Twisting And Turning The Colours In Rows (2/6)
Title: Twisting And Turning The Colours In Rows Part 2
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Moriarty, Moran & other various Sherlock characters plus minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence, blood/gore, minor character death, bullying, homophobia, allusions to eating disorders
Notes: For sherlockbigbang 2012! Massive thanks to harlequinehands for creating such a beautiful piece of artwork for this undeserving fic, to a8c_sock for being a brilliant mod and friend and to everyone else who has helped me out with it, including my extremely helpful beta circ_bamboo (any mistakes that remain are my own), and my lovely cheerleader paintedame, and thanks also to my unofficial cheerleaders along the way (you know who you are, if I mention you all this will end up like an awards ceremony and someone will tell me to sit down)
Summary: Sherlock/Let The Right One In Fusion (knowledge of film/book not needed). John Watson is an isolated thirteen year old boy: he’s got a distant mother, a resentful older sister, and a sadistic bully at school called Moriarty who’s got it in for him. When Sherlock Holmes moves in next door, he and John form a rapid, intense friendship based on their mutual loneliness. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock has issues that go much deeper than loneliness.
“I need blood to live, yes.”
John lets that sink in. “So are you… are you dead? Undead? How old are you, really?”
The lightbulb above them flickers and Sherlock’s fingers tap out a short rhythm on the glass as he thinks about his answer. John copies the rhythm, softer, quieter.
“I’m conscious,” Sherlock says with a small shrug of one shoulder. “I move, respire, react to my environment… I miss a few of the basic life processes, but I think I qualify as ‘alive’. And I’m thirteen, like I told you.” A rueful smile, and his hand drops to his side. “But I have been thirteen for longer than is naturally possible.”
Disclaimer: This is the bit where they make me say I don't own anything. Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and, of course, the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Let The Right One In belongs to John Ajvide Lindqvist
Word Count: ~28,500
On AO3
The stunning artwork of harlequinehands can be found here. Please go and lavish praise on her for her fantastic work.
John has learned to be quick in the changing room. If he’s quick, no one sees the bruises. If no one sees the bruises, no one asks questions about them. Not that anyone would care. Most of them know already, and he knows from experience that no one will lift a finger to help him.
As John pulls his rugby shirt on, he catches sight of Sebastian Moran on the other side of the changing room, unbuttoning his shirt and laughing at something Moriarty has just said. Finished with the buttons, he tugs the shirt off carelessly and hangs it on the peg in front of him. John looks at his bare torso for a moment: tanned, finely muscled, no bruises, light dusting of blond hair, a scar low on his abdomen from God-knows-what. He cuts an imposing, powerful figure already, despite only being fourteen years old. With a birthday at the end of September, he’s one of the tallest, oldest boys in their year. John’s the opposite.
He is scant milliseconds from looking away when Moran happens to glance over and sees him staring. John turns his head so fast that he thinks he must have given himself whiplash. It’s not soon enough.
“Oi,” shouts Moran, “stop looking at me, you freak!”
The other boys - all of them are Moran’s friends, Christ, he’s in trouble this time - snigger and jeer. Several of them whistle suggestively.
“Fucking nancy-boy queer.”
“Oh, shit, is he hard?”
“He shouldn’t be allowed to change in here with us, it’s sick. He’s been looking at Moran, what about the rest of us?”
“Backs against the wall, lads!”
John’s face burns with shame as he slowly, mechanically swaps his school shoes for his football boots. Moriarty’s group all jostle him as they leave for the pitch, and Moran shoves him hardest of all.
“Seriously, Watson,” Moriarty laughs, the last to go by, “stop looking at him and thinking about him or he’ll end up knocking your teeth down your throat. I’d hate you to be in the way when my little Rottweiler gets caught in one of his rages.”
John hunches in on himself and ties the laces of his boots. Mike Stamford doesn’t look at him as he lumbers out of the changing room after them, already pink and splotchy in the face and breathing hard. Mike is an old target, dropped like a toy they’ve grown bored of now that they’ve decided John is more fun. John bets he can’t believe his luck.
Henry Knight gives him a fleeting sympathetic look as he passes out the door too, and then John is left alone in the changing room.
At least Mr Wiltshire will be watching them during PE, he thinks. They won’t be able to get away with too many obvious fouls during the game.
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John’s school trousers are missing when he trudges back into the changing room an hour later, cold, muddy and sore. He hunts for them under the bench where he changed and under the one opposite, but he knows what’s happened. He can hear the laughter. He hears it nearly all the way home as he walks with his blazer barely covering his PE shorts, just brushing the backs of his (weak, spindly) thighs.
It’s snowing again.
Fucking snow.
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Sherlock is sitting on the top ledge of the climbing frame that night when John goes out to breathe air that isn’t cloying and heady (full of alcohol and cigarette fumes). Sherlock is dressed only in his white shirt and trousers, missing his jacket and coat, with John’s trainers adorning his feet. His breaths are visible like John’s are, warm wisps like smoke coming out of his mouth and nostrils. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, but there are no goosepimples on his bare forearms.
He watches with mild interest as John approaches him and flops down onto one of the lower ledges beneath Sherlock.
John fishes in his pocket and holds up the Rubik’s cube, not looking at Sherlock. “Here,” he says, “I finished it.”
Sherlock smiles, takes the cube and runs a finger over the blue side. “Well done, John.”
There’s a loud, wet-sounding rumble. Sherlock pitches forward with a grimace and John realises it was his stomach. “Christ,” John says, “haven’t you had dinner?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Case. Can’t eat when I’m on a case, slows me down.”
“Case?” John frowns.
“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand and straightening back up.
“A detective. Like a private eye?”
Sherlock scowls at that. “No, like a consulting detective. I’m the only one in the world.” He puffs up slightly as he continues. “I invented the job. I help the police when they’re out of their depth. Which is always.”
“That’s rubbish,” John says. “You’re what, thirteen? The police don’t listen to kids.”
The scowl intensifies, deep lines marring Sherlock’s skin as he wilfully contorts his facial muscles to convey utter disdain. “How do you know? When we met, I knew all about you. I know all about most people, just seconds after meeting them. Some people recognise that as a useful skill.”
