, breathing heavily like he’s on the edge of hyperventilation. 

“You passed out on top of me, and I couldn’t very well carry you back, could I?”

“I didn’t. I passed out on top of-” he pauses, swallows. “You’ve carried me back before.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, “But I couldn’t do it yesterday.”

“Why not?” 

John doesn’t say anything. Somewhere, a crow caws. The sound is harsh and jarring in the stillness of the wood.

Sherlock swallows, the rapid, jack rabbit pulse of his heart in John’s ears. Thudthudthudthudthud

“You-”

“One bark for yes,” John says, crisply, taking a step towards him. Sherlock pales, freezes where he stands. Deer caught in headlights and John shouldn’t feel like putting his teeth against his throat.  “Two barks for yes. Roll over, that was a bit much. Put your paw up. Bossing me around even when I could kill you. Typical.”

Sherlock puts a shaking palm on his chest, trying to push him away. “You don't know what youre talking about. You hit your head. Or you were there, in the woods, you were watching-”

John laughs, something bitter edging the sound and he hates the way he sounds right now. “Where? Where the fuck would I be that I would be able to hear you? And you think, what, that I would just let you try to tame a fucking wolf while I watched ?”

Sherlock shakes his head, dismissive, his eyes snapping shut like it hurts to look at him. “Finnegan drugged you, or both of us, that’s the only plausible-”

“Good boy, you called me that once,” John says, voice low, and Sherlock’s eyes snap open, his palm falling away from John’s chest. Stares at him,wide eyed, somewhere between fascination and panic. “Kind of condescending,” John continues, and moves closer, closer. He’s a hair’s breadth away from him, close enough to see the minute trembling in Sherlock’s body and he wants nothing more than to run his hands over him, comfort, soothe. He’s aware of a siren going on in his head, faint and useless. He shouldn’t be this close to him, not this soon after a cycle, but Sherlock is so fucking tempting John doesn’t even try. “You asked me not to eat you. I licked you,” he raises a hand and runs a line down Sherlock’s neck, from under his ear to where his collarbone slips under his shirt. “Right…here.”

He could scent him. He could. His throat is right there. He tastes something metallic in the back of his throat, faint, very faint, but there’s something richer, deeper underneath it. Fear and arousal, somehow always weaving themselves together. Oh, Sherlock. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is a tremulous thing. 

“What, Sherlock?” John closes his eyes, shifts closer until the tip of his nose is against Sherlock’s neck. He can smell the drying blood, and he wants to lick it away. He brushes a hand over his ribs, feather light. He can feel Sherlock’s muscles fluttering under his touch. He breathes in. Lovely. So lovely. “Was I there that night too? Watching while Finnegan and his cronies beat the shit out of you?”

“I don’t. I d- don’t know.”

John cups a hip, rubs circles into the bone. “God you had such a mouth on you, even then. I was never  going to hurt you. But I didn’t expect you to try and talk to me.”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. What is he doing

“It’s not possible,” Sherlock protests weakly, and John laughs, ducking his head against Sherlock’s shoulder until he pulls away, taking a step back so he’s not touching him anymore. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed, eyes dark but his lips slightly parted. 

“You were willing enough to believe that a wolf could understand the Queen’s English. I’ve been to Baskerville and they wouldn’t do that. Useless project.”

He steps away, turning his back to Sherlock, trying to put some distance between the two of them. His shirt is on the ground, must have fluttered down because of the wind. He slips it over his shoulders, does up the buttons. 

“So you’re telling me,” Sherlock says, sounding strangled. “You’re telling me that.” he pauses. Clears his throat. Tries again. “You honestly can’t expect me to believe that you-” John turns around, one eyebrow raised as he buttons the rest. “That you were the wolf,” Sherlock finishes, the sentence practically ripped from his mouth. He looks like he swallowed something unpleasant. He glares at John. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

“It’s not like I didn’t give you any evidence.”

Sherlock scowls. “What you told me was hardly evidence- ”

John sighs, “Just because you haven’t seen it happen-”

“That’s right!” Sherlock exclaims, peeling himself away from the tree. He still hunches a bit, a hand at his side. Favouring his right foot. “I haven’t. So show me, then. Do it.” He waves a hand expectantly at him, like he thinks there’s going to be a flash of light and voila! Man to dog. Bravo. Applause.

“Do what? Shift? In case you haven’t noticed,” John grits his teeth, “The full moon’s past.”

God he’s already regretting this.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A werewolf. How convenient. You should stop reading so much fiction.”

“You honestly think I’m having you on,” John can’t help but smile. It feels wrong and strange on his mouth but the hilarity of the situation is not entirely beyond him. “Of all the people I would try to convince that I was a werewolf, it would be you? If I wanted to take the piss, Sherlock, I’d choose something you were at least a little likely to believe. But fine,” he bends at the waist, picks up the closest thing he can find- a jagged piece of rock. “Should be quicker now, since I’m just off my Cycle.”

Sherlock frowns at him, opens his mouth to say something, but then John uses the rock to slice through his palm. It’s deep; blood almost immediately starts gushing from the cut, dripping down his skin.

“What are you doing, ” Sherlock snaps, “Are you insane?” he limps towards him, ripping the rock from John’s other hand flinging it away. “You need a psychiatric evaluation, this is obviously some kind of nervous breakdown, and we’re both suffering from it, and you need. You need-” he stops talking when John holds up his palm, words petering away into silence.

Sherlock blinks and blinks at the rapidly healing cut.  John wipes the blood off on his trousers, and Sherlock is still staring at him. 

It’s an oddly nice change of pace, Sherlock being the one who is wrong-footed. 

“Your arm,” Sherlock chokes out, after what seems like an age. “That’s why. That’s how you-”

“It’s a side effect of my, ah. Condition.” John squints at his hand. Just a thin jagged  remains of a seeping wound. 

“Your hearing.” 

“Mmm hmm. Not quite a lucky guess, huh?”

Sherlock’s answering glare is not quite so potent on account of the flushed cheeks and scowl, that at this point, frankly looks adorable. John thinks he’s taking it remarkably well, he knows that someone at the Center had been seen by a tourist before they’d been brought in and the person had died of a heart attack. In comparison, this is clearly a preferable reaction.

“But that doesn’t explain,” he says carefully, slowly, a plea in his voice. Tell me this isn’t true. Sherlock trying so hard to understand something that John had stopped trying to decipher years ago. “How does it explain. The. The-” he waves his hand, still not quite able to say the word. 

“The lycanthropy?” John raises an eyebrow.

“Oh god,” Sherlock groans, both hands covering his face. “Oh god. I’m dreaming, aren’t I? I’m not quite awake yet. This has to be one of the most ludicrous things I’ve ever thought of. I-” Sherlock hisses softly and stumbles, one hand flying to his side, features contorting in pain. 

“We need to get you to the nurse,” John says, holding him by the arms. Back against the tree he goes. “Hold still, let me see.”

“I don’t-”

John takes a hold of the hem of his shirt and gently lifts it up. 

“Jesus fucking christ.”

Sherlock’s ribs are a canopy of black and blue, like someone just took him down and kicked him. Mottled bruises litter most of what should be pale, unmarked skin.  They spread over his side and bleed into the flat plane of his abdomen, and John sees red for a second, is so angry he can’t breathe. 

“My head hurts,” Sherlock complains, almost petulantly, eyes scrunching shut in pain. John pulls down the shirt immediately so he can look at him. Worry coats his stomach, all of this stupid conversation and he didn’t even check his injuries. 

“Where?” he feels along the back of his head, pressing down the inky curls with his palm, trying to find any cuts or bruises or dried blood.

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. “Everywhere. I thought you didn’t like nurses.”

“I don’t. But I’m not the one who’s a walking bruise, am I? You sprained your ankle too, can you walk?” John pulls Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and wraps his own around his waist. The position is painfully familiar, although Sherlock’s sobriety is a definite improvement. 

“How do you know that,” Sherlock asks, leaning heavily against him. 

“You told me, remember,” John reminds him, and Sherlock makes a face like he swallowed something unpleasant. He stumbles a bit and hooks an arm around John’s back.

“You can still tell me you’re joking.”

John laughs as they make their slow progress. “Then technically I’d be lying. Do you want me to lie to you? I think there’s been enough of that, don’t you?

Sherlock is silent at that, because maybe he realises that all the evasive answers, the things he couldn’t understand, all suddenly have a perfect explanation. Even though it’s an explanation that would rather have him chew broken glass than accept. I don’t want to lie to you anymore, John wants to tell him, because what better way to convince Sherlock than that?

“There must be something else. Outside of this,” he says it very matter of factly, his voice taking on that brisk colour of logic like it does when he’s telling John why you can tell a computer engineer from his tie and a good chinese restaurant from its bottom door handle.

And John feels guilty, because it must be difficult for him. Reconciling your world view. Like telling someone they’d been mistaken about the colour of the sky. He could take it back. He could tell Sherlock he was joking, having him on but they’d be right back where they started and for once, just for once, John wants someone to know. He wants Sherlock to know.