“I know because my uncle’s a detective inspector.”
Sherlock smirks, “Ah yes, DI Lestrade,” he says. “You’re his favourite nephew, a stand-in for his estranged son who lives in Southampton with another man now. Did you know that?”
John gapes.
“How do I know your uncle?” Sherlock voices the question for him. “I went to see him today about the boy who died in the swimming pool a couple of weeks ago. I saw a picture of you on his desk while I was in his office; it wasn’t a difficult leap with what I’d already deduced about his son.”
“I didn’t know I had a cousin,” John says, dazed.
Sherlock looks uncomfortable and fiddles with the Rubik’s cube in silence for a moment.
“My brother, Mycroft, he gave me this,” he says, when he deems the pause to have gone on long enough. “I don’t see him much now.” He doesn’t look sad about that as he extends the cube in John’s direction again. “I said you could keep it.”
John takes the puzzle, and Sherlock’s stomach rumbles again, louder and more insistent this time. He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach.
“We’ve got some leftover pizza,” John offers. “I can heat it up for you, if you want?”
Sherlock blinks at him and then his eyes narrow like John is the puzzle he’s trying to solve now. “You would do that, for me?”
“Sure. You’re my-”
John stops. He was going to say ‘mate’, but Sherlock’s weird and not very nice and he’s already said they can’t be friends. And he smells funny, like really funny. He smells like Nan’s room in the nursing home used to smell. John wrinkles his nose.
“I’m what?” Sherlock asks, then rolls his eyes. “I know I smell, you don’t need to tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything! And you’re, well, you’re my neighbour. You’re interesting too, you’re working with my uncle on one of his cases! Is it a murder?”
Sherlock sniffs. “I’m not actually involved in the case, as such. You were right, the police don’t listen to kids. Although Lestrade’s my best bet. There’s something wrong here, I know it. Carl Powers didn’t drown, by all accounts he could swim strongly enough that he didn’t need extra practice, so what was he doing there at that time in the evening? And where were his shoes?”
“His shoes?”
“His shoes were never found: why? It doesn’t make sense, if he’d drowned then they would be there.”
“So you think… the killer took his shoes?”
Sherlock looks at him sharply. “Yes,” he says at length, giving John a thorough appraisal. “It seems Lestrade’s not the only one with a brain in your family.”
It’s a compliment wrapped up in an insult, and John wants to frown, but there’s a sort of golden warmth unfurling in his chest. Sherlock is starting to respect him. No one in John’s life respects him. Except his uncle, perhaps.
Although not enough to tell John he has a cousin, apparently.
“I have to go-” John begins and Sherlock snorts.
“You have to go phone your uncle, I know.”
Right again. John grins at him, still amazed by his strange new… friend. It doesn’t matter what Sherlock says, how weird he is, how odd he smells; John considers him a friend, and that’s just about irreversible.
Sherlock smiles back hesitantly, mouth closed, but his eyes are softer now.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow?” John purposefully makes it a question, but his voice pitches that bit too high at the end and it comes out as a question that’s over-eager.
Sherlock’s smile hasn’t faded like John was half-expecting it to, and Sherlock actually nods. “I’ll be around after dark. In all likelihood.”
“Great, I mean…” John waves the Rubik’s cube at him awkwardly. “Cool. See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow,” Sherlock agrees.
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Harry is just getting off the phone with someone when John gets in. She glares at him when he stands in the hallway, waiting to use the phone.
“Piss off,” she says, one hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m not done yet.”
“You were just saying goodbye,” John points out.
She huffs, shakes her head and uncovers the phone again. “Listen, I’ve really got to go now, Clara, boy-wonder wants to use the phone. Yeah.” She listens for a moment and smiles. “You too, see you tomorrow.”
She depresses the button on the cradle to end the call and holds the phone out to John. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” John says to her retreating back - she’s already headed to her room.
With an odd squirming sensation in his stomach, he dials his uncle’s number.
After five rings, a weary voice answers. “Hello?”
Finished with work for the night then. No more “Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking”.
“Hi, Uncle Greg, it’s John.”
“John!” the tinny voice perks up, tired monotone falling away. “I haven’t heard from you in ages-” He pauses and then continues, voice hushed. “Is it your mum? Are you all okay?”
“We’re fine,” John assures him quickly. “I just… Do I have any cousins?”
“Cousins?” Greg laughs. “What are you on about, John? You know I don’t-”
Another pause, a rush of static for a drawn in breath. John bites his lip, anxiously twisting the phone wire around his right index finger.
“Who’ve you been speaking to?” Greg asks, with a sharpness to his words that John has never heard before. “Did your mum-”
“So it’s true,” John interrupts. “I have a cousin, don’t I? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“John, it’s complicated, I don’t see Anthony these days…”
“Because he lives with a man?”
Yet another pause, and John can hear, he can feel his heartbeat in his ears.
“Who’ve you been speaking to, John?” Greg asks, softly this time - a plea.
“It doesn’t matter,” John says and his voice is trembling, his throat is clogging and he can’t cry on the phone with his uncle, he just can’t. “Answer my question.”
“John, I haven’t seen Anthony in almost thirty years. Listen to me: I was only seventeen when he was born, I didn’t even know Michelle was pregnant. We weren’t all that serious, and when her parents moved to Dorset before she started to show, I didn’t keep in touch.”
There’s a crackle down the line, a heavy sigh.
“She phoned me two years ago, must have got hold of my number when I started to gain some recognition with the Met, I don’t know. She dropped a couple of bombshells on me that day: I had a twenty-eight year old son, and he was having a civil partnership ceremony in a month’s time, with a man, and did I want to come?”
Greg scoffs. “How could I?” he asks. “I didn’t know him, I’d never been given the chance to know him. How could I turn up at this major time in his life, at this happy time in his life and demand a place in it?”
“Didn’t he want his dad to be there?” John whispers. “I- I think I would, if- if it were me. I mean, if I was getting married, or- or…”
“Oh John,” Greg sighs again. “Is that what this is all about?”
“No, I-”
“Look, you’re nearly fourteen now, you’re becoming a man. And I know that’s got to be tough without your dad around.”
It’s taking much more effort now to hold back the tears.
“I know I’ve been busy with work lately,” Greg continues, “but you’re like a son to me. We should catch up soon; you could come and stay with me, it would only be a short tube ride across to school. We could talk properly then, man to man.”
John doesn’t answer.
“John? John, about Anthony… Michelle sent me a photograph. Paul makes him very happy, and as his father, that makes me very happy. Do you understand? It’s all fine, to me.”
John still can’t speak, his throat’s too tight and Greg will know he’s on the verge of crying.
“We’ll arrange that visit soon, okay?” Greg keeps going, no doubt already aware why John isn’t answering. “You could come stay during half-term, maybe. And you can get some things off your chest. You can tell me anything, John, you know that.”
“Sure,” John croaks. He sniffs, clears his throat. “That would be great. I have to go, Uncle Greg.”
“John…”
“No, really, I have to go. Mum wants me. Bye.”
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As he puts on his coat, Sherlock hears something odd and frowns. He puts his ear to the wall and is met with the sort of gasped, hitching breaths that come from someone trying valiantly to keep the tears in and failing. Not someone, John.
Sherlock dithers for the first time in his life. He is supposed to be going to the pool tonight, to gather evidence relating to the Carl Powers case.
He is supposed to be doing that, but John is crying next door. Worse: John is not just crying next door, he’s trying not to.
It makes Sherlock feel… he searches around in his memory for the word and comes up lacking. It makes him feel uncomfortable, that’s true enough.
Sherlock ponders the best way to stop someone crying, again coming up lacking. Emotions are not his forte.
Forte, he thinks, and realises he’s hit on a possible solution to the problem.
He hears a choked sob and stops eyeing his scarf and eyes the violin case instead. An hour won’t hurt. Carl Powers can’t get more dead than he already is, and the local police have already no doubt ruined the crime scene to the point where they can do no more damage, if they’re still poking around at this time. In fact, if he’s going to have to sneak in, it would be better to go later when there will be fewer people around.
Sherlock plucks the violin from its case, fingers of his left hand curled around the neck, his right hand taking up the bow.
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Romeo + Juliet is, quite simply, the most dire film John has ever been forced to watch at school.
He can’t understand the point of modernising the setting but not the language. They should have done both, he thinks, made it a real modern adaptation. It would be easier to understand, but it would still be a load of rubbish. All the girls are giggling like it’s some amazing love story. They don’t seem to care that in the play (and it will be coming up in the film too), Romeo and Juliet both die at the end. They both take their own lives. Surely that’s not how love is supposed to go?
Juliet was thirteen in the play, John remembers, the same age as him.
He shakes his head, concentrating again on the book in front of him. He has to squint at the pages, at the back of the class and concealed in darkness as he is for the film, but he’s determined to finish learning Morse code before he sees Sherlock later so he can give him the booklet to learn it too.
By the end of the lesson, he’s finished making a cheatsheet for himself.
He looks up in time to see the star-crossed lovers kiss before Romeo succumbs to the poison and Juliet shoots herself in the head.
As John walks home from school after that, he sees (notices) three different couples: an old man and woman on a bench holding hands, their heads bent close together; a pair of teenagers snogging furiously in the alley by the corner shop; and Henry Knight and Molly Hooper sharing an awkward goodbye hug at the bus stop.
He watches all of them from a distance, shy and uncertain, blushing when he’s caught by the teenagers who reluctantly break apart for the mere seconds it takes to tell John to go somewhere else if he wants a free show.
Eyes cast down, he hurries away, and only realises later on that - for all that their hair was long - the teenagers were both boys.
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At quarter to eight when John goes out that night, Sherlock is waiting for him in the playground, sat in his customary position at the top of the climbing frame, king of all he surveys.
John stands at the bottom and looks up at Sherlock to call a greeting when something dark and soft drops onto his face. “Oomph.”
Removing the offending object, he sees it’s a pair of black leather gloves.
“It won’t do for your hands to get cold, John,” Sherlock says, and his mouth curves up into a smile that’s kind rather than mocking.
He seems to be in good spirits; there’s something relaxed about his posture as he drops down beside John.
“Do I smell better today?” he asks, leaning forward as if presenting himself for inspection.
John leans forward too, gives him a curious sniff and finds that yes, yes he does. There’s still a musky odour that clings to him, but it’s like old books today - crisp and warm and nice. Not stale and cold like yesterday. He’s wearing something different too, John notices; the white shirt has been swapped for a dark blue one.
“Much better,” John says, nodding in approval, and Sherlock’s still smiling.
“Hungry?” he asks, and John can hardly believe the change in him. There’s a sort of spark in Sherlock’s eyes that John has never seen. He’s still pale and he’s still all shadows and angles, but he looks almost healthy in a way that he hasn’t since John met him.
“Starving, actually.” Mum and Harry are out again tonight and he hasn’t eaten yet because he was planning to ask Sherlock to come in for dinner.
“Excellent, put your gloves on and let’s go,” Sherlock says, clapping his own glove-free hands.
John laughs and does as he’s told. “Go where?”
“I know a place.”
Sherlock flips his coat collar up and John envies him that damn coat and his striking looks, his obvious intelligence and his air of mystery and importance. He’d have no trouble getting a girlfriend, John thinks.
“Come on.” Sherlock is holding a hand out to him expectantly. The hand waves with impatience when John doesn’t take it at once.
“Boys don’t hold hands,” John says and Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together, his hand dropping slightly.
“Don’t they?”
John blinks. He looks at Sherlock’s (angry? hurt?) frown, and thinks of Moran shoving him. The boys calling him queer. He thinks of Uncle Greg’s gentle voice on the phone, that photo he’s never seen of his cousin and his cousin’s partner. He imagines them smiling in it, arms around each other. Happy.
“Okay,” he says, and takes Sherlock’s left hand in his right. The leather of his new glove stops him feeling the cold palm that presses against his.
The “place” that Sherlock knows is a little restaurant just outside the town centre, a ten minute walk away. John’s never been before because it’s getting towards an area of town even his mum advised him to stay out of.