Sherlock doesn’t look at him like a fucking experiment, he touches John like he’s here, like he’s real. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at his scars and feel sorry for him. 

“I’m sure you’ll manage to come up with something that fits,” John reassures him, but Sherlock only scoffs.

They’re closer to the school building now, John can hear the sounds of students. Can smell them. The bell rings somewhere in the distance, high and sharp.

John pushes the door of the Nurse’s office open with his shoulder, Sherlock grunting in pain as he’s jostled. The last time they’d been in this part of the building, they hadn’t even gone inside. Well, Sherlock had. John had stayed out, evaluating his sanity while he steadily dripped blood all over the wooden flooring.

The room is bright and white, warm.Ms. Yang looks up from where she’s reading a magazine at her desk and balks at the side of them. “My goodness,” she exclaims, rushing from her seat towards them.”Through here, please, Mr. Watson. Yes, through that door.”

She’s not dressed in white, which John is strangely relieved by. He hadn’t realised how tense he was until he saw her. The room is bright, but he realises it’s because of the sunshine streaming through the window, not the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Her movements are business like and brusque, and she doesn’t fuss over Sherlock, just opens the door to the sick room and rushes them through. 

They pass through to the adjoining room, where there are about a dozen beds lined up against the wall. This room is considerably more drafty, which John thinks is a little unfair. “This is ridiculous,” Sherlock mutters.

“Put him there, yes, the closest one,” Ms Yang instructs crisply. “Mr. Holmes, I should start keeping a permanent bed for you here.”

John snorts, gently letting go of Sherlock and extricating himself, setting him down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock glares at the both of them, even as he pants lightly and grips the side of the mattress so hard his knuckles turn white. 

John leans against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “He hit his head,” he informs her. “Cracked ribs. Sprained his ankle.”

Ms Yang hums, standing in front of Sherlock and extracting a pen light from the front of her apron, tilting Sherlock’s head up with a finger under his chin. “Let me guess, you fell?” She shines the light in Sherlock’s eyes, and he looks extremely displeased, blinking and trying to get away. 

“Yes,” he answers shortly.

Ms Yang doesn’t look like she believes him. She straightens,dropping the penlight pack in her pocket. “Any nausea? Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Just a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Could you lie down for me, please.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash stubbornly. “No.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Ms Yang says severely. “I have means of making you obey if you don’t. Now lie down.”

Sherlock glares at him as if to say this is all your fault, but John only raises an eyebrow in response, unsympathetic. Sherlock exhales through his teeth, put upon beyond belief, and gingerly lays back, wincing as it puts pressure on his ribs. John steps closer to the bed and hovers above him, straightens the pillows and resists the temptation to swipe away the damp curls resting against his forehead. “Comfortable?” he asks, and Sherlock scowls at him.

“Mr. Watson,” Yang says, and John turns around to look at her. 

“He’s quite safe with me,” she tells him gently. “You’ve already missed your first class.”

John’s mind goes briefly blind with panic at the thought of leaving Sherlock here alone, bruised and beaten and without him . His fingers tighten where they’re wrapped around the metal frame of the bed.“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need to examine him.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

She heaves a long suffering sigh, pinches the bridge of her nose like John is testing her patience. “Fine,” she breathes. “Could you at least step outside for five minutes?”

“I can do five minutes,” John says agreeably, and he turns back to look down at Sherlock. “I’ll only be a moment,” he promises.

Sherlock’s fingers twitch where they’re resting on his midsection. “I’ll be alright.”

“Course you will,” John briefly cups his hand over Sherlock’s, something hot and hard clawing at his sides. He swallows, stepping back and striding out of the room before he does something ridiculous, like kiss him, because John wants to. Just lean over and brush his lips over his forehead, bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He takes a shaky breath, shutting the door behind himself and sinking into one of the rickey chairs lined up against the wall outside.

Nurse Yang has Sherlock propped up against the pillows, holding an ice pack to his side when he goes back inside, after five minutes like clockwork. Turning around just as John enters the room, she looks unsurprised to see him. “I’ve given him painkillers,” she says around a tired smile. “He’s hit his head, so I'd like him to stay here for the night, and if he’s alright tomorrow morning he doesn’t have to go to the hospital,” she walks up towards him and fixes him with a hard look. “He needs rest, ” she continues pointedly. “Until he’s well enough to move without pain. Sound good?”

John glances at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes. “Great,” John answers.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to class, Mr. Watson?” She adjusts the glasses that rest on her nose. 

“Pretty sure.”

She doesn’t look happy with the decision, but does not argue with him. “Let me know if he needs anything, then,” she requests, before squeezing his shoulder and breezing out of the room, shutting the door behind herself.

Immediately Sherlock starts to sit up. “John-” he starts, and John makes a terse, angry sound, before covering the distance between the door and the bed in two quick strides, and catching Sherlock around the shoulders before he hurts himself. He tries to push him back down.

“I swear to God, Sherlock, if you try to get up I will strap you to the bed.” His voice sounds low and threatening even to his own ears, and Sherlock visibly pinkens, staring up at him with bright, wide eyes. His body relaxes and he allows John to set him back against the pillows.  His curls spill over the cotton, sable against white. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, voice cut through with breathlessness. John nods once before letting go of him, seating himself in an empty chair someone must have dragged in here god knows how long ago. It’s straight-backed and uncomfortable, but John’s legs are starting to feel sore, the exhaustion from his Shift finally catching up with him.

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, sighing. John’s eyes stray to the vulnerable curve of his throat.

“You don’t have to-” Sherlock says, trailing off awkwardly.

“Now who’s the idiot?” John looks away, tilts his head back against the wooden ridge, god that’s uncomfortable, who the bloody hell thought it was a good idea to use these torture devices?

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls slowly. He’s tired, John can tell. Hopefully the painkillers have a tiny bit of sedative in them, because he really should sleep. His eyelids flutter a bit. 

“That’s why you left,” his voice is quiet. “Last night.”

John’s heart jumps in his chest. Ah, right. It had completely slipped his mind that not half an hour ago John had revealed a rather important fact about himself. He hums, non committal. He’d rather they not talk about this now, Sherlock would work himself into a snit the more he thought about it.

“You kept looking up, staring at the sky like you thought it was going to rain,” he continues, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I thought you were trying to tell me something. Though what on earth you expected me to do about the imminent precipitation, I hadn’t the faintest idea.”

John huffs out a soft laugh as he scrapes his hand over his face, pushing his fringe back until it falls over his forehead again. “It was a bit touch and go. If I’d stayed any longer you would have seen it happen.”

Sherlock makes a soft, musing noise in reply. “Can’t imagine that would have gone down well,” he says lightly.

He taps his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair, shaking his head. “You would have come up with an explanation for that, too, I’m sure.”

Sherlock stays quiet for a few moments, and John stares at the wall, sleep starting to catch at his eyelids. It’s painted a pale shade of yellow, which he finds comforting for some reason. There’s damp on the ceiling, near the corners, he can see where it seeps through, ugly, shapeless blotches on the paint. He thinks about the pristine white walls of the Centre, everything gleaming and metallic and clinical. Cold. Always cold. 

“There was no juvenile home, was there?” Sherlock twists his head to look at him. Nurse Yang has cleaned the blood from his face, put butterfly plasters along the seam of the cut on his throat. There’s no cast on his nose, so it wasn’t broken, then. A colourful bruise still sits on the bridge, under his nostrils. 

John clears his throat. “Not exactly.”

“So you- oh. Baskerville, you grew up in-” he almost jackknifes off the bed in excitement, immediately wincing, hand cupping his side and letting out a rough exhale. John is up the next moment, curving an arm under his back and easing him back down. 

“Stop. Sherlock, please. You need to rest.”

“That’s why Mycroft said you were dangerous,” Sherlock continues, almost feverishly, too distracted to be annoyed with John holding him down on the bed so he doesn't try to get up again. “Of course, ” he shakes his head. “Of course Mycroft would know. That’s why he was so. That’s why-”

He pauses, breathless. A cold shiver of terror works its way into John’s gut. Mycroft. Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, he couldn’t possibly have known. How would he-? Unless he’d been to the Center. Unless he’d been involved, and John had ignored the way the name sounded so familiar, the way he’d felt as if he’d seen those grey eyes somewhere before.

“I will answer all of your questions when you wake up,” he promises, his voice sounding oddly hollow. “Nurse Yang said you need rest.”

Sherlock yawns, even though he tries his best to stifle it. “What does she know?”

John pulls the blanket over his legs, up to his waist. Sherlock’s eyes start to droop. 

“Well, she did go to nursing school,” John points out, and Sherlock scoffs, body relaxing under John’s hands. “Just close your eyes for a few minutes, yeah?”

“Bet she’s never seen a werewolf,” Sherlock mutters, words slurring slightly. “Just a  few minutes,” he reminds John, and closes his eyes. Shifts a little to the side so his face is pressed into the pillow.