They’re quiet throughout the journey, Sherlock determined and John trusting. Their hands stay clasped together until they enter the restaurant.
“John,” Sherlock says when they walk in, with a quick lift of his chin at the man behind the counter. The bell above the door signals their arrival. “This is Angelo’s.”
“Sherlock!” calls the man - Angelo, John supposes.
Sherlock nods as Angelo approaches, offers his hand stiffly for a shake, but Angelo has other ideas. He sweeps Sherlock off the floor in a bear hug the moment he reaches him and swings him around for a good thirty seconds, despite Sherlock’s vicious protestations.
“Put me down or I’ll retract my statement!” he snarls and Angelo laughs good-naturedly, setting him back down and ruffling his hair.
“Sherlock here got me off a murder charge,” Angelo says by way of explanation to John, who is stifling laughter at Sherlock’s obvious displeasure at his treatment.
“You still got charged with breaking and entering,” Sherlock reminds him, attempting to flatten his hair. The mop of curls was unruly to start with.
Angelo smiles, all his teeth on display and a hint of gold at the back. “Table for two?” he asks sweetly.
He directs them to the table by the window without waiting for an answer. Sherlock sits with a huff, immediately shedding his coat and folding it across the back of his chair. John sits across from him with a small amount of trepidation chasing itself around his belly - it’s hardly a posh establishment, but John hasn’t been to dinner anywhere but McDonald’s in the last two years. And before that he only went to that nice Italian place for someone’s birthday.
Angelo looks at them both for a moment, taps a finger against his chin and seems to come to a decision. “I’ll get a candle for the table for you and your date,” he says and then winks. “It’s more romantic.”
John’s jaw drops. “I’m not his-”
He glances at Sherlock who’s looking out the window, like he hasn’t heard or just doesn’t care at all. Angelo has already bustled off. Well. “I- never mind,” John finishes lamely.
Sherlock’s attention snaps back to him then. “Have whatever you want, John,” he says, pushing a menu across the table with both hands. “On me.”
Angelo returns, places the candle (off-white, misshapen, wax dried in runs down the sides from where it’s been lit before) on the table, gives them a thumbs up and departs again.
John lifts the menu for something to do with his hands, ostensibly also to decide what to order, and notices Sherlock is watching him, his own menu discarded. “Aren’t you going to order?” John asks, using his menu to gesture at Sherlock’s.
“Case.” Sherlock shifts his left arm to cover the menu as if it gets rid of the problem. “Slows me down, remember?”
“Oh. How’s it going?”
Angelo comes to take John’s order personally while Sherlock is complaining that the police still won’t let him into the pool where Carl Powers died so he can have a look around.
Sherlock stops mid-rant and glowers at Angelo for interrupting him with a discreet cough.
“What’ll it be?” Angelo asks, pen poised over a grubby notebook.
“He’ll have the Hawaiian pizza, light on the pineapple,” Sherlock says before John can answer.
John opens his mouth and Angelo turns to him with a knowing smile. “That right?” he asks and John can only nod, because (of course) it’s exactly right.
“And a coke,” Sherlock continues. “That will be all.”
He closes the menu and hands it to Angelo without looking at him, eyes still fixed on John, who is trying (failing) not to let his admiration show yet again for Sherlock’s uncanny ability.
Angelo chuckles and walks off, whistling ‘Love Is In The Air’. John feels his cheeks heat.
“How did you know?” he asks.
Sherlock merely smirks in a way that manages to be conspiratory rather than superior for once.
John shakes his head and smiles too. “So, Carl Powers then,” he prompts, and Sherlock starts again with his impassioned speech about the local police force and how they continue to obstruct him, and John listens raptly with his chin resting in his palm.
“Did you know him?” Sherlock asks at the end of his rant. “He went to your school. Did he have enemies?”
John makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “I didn’t know him, not really. He was quiet. Shy. I remember he had pretty bad eczema, and that’s about it. As for enemies, do you count bullies?”
Sherlock gives him a meaningful look and John nods at the unspoken question. Moriarty and Moran were the chief tormentors, naturally.
“I count them as my enemies,” Sherlock says after a moment.
The pizza that arrives is hot enough that there’s steam coming off it and John burns his tongue when he tries to eat it too soon. Sherlock’s not making a sound, but John knows he must be laughing at him.
He looks up from the pizza to share the joke, and sees Sherlock isn’t laughing at all - his face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the flickering candlelight, wistful and so very young as he watches John pick up another slice.
“Is it… good?” Sherlock asks a minute later when the plate has stopped steaming and John has taken a few cautious bites. “What’s it like?”
“It’s good,” John says, when he’s fully chewed and swallowed his last mouthful. “It’s… Why don’t you just try some?”
He pushes the plate towards Sherlock who shrinks back in his chair slightly. “No, I-”
“Come on,” John urges, sliding the plate even further across the table. “One slice won’t hurt.”
“John,” Sherlock says, a pleading note in his voice as he eyes the pizza as though it were a bomb.
John is not having any of it. Sherlock does look healthier today, and John wants him to stay that way. “You need to eat, Sherlock.” He turns on his own pleading tone. “For me? I promise it’s delicious, really.”
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and mournful as he picks up the smallest slice on the plate, grimacing when the grease touches his fingers. He raises it to his mouth, takes a delicate nibble of the point and then goes to set it back down. John’s stern expression stops him halfway. Sherlock sighs, takes another two bites and forces a smile. “It’s… nice.”
John allows him to drop the slice the second time and continues eating while Sherlock wipes his fingers and mouth on a napkin, folding his hands in front of himself on the table afterwards, knuckles white with tension. He looks like he’s waiting for something.
“You okay?” John asks.
“Fine,” Sherlock says tightly. “Carry on.”
John doesn’t get through half of another slice before Sherlock closes his eyes in resignation for a second, abruptly stands and then darts out of the restaurant. John knows what that means, he’s seen his sister do it enough times.
“Crap,” he mutters, dropping a crumpled fiver on the table (it’s probably not enough, but it’s all he’s got) and grabbing Sherlock’s coat off of his abandoned chair before going after him.
He finds Sherlock in the alley by the restaurant, coughing a thin stream of yellow bile onto the floor next to the overflowing bins. One of his hands is clenched into a fist and braced hard against the wall and John knows there’s a good graze forming against the brickwork. There’s a puddle at his feet that John refuses to look at. He breathes through his mouth.
Just as John reaches him (reaches out for him), Sherlock gives a final cough and spit, wipes the back of a trembling hand over his mouth and straightens up.
John is frozen, one hand still extended to rub Sherlock’s back like he does for Harry, like his mum used to do for him.
Sherlock pants for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, the corners of his eyes bright with unshed tears. His mouth twists.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
And that one word is so pitiful that John can’t help himself. He steps up to Sherlock and throws his arms around his friend’s skinny, shaking shoulders and just holds on, squeezing his eyes shut. His blood-warm ear presses against Sherlock’s cold cheek.
Sherlock’s arms don’t come up to return the embrace. “John,” he says, soft and hesitant.
“Yes, Sherlock?” John replies without loosening his grip.
“Do you… like me?”
Of course, John wants to say. Of course I do. He tightens his hold. “Of course,” he says. “Of course I do.”
A hand comes up and fists in the back of John’s jumper. “Would you like me better if I was a girl?”
John’s eyes open and he frowns at that. Why is Sherlock even asking? What does he mean? “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. At this point, he’s not sure whether he likes girls better than boys or… or otherwise. He just likes some people more than others. He likes Bill more than Mike and Molly more than Henry and, right now, he likes Sherlock more than anyone.
“Would you still like me if I wasn’t a boy?”
John shrugs. Sherlock must feel it, this close. “I guess.”
Sherlock’s other hand snakes up across John’s back and presses against his shoulder blade. “Good.”
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They walk home in silence. Sherlock still has a sickly sheen about him, whatever illusion of health he had possessed earlier is now completely absent, replaced with his usual pallor. He’s silent because he’s gone off somewhere, deep into his own mind. John is quiet because he’s uncertain; he wants to reassure Sherlock, but he’s not sure what he should say that won’t send Sherlock (even more) prickly and unresponsive. He’s also not sure what’s actually happening here - people just don’t get sick after two or three bites of pizza.
He’s got a vague idea of what might be going on, because John remembers one of Harry’s friends, Helen. He remembers her coming round for a sleepover two years ago. He remembers drowsily walking in on her in the bathroom in the middle of the night, and he remembers that two of her fingers were shoved down her throat. There were teethmarks when she pulled them out to hoarsely beg him not to tell anyone.
He hadn’t understood at all what was going on then. He was just embarrassed that he’d walked in on someone in the bathroom, especially a girl. A couple of years later, and he understands a little more. He understands why Harry stopped eating and started counting instead. He understands the habits and rituals she has with food now.
Sherlock is awfully skinny, John thinks.
He’s timid as he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand in his own again. Sherlock flinches, like he’s startled, but he doesn’t pull away.
“All right?” John asks.
“Fine.”
The leather of John’s new glove creaks as Sherlock’s grip tightens.
When they reach the playground, they break apart and regard each other uneasily for a moment.
“It’s all fine,” John blurts out, because it’s been on the tip of his tongue since he found Sherlock in the alley.
Sherlock eyes him coolly. “I know it’s fine.”
The words are like a dismissal, and John feels unaccountably saddened by it. This night has been a disaster, and John has no clue how to fix this (fix them).
“I ought to go in before mum and Harry get back,” he says, shuffling his feet.
Sherlock nods. John waits, but Sherlock says nothing further.
Maybe he’ll see Sherlock tomorrow and things will be normal again. It doesn’t seem likely, though. As he turns to go inside, John feels the corner of the Morse code book in his inner pocket press against his side.
“Oh!” he says, turning back to Sherlock. “I should give you this.”
He draws the book from his pocket and hands it to Sherlock, bolstered by the look of interest that has appeared on his face.
“Morse code?” Sherlock turns the book over in his hands, his interest turning into a frown. “I already know it.”
“Oh,” John says, because of course he does. “Well, brilliant. That’ll save you having to learn it then.”
“Why did you want me to learn it?”
“So we can communicate through the wall,” John stops, unsure. “That is your room on the other side of mine, right? I’ve heard...” Shouting, arguments.
Sherlock winces. “You can hear me through that wall? No, stupid, stupid, of course you can.”
There are frequent arguments in John’s flat too, so he can’t see why Sherlock might be uncomfortable about it, but he tries to spare him anyway. “No, I mean… I’ve heard you playing the violin,” he says. “You’re really good.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock replies rigidly, as if he’s not used to receiving compliments or praise. John supposes he might not be, he knows that Sherlock’s parents are dead and he doesn’t see his brother much now. And he knows next to nothing about this Mrs Hudson person who Sherlock lives with, he’s never even seen her after that first night. He doesn’t dare ask about her either, not after the shouting matches he’s heard.
“The Morse code is a good idea,” Sherlock continues, handing the book back. “You should probably keep this for reference, seeing as I don’t need it.”
John takes it and flashes a radiant smile at him. “Okay, well, I’ll-” John mimes knocking, and then instantly wants to die, because that was just so awkward.
Sherlock smiles back though, his first since Angelo’s, but nothing like the ones from before they went there. With a leaden drop of his stomach, John realises that they’ve actually gone backwards, somehow, in terms of their friendship.
“Sherlock…” he begins.
“You were going in,” Sherlock interrupts before John can decide what it is he wants to say. “I should go too. Come along, John.”
And John follows him, because he can’t do anything else. As he unlocks his door, he looks over to 221B, to Sherlock, and finds he is watching John in return.
Sherlock’s face is neutral, but his eyes are soft when they meet John’s. “Goodnight, John,” he says in a voice that’s hushed, like he’s telling a secret, like it’s much later than nine o’clock at night and he doesn’t want to wake anyone.
Heart pounding and hand sweating where he’s clutching his keys, John impulsively darts across the gap between them and, on his tiptoes, he presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheek - right on that prominent bone. Predictably, it’s cold and smooth. John is quick to pull back and he sees Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his eyebrows are raised, and his mouth is slightly open in surprise.
Sherlock’s eyes stay closed while his hand comes up to touch his face, fingertips resting against the spot John just kissed.