When he doesn’t wake up in the next few minutes, John slowly lets go of him, careful not to make any noise. Sherlock starts snoring softly a few moments later. John stands there for what feels like ages, staring, staring. Sherlock’s features visibly relaxed in sleep, mouth just barely parted as little puffs of breaths whisper between his lips. He touches him only when his heart beat slows down to something more gentle and rhythmic.

Just a brief swipe over his forehead, brushing the curls away. His skin is a little clammy under his fingers. 

John drops his hand, steps back and slowly lowers himself back in the chair. The legs scrape a little against the floor but Sherlock doesn’t wake up. 

He tilts his head back, closing his eyes only for a second, but he falls asleep just as quickly, lulled by the sound of Sherlock’s breathing and the soft pulse of his heart.

John wakes up with a start when the sound of a soft click invades his sleep. He lifts his head from the back of his chair, blinking rapidly and looking around until he sees Lestrade at the door, leaning against the door jamb, one hand on the knob. 

John immediately raises a finger to his lips, gesturing at Sherlock. He’s still fast asleep, brows furrowed like he’d dreaming about something unpleasant. John slowly extricates himself from the chair and walks towards the door, cracking his neck because it’s developed a crick from dozing off in that damn chair. “Outside,” he mouths at him, slipping past him into Nurse Yang’s office. She’s not at her desk, the magazine she was reading lies face down on the surface. Lestrade gently closes the door before turning towards him. 

“How is he?”

“Alive,” John says brusquely. “I want you to expel Finnegan.”

John doesn’t ask how he knows, Yang must have told him, or even if she didn’t, he doesn’t care at that moment. He’d pushed the rage down for so long for Sherlock, but honestly at this point he can feel it again, simmering in his gut, dangerous and threatening. He clenches his fists at his side and glares up at Lestrade, his jaw so rigid it hurts his teeth. 

He expects Lestrade to roll his eyes, or start telling John he’s being crazy, but he just nods and says, “I know. Scott came and told me everything. John, listen to me. He said-”

“I know what he told you.”

Lestrade huffs a frustrated breath, runs a hand through his greying hair. It’s gotten a little longer than last time. “John,” he says, slowly, carefully. “Listen to me. This is beyond reckless. I can contain it to the three of them for now but if this gets out of hand, they will make you go back. Look at me. Look at me,” he takes hold of John’s shoulder and squeezes, forcing John to rip his gaze away from where it’s locked on the door to the sick room and up at him. “Do you understand?”

“No, you listen to me, ” John snarls, and Lestrade’s hand drops away, eyes widening in surprise. John steps towards him, and he can feel a growl building in his throat. Lestrade holds up one hand, placatingly, and it just makes him angrier. He jabs a finger at the door. “He almost fucking killed him. He would have, if I hadn’t been there. So get rid of him or I will.”

Lestrade swallows, looks down at him and licks his lips nervously, something John has never seen him do before. “I'll take care of Finnegan, alright? But you have to stop doing this,” he sighs shakily. “I know you care about him. But this is dangerous John. Remember what we spoke about? I don’t know how else to explain it to you. You have a Progress Meet in what, a month? You-”

“I want you to change our rooms back.”

Lestrade looks at him almost pityingly. “John.”

“Please,” John says, and his voice cracks at the end. All of a sudden the rage leaves him, replaced by bone deep exhaustion. He steps back and grips the edge of Yang’s desk. “Or at least put me in the same block. Greg, please. I can’t do this. I can’t.”

Lestrade makes an aborted movement as if to come towards him, touch him, but thinks better of it and pulls his hand away, shoving it into his trouser pocket. “His brother specifically requested-”

“You’re the Dean. How will he find out unless you tell him?”

“Jesus Christ, John,” Lestrade whistles a breath through his teeth, cupping his forehead like he has a headache. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Suddenly there’s a sliver of cold air and the slow creak of a door opening. “Greg, visiting your favourite student?” Nurse Yang walks in, oblivious to the rather tense atmosphere in her room. She sits down behind her desk again, John hears the flick of the pages as she opens her magazine. “John, you look pale. Take one of the beds, if you like. Have a lie down. I’ll write you a note.”

“Thank you,” John says tightly, eyes not leaving Lestrade’s face.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Lestrade promises. “See you, Laura,” and with that he steps out of the office, door swinging gently behind him.

Thankfully Sherlock is still asleep when John comes back to resume his vigil. His cheeks are a little flushed, so John touches his forehead with the back of his hand to make sure he doesn’t have a fever. He doesn’t, perfectly normal temperature. His thumb swipes over a sharp, bruise-dark cheekbone before he pulls away. 

He thinks of Sherlock’s hand in his fur, curious but so soft. No one had touched him like that, not before. People were understandably afraid, and John doesn’t think he would have taken too well to being touched either. It was different, with Sherlock. It was always different with Sherlock. 

He should be scared. He’d expected fear, disgust. That would have been normal, and John would have stayed away. If Sherlock had wanted that. If he’d asked that of him. If John had gotten even a whiff of fear he would have done the right thing, the smart thing, and told Sherlock that his brother was right. John was dangerous. 

(And obviously, the one person John took a shine to, it had to be someone with a big brother who was involved in Baskerville. Trust that to happen to John Watson, he of the worst fucking luck in the universe)

But Sherlock hadn’t, just looked at him with the same wide-eyed curiosity that he looked at everything else, and John shouldn’t want that. 

He fusses a little, fixing the blanket and drawing the curtains so the sun doesn’t fall on Sherlock’s face before he sits down again. 

For a second, Sherlock shifts and his eyes crack open. Bright silver dulled down to a rainwashed grey, he regards him sleepily before he makes another soft sound, and goes back to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s fingers fly quickly over the keyboard. Tap tap tap. One hand on the keys, the other holding on to an apple that he brings to his mouth and bites into. He’d woken up ravenously hungry, mouth dry and the back of his skull throbbing so hard he’d felt like he'd been hit with a tire iron. Well. A well timed kick, with enough force, should also do the same amount of damage.

A brief flash of a memory rips through his head; a bright slice of pain against his throat, punishing hands in his hair. He has to press his fingers to his temples to get rid of it. 

There’d been an apple and a wrapped sandwich on the chair. A folded piece of paper, Sherlock had reached over, wincing, to take it and read through it. John’s unmistakable handwriting; small and tidy. 

Headmaster’s office. Apparently I’m a witness. 

Please eat something

Back soon

John

He hadn’t really needed to sign his name, Sherlock would have been able to tell from the penmanship, the way John takes exceeding care to fold the paper in four parts. Should be exasperating. It isn’t. 

Nurse Yang had poked her head in half an hour after he’d woken up, shone the damn light in his eyes again, asked him if he had a sudden need to vomit into  the nearest receptacle. She’d given him painkillers, which was the only useful thing she’s done so far, in Sherlock’s opinion. He’d immediately started looking for his shoes to leave, but she’d stopped him with a rather forceful hand to his chest and pushed him back into the bed.

“ Rest,” she’d seethed through her teeth. “Or I will lock you inside this room, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock had glowered at her, but it was ineffectual. Yang had remained steely eyed and resolute. “How long?”

“Till tomorrow at the very least. Don’t worry, Mr. Watson should be back soon to entertain you.”

Well he better. Trust John to tell him a rather life-altering facet of his personality and then leave Sherlock to wake up alone with the fact. 

She’d left him to his own devices after that, and Sherlock had been alone in the empty, slightly drafty sick room. Someone had come in to clean it soon, and he’d bribed him with his sandwich to get his laptop from his room. And then he’d crossed his legs under himself, opened the computer and tried to hack into Baskerville’s ‘secure’ browser. He’ll be getting a phone call from Mycroft soon, once someone realises, (he estimates four hours)  but given that Sherlock has decided to never speak to his arshole of a brother again, he doesn’t care.

Baskerville really should try harder in protecting their more important files. Sherlock has dug through countless military plans and frankly disturbing reports of failed experiments until he reaches a dead end he can’t get through. He’s already elbow deep in data, but none of it helpful.

He had woken up with a mind to discount the last twelve hours. He’d considered drugs. A mental breakdown. Insanity. John’s god awful sense of humour. That should have been easy. The thing about facts is that they are indisputable, you put two and two together and come up with four, not werewolf.

He hated being wrong. It was a state of affairs he only very rarely had to deal with, so Sherlock can’t say he’s used to how it feels. The fact that there’s an entire section of Baskerville’s database that he is unable to access when he breezed through most of what should have been more strongly protected, is rather telling. He briefly considers that he’d dreamt the last day and night, and he was only just now waking up from a blow to the back of the head, or some sort.

Except the memory of John’s palm as the cut sewed itself together is far too real to be a figment of his imagination.

Looks like the site you are searching for no longer exists. 

Sherlock refreshes the page several times.

And there was the fact that Sherlock could just tell that John wasn’t lying to him, or taking the piss. It wasn’t something he could explain, which was annoying and unfortunate. 

Obviously once you accepted the entire thing as true, several things did fall rather conveniently into place. 

He had questions, though. He’d asked Nurse Yang for a notepad and had written them down. The entire notepad was almost full with his near illegible scrawl. If John was telling him the truth he should be able to answer them easily enough. 