When his eyes open again, John’s face burns under Sherlock’s suddenly intense gaze and unreadable expression. What have I done?
“Night, Sherlock,” John mumbles, hurriedly opens his door and ducks inside to escape.
He proceeds then to collapse against the door, throwing an arm across his face. Jesus. What if Sherlock didn’t want to be his friend now? What if he started calling John all the same things as the kids at school did?
With a groan of frustration, John goes to his room and throws himself at the bed. He’s almost too embroiled in his shame and dread to hear the repetitive scraping and tapping on the wall. But not quite.
Sherlock.
John nearly falls over in his urgency to swipe the Morse code book, a pen, and a pad of paper off his desk, before he returns to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing the wall. His fingers tremble with relief as he takes down the first word from the message: ‘John.’
The scrapes (dashes) and taps (dots) continue, and John discerns the full message after just two repeats: ‘John. Tomorrow. Playground. Nine. Please.’
John knocks once and the message stops repeating.
‘Okay.’ he spells out, slow and clumsy.
‘Sleep well.’ is the swift reply.
Part 3
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Moriarty, Moran & other various Sherlock characters plus minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence, blood/gore, minor character death, bullying, homophobia, allusions to eating disorders
Notes: For sherlockbigbang 2012! Massive thanks to harlequinehands for creating such a beautiful piece of artwork for this undeserving fic, to a8c_sock for being a brilliant mod and friend and to everyone else who has helped me out with it, including my extremely helpful beta circ_bamboo (any mistakes that remain are my own), and my lovely cheerleader paintedame, and thanks also to my unofficial cheerleaders along the way (you know who you are, if I mention you all this will end up like an awards ceremony and someone will tell me to sit down)
Summary: Sherlock/Let The Right One In Fusion (knowledge of film/book not needed). John Watson is an isolated thirteen year old boy: he’s got a distant mother, a resentful older sister, and a sadistic bully at school called Moriarty who’s got it in for him. When Sherlock Holmes moves in next door, he and John form a rapid, intense friendship based on their mutual loneliness. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock has issues that go much deeper than loneliness.
“I need blood to live, yes.”
John lets that sink in. “So are you… are you dead? Undead? How old are you, really?”
The lightbulb above them flickers and Sherlock’s fingers tap out a short rhythm on the glass as he thinks about his answer. John copies the rhythm, softer, quieter.
“I’m conscious,” Sherlock says with a small shrug of one shoulder. “I move, respire, react to my environment… I miss a few of the basic life processes, but I think I qualify as ‘alive’. And I’m thirteen, like I told you.” A rueful smile, and his hand drops to his side. “But I have been thirteen for longer than is naturally possible.”
Disclaimer: This is the bit where they make me say I don't own anything. Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and, of course, the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Let The Right One In belongs to John Ajvide Lindqvist
Word Count: ~28,500
On AO3
The stunning artwork of harlequinehands can be found here. Please go and lavish praise on her for her fantastic work.
John has learned to be quick in the changing room. If he’s quick, no one sees the bruises. If no one sees the bruises, no one asks questions about them. Not that anyone would care. Most of them know already, and he knows from experience that no one will lift a finger to help him.
As John pulls his rugby shirt on, he catches sight of Sebastian Moran on the other side of the changing room, unbuttoning his shirt and laughing at something Moriarty has just said. Finished with the buttons, he tugs the shirt off carelessly and hangs it on the peg in front of him. John looks at his bare torso for a moment: tanned, finely muscled, no bruises, light dusting of blond hair, a scar low on his abdomen from God-knows-what. He cuts an imposing, powerful figure already, despite only being fourteen years old. With a birthday at the end of September, he’s one of the tallest, oldest boys in their year. John’s the opposite.
He is scant milliseconds from looking away when Moran happens to glance over and sees him staring. John turns his head so fast that he thinks he must have given himself whiplash. It’s not soon enough.
“Oi,” shouts Moran, “stop looking at me, you freak!”
The other boys - all of them are Moran’s friends, Christ, he’s in trouble this time - snigger and jeer. Several of them whistle suggestively.
“Fucking nancy-boy queer.”
“Oh, shit, is he hard?”
“He shouldn’t be allowed to change in here with us, it’s sick. He’s been looking at Moran, what about the rest of us?”
“Backs against the wall, lads!”
John’s face burns with shame as he slowly, mechanically swaps his school shoes for his football boots. Moriarty’s group all jostle him as they leave for the pitch, and Moran shoves him hardest of all.
“Seriously, Watson,” Moriarty laughs, the last to go by, “stop looking at him and thinking about him or he’ll end up knocking your teeth down your throat. I’d hate you to be in the way when my little Rottweiler gets caught in one of his rages.”
John hunches in on himself and ties the laces of his boots. Mike Stamford doesn’t look at him as he lumbers out of the changing room after them, already pink and splotchy in the face and breathing hard. Mike is an old target, dropped like a toy they’ve grown bored of now that they’ve decided John is more fun. John bets he can’t believe his luck.
Henry Knight gives him a fleeting sympathetic look as he passes out the door too, and then John is left alone in the changing room.
At least Mr Wiltshire will be watching them during PE, he thinks. They won’t be able to get away with too many obvious fouls during the game.
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John’s school trousers are missing when he trudges back into the changing room an hour later, cold, muddy and sore. He hunts for them under the bench where he changed and under the one opposite, but he knows what’s happened. He can hear the laughter. He hears it nearly all the way home as he walks with his blazer barely covering his PE shorts, just brushing the backs of his (weak, spindly) thighs.
It’s snowing again.
Fucking snow.
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Sherlock is sitting on the top ledge of the climbing frame that night when John goes out to breathe air that isn’t cloying and heady (full of alcohol and cigarette fumes). Sherlock is dressed only in his white shirt and trousers, missing his jacket and coat, with John’s trainers adorning his feet. His breaths are visible like John’s are, warm wisps like smoke coming out of his mouth and nostrils. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, but there are no goosepimples on his bare forearms.
He watches with mild interest as John approaches him and flops down onto one of the lower ledges beneath Sherlock.