Once he’s bored with Baskerville, he shuts the window, deciding to try again later. He opens a new tab and sets his cursor over the search bar. It blinks almost mockingly at him, like it knows what Sherlock is about to do. He purses his lips and types in a word. 

“You’re awake.”

Sherlock looks up to see John at the door, closing it with his foot. He has a duffle bag over his shoulder, and he’s changed his shirt. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time, Sherlock thinks, and his cheeks flood with heat, and something worse. Something that tugs at his stomach uncomfortably. He’d only looked for a few seconds, but it had been enough. John’s torso was dotted with scars, some small, some bigger, something was tattooed above his chest, small and black, right underneath his collarbone, but he doesn’t remember. 

 “Your observational skills astound,” he tells John dryly in reply.

“Got you your pyjamas,” he says briskly, ignoring Sherlock’s jibe. He walks towards his bed.  “Shouldn’t you be resting? What are you- what the hell, Sherlock,” John looks down at the screen from where he stands at the head of the bed. He drops the duffle bag with a curse. 

Sherlock continues to scroll, nonplussed. “What? It’s research. It’s not as if you gave me much information.”

“Jesus, you nutter, ” he bends over, face coming quite close to Sherlock’s as he peers at the screen. Sherlock glances at him, blue light washing over his features. John scowls, shaking his head. “If you want to ask something, just ask, don’t Google- ” he puts his finger on the mouse pad, scrolls down and makes a noise of enormous disgust when he’s met with an image that even  Sherlock has to admit  is both anatomically incorrect and grossly inaccurate. “Christ, I don’t look like that, that’s disgusting, what did you even search for?”

“Werewolf,” Sherlock admits sheepishly, and John just sighs and snaps the laptop shut, plucking it out of his lap.

“ John, ” he complains, but John doesn’t listen. Just puts it on the next bed over and turns round to fix him with an admonishing stare.

“Don’t be a drama queen. If you’re looking for accurate information, the internet isn’t exactly the place I’d advise you to look.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “So I’m supposed to take what you told me at face value?”

“Hardly face value, we went through this already,” John sighs, setting himself against the edge of the adjoining bed. Palms on the mattress, one ankle crossed over the other. He looks tired, skin ashen and washed out. Sherlock wants to push him down into the bed and pull the blanket over his shoulders.  “What do you want to know, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at him for a few seconds, weighing his responses. He knows exactly what he wants to ask, but he’s not entirely sure how John would reply. Technically he can’t be blamed, visual proof really is the most accurate. “I want to watch,” he finally says.

John blinks at him. “What, a film?”

Sherlock heaves an irritated exhale. “No.  I want to watch you. What you told me about. I want to watch the Shift.”
Predictably, John pauses. His jaw sets and he looks away, fingers twisting into the bedsheets. Nervousness? Anger? Frustration? “Sherlock..” he says slowly, almost like he’s weighing every word. “I don’t want to lie to you-”

“Then don’t. Like you said. There’s been enough of that,” Sherlock twists around on his bottom so they’re facing each other. The painkillers have mitigated the pain to a dull ache. “How can I believe you if I don’t see it?”

“I don’t know if you’d want to, Sherlock,” John says, sounding weary. He turns back to him, eyes dark and cautious. The line of his shoulders tense, defensive. “It’s not…pleasant. And I’m not stable, when it happens. Sometimes-”

“If you’re telling me the truth I’m hardly in danger from you. You were terribly tame,” Sherlock blinks up at him innocently, and John raises a questioning eyebrow. Sherlock sighs, dropping the expression and waving his hands vaguely at him. 

“Alright, fine, you were terrifying and you almost made me piss myself. But you didn’t hurt me, did you? Both times. You didn’t hurt me.”

His voice softens at the end, even though he doesn’t mean it to. He doesn’t say: You saved me. He doesn’t say I was terrified, but never of you. Because he still can’t put Wolf and John together in his head and think they’re the same. It makes sense, in an oddly comforting way. Of course if John was Wolf he would never have hurt him. John was incapable of doing it, and ergo so was Wolf. He doesn’t think of Wolf curling around him the entire night, falling asleep on top of a wild animal like he wasn’t completely, utterly, insane. 

Both of them unerringly protective. Violent when they wanted. Fucking terrifying if the situation called for it.

“Once I’ve Shifted it’s easier,” John explains. “The actual process of change is unpredictable.”

Sherlock looks at him expectantly, waiting. 

“We’ll have to take precautions,” he continues, shoulders slumping like he’s lost a battle, and Sherlock wants to leap from the bed and hug him. 

He flushes. Maybe not. Once was quite enough. 

“ Thank you, John,” he says instead, as sincerely as he can, and John just shakes his head at him, mouth turned up in a small, self deprecating smile like he can’t believe he allowed Sherlock to convince him. 

“It’s,” he looks up at the ceiling, thoughtful, like he’s counting something in his head. “Twenty seven days,” he looks back down at him. “Think you can wait that long?”

“No, dull,” Sherlock agrees, leaning to his side to pick up the notepad he’d left on the table. He flips back to the first page. “But I’ve thought of a way to pass the time.”

John looks down at the pad, frowning. 

“What-”

“I have questions.”

**

Unsurprisingly, Finnegan is expelled. Sherlock is so relieved he can’t breathe for a moment, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face.

The headmaster comes to the sick room, looking uncomfortable. He clears his throat as he stands at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, and informs him. Apparently John’s testimony, followed by Lestrade vouching that John had nothing to do with the incident and was only trying to keep the boys out of trouble, had worked wonders. Harding doesn’t even ask Sherlock to explain the events of the previous night, which Sherlock is rather relieved by. 

“We will, of course, be informing your brother,” he says.

“No you won’t,” Sherlock tells him smoothly.

Harding had gaped at him, and John had coughed into his arm. “Mr. Holmes, it’s policy-”

“I’m sure my brother would be very interested to know why you’ve taken cognizance of this now, when the pattern has been clearly repeating itself for months. Ms. Yang, is this the first time I’ve graced your doorstep?”

“Hardly,” Yang had replied in the midst of changing the sheets in the next bed.

The headmaster had paled, and loosened his tie like it was strangling him. “I wouldn’t-”

“Professor, I hope you’ll excuse me. I’m very tired. I have a concussion, you see. I’ve been reliably informed that what I need most of all right now is rest.”

Harding had nodded quickly, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Of course,” he’d said. “Of course. Take all the time you need, Mr. Holmes, we’ll see you back in class well rested and healthy.” He’d rushed out of the room without waiting for a response.

***

Origin of Condition: Genetic, as far as can be gauged. Manifests as an illness anywhere between early adolescence to adulthood. Death in 72% of cases. 

Cause of Death (Parents) Incompatibility with Virus 

Sister: 

Ages: 8-12: Foster Home

12-17: Baskerville Research Center  

Number of known lycanthropes, including John : 16 

Location of other known lycanthropes: Unknown 

Abilities as a result of condition: 

• Speed

• Sensory enhancement (Hearing)

• Strength

• Metabolic changes 

• Healing 

Sherlock puts the capped end of the pen in his mouth, chews. John is stretched out in the bed next to him, still in his uniform. He keeps bouncing a stress ball off the opposite wall, back and forth. Catches it perfectly each time, reflexes unerring, even as he carries on the conversation. Yang had shouted at them at some point of time to keep down the racket.

“How quickly do you heal?”

John frowns at that, thinking. “Depends on the wound. Depends on the stage of my cycle. Anywhere between a few seconds to a few days. A broken bone would take a few days. A paper cut, almost immediately.”

The ball bounces back into John’s hand and he squeezes.

 He’d been asleep for most of the day, attended a grand total of three classes before he’d called in sick and drudged back to the sick room. Sherlock had been ready with his notepad, but John had only glared at him and said, “Not now,” before passing out on top of the covers, shoes and all.

He slept on his front, mouth open so that he predictably drooled all over the cotton. Even with their separate rooms, John had taken to sleeping in his room during the day so it’s not as if he hasn’t seen John like this in too long. It doesn’t stop Sherlock from staring at him and hissing at Yang to keep it down when she comes inside with his lunch. “Mr. Watson is not my patient,” she’d huffled irritatedly, but she’s pulled a blanket over him in any case. 

“It takes a lot of energy,” John had said when he’d woken up, soft and rumpled and rubbing at his eyes, yawning. It made his sharp incisors very prominent. “So. I sleep.”

“Must be an automatic response, your body attempting to restore equilibrium,” Sherlock had surmised, writing it down quickly. 

“Probably. I’m hungry. Pass me that banana.”

“Do you want to see?” John asks, voice careful and overly light. Sherlock pauses in the midst of writing and looks up from the notepad in his lap. John throws the ball from one hand to another, eyes fixed on a distant spot on the wall.

“See what?” 

“The healing. Do you want to check. See it for yourself, I don’t know,” Sherlock watches as his jaw tightens and there’s something odd about his tone of voice. 

“No, I already saw it for myself,” he reminds him. “Please don’t feel the need to injure yourself on my behalf.” 

Even the idea of it makes Sherlock’s skin crawl, why on earth would he want John to cut himself open just so Sherlock could see how fast he could heal? The display in the woods was quite enough, even the sight of blood dripping down John’s wrist had made him feel him sick, anxiety coating his stomach and turning his fingers cold. 

The tightness in his mouth dissipates, and he turns his head to smile at Sherlock. It touches his eyes and knocks the breath out of him, only a little. Sherlock clears his throat and turns back to his notes. 

Sensory enhancement: 

Hearing: Radius of ten-sixteen miles 

Smell: Roughly 1.5 KM 

“What can you hear right now?”

John hums, closes his eyes, and tilts his head to the side. He’s quiet for a few seconds, long enough that Sherlock thinks he’s gone to sleep. He’s about to shout at him to wake up when John answers, quietly. “Yang is writing something down. I can hear her typing. And her foot tapping on the floor. Someone’s talking outside the sick room, two girls, sounds like. They’re talking about..” he frowns, “Mallory. They haven’t studied for the test. And. Outside, they’re playing football. I can hear the whistle.” He opens his eyes, sits up, cracks his neck. “And I can hear your heartbeat. Kind of fast right now, are you feeling alright?”

John turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Sherlock flushes, heat gathering in his cheeks and of course he’s right, Sherlock can practically hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He could go outside and check, confirm if John was telling the truth. All he can hear is the low rumble of the radiator as it heats the room. Unfortunately he’s rather sure that John won’t be mistaken. 

 “I’m fine,” he says, and if his voice wavers, John doesn’t say anything about it. 

“There is one thing I’d like to see, though,” he clears his throat. John is turned towards him now, legs over the edge of the bed, foot tapping impatiently on the floor like Nurse Yang.

John tilts his head at him, curious. “Go ahead.”

“You’re stronger than the average male. How much stronger?” 

John laughs- actually laughs, loud and bright and clear. “What d’you want me to do, lift a car over my head? I’m not Superman.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward, puts the notepad next to him on the bed. “We could hardly do that whilst being unobtrusive. Must be something you could show me.”

“Hm. Well,” John purses his lips, looking around the room. Hopefully not for something to break, he doesn’t want Yang jumping down their throats again. “Alright,” he jumps off the bed and moves towards him. For a moment, Sherlock pauses, tipping his head upward. John has a small smile at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smirk but just the shadow of.  Eyes bright blue and piercing, he keeps them trained on Sherlock when he stretches an arm and curls his fingers around the metal frame.

“We’ll tell Yang you threw the jug at it,” John tells him, inexplicably, a smile in his voice, before there’s a low, grinding noise like metal being crushed. Sherlock turns to his side in alarm, just as John lets go of the frame. 

He’s squished the bloody thing like putty. There are deep indents the size and shape of his fingers in the metal. Sherlock stares at it, trying to close his mouth which has fallen open in surprise but he can’t. “Not quite what I expected,” he says, after a second, mouth dry.

“Yeah, well. That’s about it. I can’t barrel through walls or uproot trees or anything like that.”

Sherlock shifts closer to the bedpost, runs his fingers over the mangled metal. There is something hot and squirmy in the depth of his gut and he doesn’t know what it is, and doesn’t care to examine it too carefully.  “I can’t imagine a situation that would call for that kind of damage.”

“You never know,” John says mysteriously, and picks up his ball again, resumes throwing it at the wall.

Purpose of Baskerville Project: Unknown 

• Possible:

• Military 

• Research 

• Human Transformation 

He’d tried asking about Baskerville, only once. After dinner, John was leaning back in the horrible wooden chair, his legs stretched out and feet resting on Sherlock’s bed, trying to get through the chapter they’d been assigned as homework. Or pretending to, at least, he hadn’t turned the page in the last fifteen minutes. John wasn’t that slow of a reader. 

“What was it like. The research center,” Sherlock had asked. His laptop had been open, but he’d been staring at the search page for a while and hadn’t gone beyond it. All he could think about was the first time he’d found John in his room, the way he’d turned around to look at him, body tensing and eyes flashing like he’d pin him to the wall with a snarl and a threat at the earliest chance. 

John had paused, fingers stilling in the process of finally turning a page. “What do you mean?” His voice was light, feigning casualness. 

“What did you do there? What was it for?” 

John keeps his eye on the page as he answers. “Nothing much. Pretty much like a school. We had classes. We played sports. We could pursue hobbies, if we wanted to.  When we had our cycle they’d stick us in a cage and monitor us.”

Sherlock recoils, more at the words than at John’s bland tone. Just plain experimentation then. The protectiveness that rears its head is fierce, burning. How would someone feel, he thinks, fingers shaking as he tapped some gibberish into the search bar just for something to do with his hands. How would John feel, his body something unknown and terrifying, not being able to speak to anybody, just walls and staring faces for company. Sherlock has been poked and prodded before, he’s familiar with the careful voices, the clinical touches.

The way people’s eyes track you like you’re something alien, unpredictable. Unexplainable.

It’s not really what John tells him but rather what he doesn’t say and Sherlock is not used to ceasing the search for information. He does it anyway, and decides to put an end to that specific line of interrogation because it’s obviously something that John doesn’t want to talk about. 

“Alright,” he says softly, and John looks up at him, perhaps just as surprised as he is at his own behaviour.

“There’s not much to say,” he says, almost apologetically, and god, why should John feel apologetic for not wanting to speak about his traumatic childhood. “I was brought in. They stamped a number on my chest and kept us there for five years. That’s about it.”

Sherlock swallows, feeling as though he might vomit. “Alright,” he says again, more firmly. It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. Let’s stop.

Sherlock doesn’t need to be told. He’s clever, he can deduce.

John puts the book on the bed and scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “How’s your head?” Changing the subject. Fine. Good.

“Absolutely fine. Why am I not being allowed out of here yet?” Sherlock flops back against the pillows. He shuts his computer. 

“I managed to cut your sentence down to three days, don’t be a berk,” John gets up from his chair, swiping the laptop off of his lap. “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“You’re staying?”

“Course,” John had replied, switching off the overhead lamp. “G’night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight.”

***

• Able to understand human speech in Wolf form

• Perfectly lucid 

• Sharper teeth

• Can understand speech patterns of other canines, but only in Wolf form

• Cycle: every 28 Days, short-medium term side effects include: exhaustion, joint pain, nausea, aggravated hunger 

• How did he get the scar 

• Loveliest, softest coat I’ve ever seen 

***

“How much does Lestrade know?”

John turns to him in alarm. Probably thought he was asleep. He hadn’t though, only pretended to be because John was nagging him about resting. 

“What? He doesn’t-”

Sherlock sighs, sitting up with some difficulty. It was hardly a difficult leap to realise that Lestrade had known about it the entire time. “John.”

John looks at him for a moment, lips pursed, takes in Sherlock’s expression. Then he takes a deep breath, shrugging. “Most of it. He works for Baskerville, so.” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “ Works fo- is he also, a. A-” Hmm. Still can’t seem to say the word.

John shakes his head. “No. Lucky him. He’s a Scout. He finds us and brings us to the Center. Technically he’s half. He got bitten once and the Virus didn’t hold, but it didn’t kill him either. So he can do certain things. He can be very persuasive, but it doesn’t work on everyone. And dogs really, really like him.”

Sherlock doesn’t even know how to begin taking notes for that. “Lestrade has-”

“Been working here for two years, which is when they started the Project. Each of us has one. A Scout, I mean. A glorified babysitter, if you ask me.”

Despite the barrage of new information, Sherlock smirks. “Ah. He’s there to keep you out of trouble. They should fire him. He’s terrible at his job.”

“Arse.”

He’d also assumed that the man from the village had been looking for John. Which explained why Lestrade had been asking him to stay away from the village. Considering the recent revelations, not quite an unhinged relative. Presumably an unhinged scientist who used to work at Baskerville. 

“Do you remember him?” Sherlock had asked John. “Did he seem familiar?”

John had frowned, trying to recall, his pen stilled on the page. Trying to finish his homework. “Vaguely,” he answers, after a few moments, putting his notebook back on the bed. Sherlock doesn’t relish making him relive it, but he needed to know, if he wanted to keep John safe. “Not really. If I saw him as the wolf, it wouldn’t be easy to remember.”

They couldn’t go back there again. Lestrade was right, even though it made Sherlock want to chew broken glass to accept it. “Shouldn’t you tell someone,” he suggests blandly. “What if he tries to come after you again. I’m assuming the Center would want to keep you alive.”

"Lestrade wanted to. But I- i don't know what they'd do. They might call me back."

Sherlock swallows. "Well. We can't have that. Best you stay here."

***

“We should do something about your brother,” John had told him, when Sherlock was finally released from his prison. He was carrying Sherlock’s bag over his shoulder because apparently Sherlock was still not well enough to do it himself. Tedious. In completely unrelated events, John had been allowed to shift back to Sherlock’s room. Branson had been a little put out by this. 