John fishes in his pocket and holds up the Rubik’s cube, not looking at Sherlock. “Here,” he says, “I finished it.”
Sherlock smiles, takes the cube and runs a finger over the blue side. “Well done, John.”
There’s a loud, wet-sounding rumble. Sherlock pitches forward with a grimace and John realises it was his stomach. “Christ,” John says, “haven’t you had dinner?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Case. Can’t eat when I’m on a case, slows me down.”
“Case?” John frowns.
“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand and straightening back up.
“A detective. Like a private eye?”
Sherlock scowls at that. “No, like a consulting detective. I’m the only one in the world.” He puffs up slightly as he continues. “I invented the job. I help the police when they’re out of their depth. Which is always.”
“That’s rubbish,” John says. “You’re what, thirteen? The police don’t listen to kids.”
The scowl intensifies, deep lines marring Sherlock’s skin as he wilfully contorts his facial muscles to convey utter disdain. “How do you know? When we met, I knew all about you. I know all about most people, just seconds after meeting them. Some people recognise that as a useful skill.”
“I know because my uncle’s a detective inspector.”
Sherlock smirks, “Ah yes, DI Lestrade,” he says. “You’re his favourite nephew, a stand-in for his estranged son who lives in Southampton with another man now. Did you know that?”
John gapes.
“How do I know your uncle?” Sherlock voices the question for him. “I went to see him today about the boy who died in the swimming pool a couple of weeks ago. I saw a picture of you on his desk while I was in his office; it wasn’t a difficult leap with what I’d already deduced about his son.”
“I didn’t know I had a cousin,” John says, dazed.
Sherlock looks uncomfortable and fiddles with the Rubik’s cube in silence for a moment.
“My brother, Mycroft, he gave me this,” he says, when he deems the pause to have gone on long enough. “I don’t see him much now.” He doesn’t look sad about that as he extends the cube in John’s direction again. “I said you could keep it.”
John takes the puzzle, and Sherlock’s stomach rumbles again, louder and more insistent this time. He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach.
“We’ve got some leftover pizza,” John offers. “I can heat it up for you, if you want?”
Sherlock blinks at him and then his eyes narrow like John is the puzzle he’s trying to solve now. “You would do that, for me?”
“Sure. You’re my-”
John stops. He was going to say ‘mate’, but Sherlock’s weird and not very nice and he’s already said they can’t be friends. And he smells funny, like really funny. He smells like Nan’s room in the nursing home used to smell. John wrinkles his nose.
“I’m what?” Sherlock asks, then rolls his eyes. “I know I smell, you don’t need to tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything! And you’re, well, you’re my neighbour. You’re interesting too, you’re working with my uncle on one of his cases! Is it a murder?”
Sherlock sniffs. “I’m not actually involved in the case, as such. You were right, the police don’t listen to kids. Although Lestrade’s my best bet. There’s something wrong here, I know it. Carl Powers didn’t drown, by all accounts he could swim strongly enough that he didn’t need extra practice, so what was he doing there at that time in the evening? And where were his shoes?”
“His shoes?”
“His shoes were never found: why? It doesn’t make sense, if he’d drowned then they would be there.”
“So you think… the killer took his shoes?”
Sherlock looks at him sharply. “Yes,” he says at length, giving John a thorough appraisal. “It seems Lestrade’s not the only one with a brain in your family.”
It’s a compliment wrapped up in an insult, and John wants to frown, but there’s a sort of golden warmth unfurling in his chest. Sherlock is starting to respect him. No one in John’s life respects him. Except his uncle, perhaps.
Although not enough to tell John he has a cousin, apparently.
“I have to go-” John begins and Sherlock snorts.
“You have to go phone your uncle, I know.”
Right again. John grins at him, still amazed by his strange new… friend. It doesn’t matter what Sherlock says, how weird he is, how odd he smells; John considers him a friend, and that’s just about irreversible.
Sherlock smiles back hesitantly, mouth closed, but his eyes are softer now.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow?” John purposefully makes it a question, but his voice pitches that bit too high at the end and it comes out as a question that’s over-eager.
Sherlock’s smile hasn’t faded like John was half-expecting it to, and Sherlock actually nods. “I’ll be around after dark. In all likelihood.”
“Great, I mean…” John waves the Rubik’s cube at him awkwardly. “Cool. See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow,” Sherlock agrees.
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Harry is just getting off the phone with someone when John gets in. She glares at him when he stands in the hallway, waiting to use the phone.
“Piss off,” she says, one hand over the mouthpiece. “I’m not done yet.”
“You were just saying goodbye,” John points out.
She huffs, shakes her head and uncovers the phone again. “Listen, I’ve really got to go now, Clara, boy-wonder wants to use the phone. Yeah.” She listens for a moment and smiles. “You too, see you tomorrow.”
She depresses the button on the cradle to end the call and holds the phone out to John. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” John says to her retreating back - she’s already headed to her room.
With an odd squirming sensation in his stomach, he dials his uncle’s number.
After five rings, a weary voice answers. “Hello?”
Finished with work for the night then. No more “Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking”.
“Hi, Uncle Greg, it’s John.”
“John!” the tinny voice perks up, tired monotone falling away. “I haven’t heard from you in ages-” He pauses and then continues, voice hushed. “Is it your mum? Are you all okay?”
“We’re fine,” John assures him quickly. “I just… Do I have any cousins?”
“Cousins?” Greg laughs. “What are you on about, John? You know I don’t-”
Another pause, a rush of static for a drawn in breath. John bites his lip, anxiously twisting the phone wire around his right index finger.
“Who’ve you been speaking to?” Greg asks, with a sharpness to his words that John has never heard before. “Did your mum-”
“So it’s true,” John interrupts. “I have a cousin, don’t I? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“John, it’s complicated, I don’t see Anthony these days…”
“Because he lives with a man?”
Yet another pause, and John can hear, he can feel his heartbeat in his ears.
“Who’ve you been speaking to, John?” Greg asks, softly this time - a plea.
“It doesn’t matter,” John says and his voice is trembling, his throat is clogging and he can’t cry on the phone with his uncle, he just can’t. “Answer my question.”