“Sod my brother,” Sherlock had growled. He’d found out, obviously. There’d been a call for him yesterday in the office but he’d informed them that he was too ill to move, let alone have a conversation. He has no doubt Mycroft will inevitably turn up to impose himself; but he supposes that’s a situation to be dealt with later.

“I’d rather not,” John had said fervently.

***

“Two more weeks,” Sherlock informs John just as he enters their room. 

It’s descended easily back into its original state of near chaos: John’s sneakers on the floor, his football jacket in a crumpled ball at the foot of the bed as it usually is. The scent of John’s generic shampoo clinging to the pillows when Sherlock buries his face in it. Not that he does that last bit, not too much at least. Sherlock hadn’t realised how quiet the room had been without John, how much space it had when he wasn’t sharing it with him. 

“Are you counting down now?” The door clicks softly shut. Sherlock is on John’s bed, cross legged with his computer on his lap and surrounded by a mess of print outs and notebooks, some thick, dusty anatomy books he had pinched from the library. John picks up one of the sheets curiously.

“Looks like something out of a bad sci fi film,” he says mildly. “Glow in the dark rabbits? Also how are you getting to this stuff anyway?”

“Baskverville’s firewalls are a joke, even a toddler could break in. Also yes, I’m counting down. It’s on the calendar.” he jabs his thumb at the opposite wall.

“What calendar, you don’t have a - hmm. We have a calendar now,” he hears John as he moves to the other side of the room, the swish of paper as he flips through the calendar pinned to the wall with a thumb tack. 

“I’m keeping track. Don’t you keep track of your Cycle? What if you forget?”

John sits down on the edge of the bed, right next to him, one foot tucked underneath him and the other on the ground. He smells like chalk dust and faded deodorant, the faint tang of sweat underneath it all. “I don’t,” he says quietly. He picks up a notebook and flips through it. “I can’t,” he adds. “Whenever I’m close my tracker shocks me. It’s here, in the back of my neck.”

Sherlock pauses in his typing and twists towards him. “What?”

“Hmm,” John squints at the paper a little too hard. “There’s a spike in hormones, usually. So they always know. And then they remind me. Zap.” He pops the p of the last word, almost flippantly. Sherlock is still looking at him, John’s thigh is next to his, touching. Warmth bleeds through his thin pyjama bottoms. 

“That’s,” he swallows. Barbaric.  “Convenient.”

“Yeah, well. It is what it is,” he gets up, flinging the notebook back down on the mattress. “How’re your ribs? Did you take your meds?” There’s a finger under his chin, and suddenly John is tipping his head up, baring his throat. He trails a finger over the old cut. The plasters had fallen off and Sherlock hadn’t bothered to reapply them. 

“I, uh.” His throat feels very dry all of a sudden. He thinks he’d like a glass of water, but he’s frozen in place. John’s eyes are trained on his throat, his lips a little parted. Eyes dark. 

“It’s mostly healed,” he says, voice pitched low and soft. 

“Ah. Yes,” Sherlock answers stupidly.

John’s eyes snap up to meet his, and his hand slips until it’s cupped around the side of his neck, his thumb just under the edge of his jaw. His breath catches in his chest and he licks his lips. John mirrors the action, his gaze slipping until it’s on his mouth. For one, blinding moment, Sherlock thinks he’s about to come closer.

“Take the painkillers after lunch,” John says, suddenly, and his hand drops. Sherlock continues to stare at him even as he moves away from him, whirling around to pick up his football jacket from the other bed. The sudden loss of touch is jarring. He feels strangely dizzy.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to take them after lunch if it still hurts,” John says, and it could be a different language for all Sherlock is able to comprehend. He stares like an idiot as John slips into his jacket. “I have practice. See you later.”

And he’s gone.

Sherlock keeps looking at the closed door like John is going to fly through it the next moment. Just kidding! And then he’d pick the laptop and fling it to the other side of the room and would push Sherlock down into the  bed. 

Trace his nose over the side of his neck like he'd done that day in the woods. Far too close but not close enough, fingers dancing over his ribs, more teasing than touching. Obviously he hadn't known what he was doing. Still, Sherlock allows himself to wonder what would happen if he'd just  continued.

He realises with creeping awareness that he’s straining against the front of his pyjama bottoms. Hmm. That’s. That’s not good. Explained with John’s proximity, perfectly natural response to the scent of John’s skin and his touch, certainly it will fade. Maybe not an entirely good idea to press the heel of his hand against it. It’s not as though Sherlock hasn’t, previously. When the situation called for it. Never in this bedroom. 

What on earth. 

He shouldn’t be thinking about this at all. 

***

Sometimes he still thinks he’s insane. How could John be Wolf? The idea is ludicrous. Illogical. Impossible, frankly.

But then John will look at him a certain way, or the sunlight will fall on his face and the blue of his eyes will turn a strange colour of gold, and Sherlock will wonder how he could have been so blind. John will smile crookedly at him, (so lovely, the way it makes something ache in his chest) and there it will be; the ghost of the wolf in his face, just for a second. Just a flash. There one moment, and gone the next. 

Maybe even Sherlock had seen but failed to observe.

***

It’s not entirely surprising when Sherlock makes a horrible, awful mistake.

The door to their room is ajar. Sherlock stands at the doorway for a second when he reaches it, one hand on the door knob, thinking maybe John will want to go outside for a bit. Their room is cold, curtains fluttering in the breeze. The sky had been overcast since morning; looked like a storm. Sherlock liked the way the air felt before; heavy and magnetic and oddly exhilarating. 

He’s about to to say something about it to John, he doesn’t even notice what John is looking at as he stands in front of the wardrobe, head ducked. Doesn’t even pay it any mind. 

“John-”

“What the fuck is this?” 

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut and his eyes drop to John’s hands. Oh. 

“Where did you find that, I’d put it away,” Sherlock answers, stepping inside and closing the door behind him but there’s a brief gust of wind down the corridor and it snaps shut anyway.

John doesn’t even look at him, eyes fixed on the two plastic bags in his hands. Ms. Chatterjee had returned them to him the day he’d come back from the sick room, told him she’d found the clearly labelled things in her lab, right next to the microscope and figured that it was his. Sherlock had put them back in his wardrobe, unthinking. 

“Did you pick these off my bloody trousers?” John holds one of them up to the light, squinting. 

Sherlock frowns. “Yes, technically, I couldn’t let it go to waste. I just wanted to see-”

“See?” John’s head whips up and the plastic falls to the ground, and he’s looking at him, eyes narrowed and mouth open, disbelieving. “See what? Jesus, Sherlock, what more do you want from me?”

Sherlock looks at him, takes in the tense line of his shoulders, the hurt in his gaze and he swallows, his stomach clenching. “I’ve upset you,” he says softly.

John laughs. It’s sharp and cutting and just a little bit bitter. Sherlock flinches, he doesn’t hear that sound come out of John’s mouth often. “Upset me,” John repeats, shaking his head, still laughing. “You think? Fuck.”

Sherlock feels something like panic coating his gut. He’s somehow upset him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How does he fix this? He takes a step towards him and thinks better of it, he imagines John does not want to be touched now. What does he do? Apologise? He hardly knows what he’s apologising for. Is he angry he took them? Sherlock hadn’t known John wanted it to stay on his trousers, most people preferred clean clothing. Wasn’t it kinder? 

“It was just a simple exper-” he starts, but it’s the wrong thing to say. John’s eyes flash in anger and suddenly he’s in front of him, moving into his personal space and instinct makes Sherlock rear back, plaster himself against the door, flinching despite himself. John doesn’t notice.

“Don’t you dare,” he grits out between his teeth, seething. His eyes are wide and dark and his neck is flushed pink. “Don’t you dare. I’m not a fucking experiment.”

Oh. 

Oh.

Of course. Of course. He should have thrown the damn things away when he had the chance, what had he been thinking, leaving them around for John to find? Guilt lodges itself firmly in his chest, thick and painful. It makes him feel ill to think that John would feel the same way about this as he does about the Center. Sherlock would never. He’d never. 

He shakes his head, trying to explain. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, because an apology is warranted, right? It’s what is expected of him. “Of course not. That’s not what I meant. I didn’-t”

John suddenly bangs his fist into the door, it shakes on its hinges. The sound rings in Sherlock's ear and it makes his heart jump in his chest. 

“I answered all your bloody questions,” John bites out, and Sherlock suddenly wants nothing more than to touch him, grovel, if that’s what it takes. But he can’t move, frozen in place by the heat of John’s gaze and the way he practically has him pinned to the door even though he’s barely touched him. “I let you do your research, and take your damn notes, and I let you, because you’re you, and you needed answers, and I wanted to give them to you. Christ, Sherlock,” John stops, taking a trembling breath. His hand falls to the door and he presses it against his eyes. “You’re the only one who knows. What else do you want? ”

“Nothing,” Sherlock answers, desperately, “Nothing. I don’t.” His mouth feels like sand.

John runs both hands through his hair, it makes the blond ends stick up and Sherlock wishes he wouldn’t notice everything all the time. “Is it because you think I’m still lying? Hmm? You honestly think I’d stretch a sick joke this far? I told you I’d let you watch.”

It hurts, the way John lashes out at him, but it’s his bloody fault. “It’s from before I knew. John, I’d forgotten they were even there. I wasn’t going to touch them anyway.”

John looks up at him, but it’s almost like he’s seeing through him, like it isn’t even Sherlock he’s looking at. “I can’t do this again,” he says, voice quiet, more to himself than Sherlock. “Not with you.”

What does that even mean? “John-”

“Sherlock, no, I can’t talk to you like this. Get out of my way.” 

His insides curl up at the tone, at what he’s being asked. John doesn’t say it to be cruel, which is even worse, because there’s too much hurt in his voice for it. He doesn’t know what to do, and how did he muck this up so very entirely? 

“I-”

“Please, please, move, for God’s sake, Sherlock,” John says, pleading.

Sherlock swallows and steps out of the way, lets John open the door and leave, shut the door loudly behind him. He thinks there’s nothing comparable to watching someone go and knowing that you made them. 

He waits for what feels like hours. John will come back. He has to, he can’t possibly spend the entire night in the woods. Or he could-? Technically he has. Technically there isn’t anything to fear, except the cold and John doesn’t seem to care about that. Sherlock fiddles with his violin, makes horrible screeching noises that make Parker in the next room bang on his door and tell him to shut it. He ignores him, obviously.

He lights the whole bag of fur on fire with the lighter he keeps stashed under the mattress and bins it. 

He feels like he might be sick, how do people even deal with this? He should have gone after John. He should have apologised more profusely, explained, begged forgiveness, anything. Not just let him go. 

He picks up John’s stress ball and bounces it off the walls until the sound of it starts to grate against his ears and his wrist hurts. He keeps looking outside like he might see John strolling across the field. No such luck. He paces the hallway outside but he almost drives himself mad that way so he goes back inside and decides to finish John’s homework. John is actually quite good at mathematics but the subject bores him, unless he’s engaged or Sherlock is tutoring him he will put it off to the very last moment. 

John 5s are always bigger than his 3s. Fascinating. 

He must have fallen asleep because he’s startled awake by what he assumes is a loud bang. His head snaps up, and he blinks rapidly, staring wildly around the room. He’d slumped over on his desk right on top of John’s notebook. The papers are all wrinkled, hmm, he’ll have to fix that. John is still  not back. There’s another loud noise, and this time he recognises it for what it is; thunder. The window frame shakes with the force of it. 

Sherlock twists his head to look outside, and sure enough the faintly overcast sky had become so dark it was black. Harding had been very happy to replace their window when Sherlock had requested it, at no additional cost. He gets up from his chair and touches his fingertips to the now crack-less glass. It’s freezing, frosted over with condensation.  

The oak tree right outside their room nearly bends double. 

“Shit.”

Sherlock knocks the chair over in his haste to rush out of the room, only pausing for a second to pick up John’s hoodie to slip it over his head. His ankle twinges with pain as do his still-tender ribs. He was supposed to be on bed rest for another week, but well, bugger that.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, why wasn’t he back yet? What was he still doing outside ? Sherlock doesn’t care if John is still angry with him, he’ll drag him back by the collar and he can be angry with him in the safety of their own room, where, at least, he won’t be smashed to death by a tree. 

Possibly over dramatic.

He passes one of John’s football mates on the staircase. He’s covered head to toe in mud so he must have been outside. “You,” he shouts, grabbing the boy by the shoulders to stop him. He startles, looking at Sherlock wide eyed, palms up like he thinks he’s about to be attacked. “Have you seen John?”

“Watson? Uh, yes, I think he was going for a run?” Sherlock pushes him out of the way and runs past him, not waiting to listen to the rest.

“Hey! Harding said it might be a cyclone! We’re supposed to stay in our rooms!”

Admirable instructions. Where was John when they were being handed out?

People stare at him as he sprints down the rest of the staircase, he catches most of the student population being herded upstairs to safety. “Mr Holmes!” he hears someone shout. 

Oh god, oh god, he’s not supposed to be running. Fuck, that hurts. 

He pushes open the heavy door at the bottom of the service entry, needs to squint his eyes to see past the rushing wind and rain. He stands there like an idiot for several moments, blind panic freezing him. He won’t even be able to find any footsteps in this mess. How did John always manage to find him? 

Oh, right. The wolf-like senses. Well. He can see how that would be useful in this situation. 

He runs out into the grounds anyway, with no specific plan in mind except to search. It is, genuinely, the most awful weather Sherlock has ever had to put up with. The last time he’d been caught in something like this was when he was twelve years old, trying to look for some specific fungi in the woods that surrounded his house. He hadn’t known the fungi had been only slightly poisonous, he’s passed out as soon as he’d sniffed it. Woken up to a storm not unlike this, shivering and near pneumatic, but Redbeard had found him and they’d trudged back. 

He suppose he’s Redbeard in this scenario.

Can werewolves catch pneumonia?

A twig whips past and nearly pokes him in the eye. He scowls, rubbing at it. He’s already sopping, his curls matted and dripping and his clothes sticking to his skin. Think, think, think. Where could he be?

He’s John Watson, and he’s in a terrible strop. Where would he go? Outside, yes, definitely, what else? Not outside the campus, John had told him he wasn’t allowed. (wouldn’t tell him why, he’ll have to find out) Somewhere he’s not likely to run into anyone. Somewhere he-

The lake. Of course. Of course John would be at the most unsafe area during a storm. He runs towards it. His whole leg is sore at this point and he thinks he might have cracked open his ribs again. Oh, well. Another week of bed rest, Yang will be thrilled.

He stops at where the wood slopes down towards the lake, a gentle curve that meets the more grassier field below. He scans the area, ignores the terror in his gut as he sees the dark, swirling water. And- there! 

John’s golden haired head is unmistakable, even from this distance. God what is he doing just standing there? Sherlock watches as John tips head towards the sky, watching. What is he looking at? Idiot, he’s going to get struck by lightening There’s barely any cover there. Sherlock jogs down the slope, slipping in mud and tripping over the roots. He’s not even close enough to touch him when John whips his head around, almost as though he heard him (which, he thinks, he probably had)

“Sherlock?” His voice is bright with surprise and confusion. “What are you-”

Sherlock finally reaches him and can’t get any words out at first on account of how hard he is panting. “John,” he finally manages, breathless. “It’s not safe here. Come back inside.”

John stares at him unblinkingly, eyes wide, practically frozen in place. He’s absolutely drenched, blonde fringe plastered to his forehead, his shirt sticking to his skin so closely that it leaves little to the imagination. The next moment he explodes into action. 

“Did you run all the way here? Christ, you lunatic, you’re still hurt!” Oh that’s nice, the worry in John’s tone, maybe he isn’t angry with him anymore. 

“I’m fine, I’m-” 

Suddenly there’s an ominous creaking sound coming from somewhere behind them, loud enough to be heard over the roar of rain. Sherlock’s head whirls around on instinct, and he only sees the branch of the tree above him shake dangerously before John’s vice-like grip curls around his bicep and pulls him away so hard he thinks he might have dislocated his shoulder. 

“Oh shit,” Sherlock whispers when the branch comes crashing down a second later, just at the spot where he’d been standing. A tiny leaf flutters and lands next to his foot.

“You’re going to sprain yourself again, you nutter,” John hisses, the sound right next to his ear. Sherlock turns around to regard him. John’s hand is still around his arm.

“I, um. Thank you,” he says uselessly. John rolls his eyes. 

“You idiot, why would you come here? I was going to come back,” John looks him over like he thinks Sherlock has somehow managed to injure himself on the way over. Not entirely off the mark, going by the ache in his side and his foot. 

“Wasn’t safe, cyclone, they said-”

“I’m sure I would have survived, you fool, I’ve had worse, you could have gotten hurt!”

“How do we get back,” he asks, loudly, “We should-”

His sentence is interrupted by a clap of thunder so loud it vibrates in his skull. They look at each other for a second before John says, quickly, “Boathouse. Come on. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can bloody walk- ” Sherlock says, and then winces when he tries to take a step.

“Hopeless,” John mutters, “Come here,” he wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Quickly, now, or else I won’t be able to save you from getting flattened by another tree.”

Sherlock gingerly places an arm over John’s shoulder. It helps, takes some of the weight off of his foot. “And you’re immune to tree flattening?” Up ahead, the lake looks almost black as it reflects the colour of the sky. The water swirls dangerously, the entire boathouse quivering slightly. Possibly it isn’t the best of shelters but at this point getting back to the school building would be suicide. 

“I have better reflexes,” John replies. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

John practically drags him the rest of the way, pushing open the door with his shoulder. It’s all old, rotten wood and he thinks he might have splintered some of it in his attempt. They practically fall through, a mess of limbs, John has to reach behind him to slam the door shut.

It’s dark inside, he can only make out the vague outline of a few old chairs, a canoe that has seen better days. There are gaps in the ceiling where rainwater still drips steadily through, but it’s warmer, and at least they’re not in danger of being electrocuted. John doesn’t move for a few seconds from where he has Sherlock up against the door, one palm on the door and the other still curved around his hip. Sherlock can feel his warm breath against his neck. He pants, rough wood digging into the back of his skull, his heart beating out an unsteady, erratic rhythm under his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, the words rushing out before he can stop them. John’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry. I binned it. It was from before I knew, I was curious, I didn’t mean anything by it. And now I don’t need it. So I threw it away. I-”

“Shh, I know, I know,” John’s hands curve around the sides of his neck and Sherlock obediently goes quiet, more because of the way something warm settles at the base of his spine, chasing away the chill that had settled into his skin. “It’s alright, I’m not angry, I’m-”

John pauses, and Sherlock realises he must have pressed up on the balls of his feet because John’s mouth is nearly level with his. It feels like an eternity, that pause. Until he feels John’s mouth on his, searingly hot and soft. 

Sherlock freezes, at first, an automatic response that he doesn’t think he could have avoided. His mind sizzles and shuts off like a piece of malfunctioning equipment, blinking weakly until it goes offline. John hands cup his ears and he sighs into John’s mouth, melting like an ice cube on someone’s tongue. He is aware of too little and not enough: John’s lips, slightly chapped, the sound of his own pulsing heart, the rush of blood in his ears, and John’s thumbs, swiping gently over his cheekbones. 

It is close mouthed, vaguely chaste, over in barely four seconds. John pulls away, leans his forehead against Sherlock’s. Sherlock pants, open mouthed, he’s barely moved. 

“Fuck,” John hisses. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Sherlock tries not to feel too terrible about that. It’s a perfectly normal response. Adrenaline, and dangerous situations, could do that to anyone. He vaguely registers that this is the first time he has felt someone's lips on his and how ironic that it should be John. He feels the need to touch his fingers to the spot, see if there’s any lingering saliva, or perhaps lick it so he could taste it again. 

“Why did you,” he asks, still quite breathless. 

“Wanted to,” John drags his nose over the edge of his jaw, and Sherlock claws his way into the front of his wet T-shirt. 

“Then do it again,” he says, voice shaky as he issues the command. 

John makes a low, quiet sound not unlike a growl and Sherlock thinks fleetingly that he would like to ask John if he’s capable of doing that properly in human form, whether his vocal chords are similar to a canine’s but rational thought becomes impossible as soon as John presses his lips to his again. 

This time it is not chaste.

He isn’t rough either, but John’s fingers dig into his hips enough to border on pain, pins him against the door like he’s afraid Sherlock will escape. John kisses him with focused competence, tongue licking at the seam of his bottom lip, coaxing it open so he can slip his tongue inside. Sherlock is overwhelmed almost immediately, which is good because if he thinks, it will be Is this actually happening ? and he’d rather not dwell on that.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” John says against his mouth, fingers toying with the hem. He sounds pleased.

“It’s warm,” Sherlock answers defensively. 

“Looks good on you,” John starts lifting it up. “This okay?”

Sherlock raises his arms by way of reply and John shucks it off of him quickly. He flings it away somewhere and then John’s hands are under his thin t-shirt, warming the damp skin. He traces his fingers over the swell of his ribs. Sherlock feels his muscles fluttering under the touch. The earlier pain flickers and vanishes. 

“You’re soaked,” John nips at his ear.

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Prat,” John says, just as he weaves a hand into his hair and wrenches his head to the side. Sherlock gasps and then goes boneless as he feels kisses against his neck, feather light and warm. “Stay still,” he says, voice low and vaguely predatory. Which he supposs he is. A predator, that is. In the conventional sense of the term. In the. In the-

John licks a stripe up his neck, one hand still cupped around his ribcage. “You smell. So good. Christ. You don’t even know,” he nuzzles at the spot under his ear and Sherlock’s eyes go half lidded. He realises he’s still holding onto the front of John’s t-shirt for dear life. 

“I took a shower this morning.”

“Did you,” John’s teeth scrape the vulnerable skin at his throat, just above his Adam’s apple. Sherlock releases an embarrassing whimper and John’s hips jerk against his, and he feels the hardness of his erection against his thigh. Sherlock’s own prick is already leaking and he should be mortified by it but he can’t be arsed.

“Fucking gorgeous,” John whispers, something that sounds like affection colouring his tone. “Look at you,” he bites down on his collarbone and Sherlock exhales sharply, gripping John’s shoulder.

“You can touch me,” John takes his hand away from his shoulder and sets it against his cheek. Oh. He can feel a hint of stubble under his palm. Sherlock strokes his thumb against the ridge of his cheekbone and John closes his eyes, shuddering out a breath. 

“You- you like that?” Sherlock asks, voice a soft, cautious thing. He slips it down, over his neck, down his chest where he can feel his heartbeat. John is all muscle, he’d only seen it before but it’s nice to feel it under his hands like this. Lovely and hard and Sherlock wants to press his mouth against it. 

“Hmm,” John shifts towards him again, brushes Sherlock’s nose with his own and kisses him again, slower, softer. He can feel his teeth catch in his lips once or twice and it stings, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. His fingers stop their journey when they reach John’s waist, just above the iliac crest, and he swallows, suddenly nervous.

John catches his wrist, thumb smearing over the pulse point. “What is it?” he asks absently, sucking a bruise onto Sherlock’s neck.

‘I don’t,” Sherlock murmurs. “I don’t, I haven’t-” he flushes, the undeniable fact of his experience making his stomach clench in embarrassment. 

John pulls away for a second, regarding with him blue eyes darkened with pupil. His erection pushes insistently against Sherlock’s, heavy and demanding even under the denim. Sherlock rocks his hip against it and shivers at the feeling. John’s fingers trail over his stomach, his touch burning. “Doesn’t matter. Let me,” he says, and they dip lower, lower, until he brushes his knuckles against the ridge of Sherlock’s cock. “Can I?”

Fucking hell. His hand falls away uselessly to his side. “Yes,” Sherlock says, too eager, too quick, and John registers it with a smug smile. 

The door shakes on its hinges with the force of wind. Hmm. There’s still a storm brewing outside. How convenient. 

John cups the back of his head almost tenderly with one hand and uses the other to dip under his pyjamas, find his cock. Oh. Oh god, Sherlock nearly loses it right there. “Fuck,” he hisses, and John hums, wraps his hand around it and squeezes. 

Being touched is too much. Far too much. Too little, Sherlock wants more. His hips tremble.

“Alright?” John kisses the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock can only nod his head and pant. John wanks him off single mindedly, doesn’t tease him because maybe he knows Sherlock wouldn’t be able to take it. Moves his hand over him in self assured movements that speak of confidence and practice and Sherlock quickly pushes that thought away. He is only aware of the way his lungs expand in his chest, the pressure coiling somewhere that he has never been touched. John’s hand slips down from his head and his fingers slip under his t-shirt, press into the knobs of his spine.

He feels almost light headed, grips the back of John’s neck so he doesn’t fall over. 

“John,” he says hoarsely, mostly because he doesn’t know any other words at the moment.

“Yeah?” John brushes his lips over Sherlock’s, not a proper kiss and it drives him mad.

“I-” 

He buries his face in John’s shoulder, groaning into the curve of his neck. John wanks him through an orgasm and then some more, until Sherlock is shaking from over simulation. He can hear John saying something, but he can’t tell what, can’t hear it beyond the blood rushing in his ears. There’s a brush of lips against his temple, a hand brushing his sweaty curls back from his forehead. 

He is vaguely aware of John gently peeling himself away, moving them away from the door and somewhere else, against some kind of table. The ridge digs into his back but at least they’re not against a piece of wood that might go flying off its hinges from a particularly furious gust of wind. John tucks him back into pyjamas, wipes his own hand on his jeans. Oh, he’s come all over him. 

Sherlock’s palms find the rough surface of the table and he rests his hands against it, trying to find his breath. His legs feel sore and his chest aches, like he’s run a marathon. Just as he starts to feel horribly awkward and just a bit horrified, John’s hands cup his ears, and he kisses him. Swift and sweet, before he pulls away just barely to press their foreheads together, mirroring the gesture from a while ago.

“Are you going to tell me you shouldn’t have done that?” Sherlock doesn’t mean for it to come out so biting, or at all, actually, it was an honest, genuine question. He is, for all intents and purposes, a novice in these matters but he does know how it usually goes.

John’s hands frame his face, and it is more tender than Sherlock had expected. Sherlock has never been touched like this before. It makes something treacherous bloom in his chest. 

“No,” he answers simply, and kisses his jaw before ducking his head and resting it against Sherlock’s shoulder. He can feel him sigh, his back rises and falls with the exhale. Cautiously, Sherlock places a hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades. 

Rainwater has stopped leaking through the ceiling. Just a few stray drops squeeze through the gaps and land in his hair. Cold and tickling, they bleed down the back of his neck. 

He can’t hear the storm anymore.