“John, I haven’t seen Anthony in almost thirty years. Listen to me: I was only seventeen when he was born, I didn’t even know Michelle was pregnant. We weren’t all that serious, and when her parents moved to Dorset before she started to show, I didn’t keep in touch.”
There’s a crackle down the line, a heavy sigh.
“She phoned me two years ago, must have got hold of my number when I started to gain some recognition with the Met, I don’t know. She dropped a couple of bombshells on me that day: I had a twenty-eight year old son, and he was having a civil partnership ceremony in a month’s time, with a man, and did I want to come?”
Greg scoffs. “How could I?” he asks. “I didn’t know him, I’d never been given the chance to know him. How could I turn up at this major time in his life, at this happy time in his life and demand a place in it?”
“Didn’t he want his dad to be there?” John whispers. “I- I think I would, if- if it were me. I mean, if I was getting married, or- or…”
“Oh John,” Greg sighs again. “Is that what this is all about?”
“No, I-”
“Look, you’re nearly fourteen now, you’re becoming a man. And I know that’s got to be tough without your dad around.”
It’s taking much more effort now to hold back the tears.
“I know I’ve been busy with work lately,” Greg continues, “but you’re like a son to me. We should catch up soon; you could come and stay with me, it would only be a short tube ride across to school. We could talk properly then, man to man.”
John doesn’t answer.
“John? John, about Anthony… Michelle sent me a photograph. Paul makes him very happy, and as his father, that makes me very happy. Do you understand? It’s all fine, to me.”
John still can’t speak, his throat’s too tight and Greg will know he’s on the verge of crying.
“We’ll arrange that visit soon, okay?” Greg keeps going, no doubt already aware why John isn’t answering. “You could come stay during half-term, maybe. And you can get some things off your chest. You can tell me anything, John, you know that.”
“Sure,” John croaks. He sniffs, clears his throat. “That would be great. I have to go, Uncle Greg.”
“John…”
“No, really, I have to go. Mum wants me. Bye.”
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As he puts on his coat, Sherlock hears something odd and frowns. He puts his ear to the wall and is met with the sort of gasped, hitching breaths that come from someone trying valiantly to keep the tears in and failing. Not someone, John.
Sherlock dithers for the first time in his life. He is supposed to be going to the pool tonight, to gather evidence relating to the Carl Powers case.
He is supposed to be doing that, but John is crying next door. Worse: John is not just crying next door, he’s trying not to.
It makes Sherlock feel… he searches around in his memory for the word and comes up lacking. It makes him feel uncomfortable, that’s true enough.
Sherlock ponders the best way to stop someone crying, again coming up lacking. Emotions are not his forte.
Forte, he thinks, and realises he’s hit on a possible solution to the problem.
He hears a choked sob and stops eyeing his scarf and eyes the violin case instead. An hour won’t hurt. Carl Powers can’t get more dead than he already is, and the local police have already no doubt ruined the crime scene to the point where they can do no more damage, if they’re still poking around at this time. In fact, if he’s going to have to sneak in, it would be better to go later when there will be fewer people around.
Sherlock plucks the violin from its case, fingers of his left hand curled around the neck, his right hand taking up the bow.
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Romeo + Juliet is, quite simply, the most dire film John has ever been forced to watch at school.
He can’t understand the point of modernising the setting but not the language. They should have done both, he thinks, made it a real modern adaptation. It would be easier to understand, but it would still be a load of rubbish. All the girls are giggling like it’s some amazing love story. They don’t seem to care that in the play (and it will be coming up in the film too), Romeo and Juliet both die at the end. They both take their own lives. Surely that’s not how love is supposed to go?
Juliet was thirteen in the play, John remembers, the same age as him.
He shakes his head, concentrating again on the book in front of him. He has to squint at the pages, at the back of the class and concealed in darkness as he is for the film, but he’s determined to finish learning Morse code before he sees Sherlock later so he can give him the booklet to learn it too.
By the end of the lesson, he’s finished making a cheatsheet for himself.
He looks up in time to see the star-crossed lovers kiss before Romeo succumbs to the poison and Juliet shoots herself in the head.
As John walks home from school after that, he sees (notices) three different couples: an old man and woman on a bench holding hands, their heads bent close together; a pair of teenagers snogging furiously in the alley by the corner shop; and Henry Knight and Molly Hooper sharing an awkward goodbye hug at the bus stop.
He watches all of them from a distance, shy and uncertain, blushing when he’s caught by the teenagers who reluctantly break apart for the mere seconds it takes to tell John to go somewhere else if he wants a free show.
Eyes cast down, he hurries away, and only realises later on that - for all that their hair was long - the teenagers were both boys.
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At quarter to eight when John goes out that night, Sherlock is waiting for him in the playground, sat in his customary position at the top of the climbing frame, king of all he surveys.
John stands at the bottom and looks up at Sherlock to call a greeting when something dark and soft drops onto his face. “Oomph.”
Removing the offending object, he sees it’s a pair of black leather gloves.
“It won’t do for your hands to get cold, John,” Sherlock says, and his mouth curves up into a smile that’s kind rather than mocking.
He seems to be in good spirits; there’s something relaxed about his posture as he drops down beside John.
“Do I smell better today?” he asks, leaning forward as if presenting himself for inspection.
John leans forward too, gives him a curious sniff and finds that yes, yes he does. There’s still a musky odour that clings to him, but it’s like old books today - crisp and warm and nice. Not stale and cold like yesterday. He’s wearing something different too, John notices; the white shirt has been swapped for a dark blue one.
“Much better,” John says, nodding in approval, and Sherlock’s still smiling.
“Hungry?” he asks, and John can hardly believe the change in him. There’s a sort of spark in Sherlock’s eyes that John has never seen. He’s still pale and he’s still all shadows and angles, but he looks almost healthy in a way that he hasn’t since John met him.
“Starving, actually.” Mum and Harry are out again tonight and he hasn’t eaten yet because he was planning to ask Sherlock to come in for dinner.
“Excellent, put your gloves on and let’s go,” Sherlock says, clapping his own glove-free hands.
John laughs and does as he’s told. “Go where?”
“I know a place.”
Sherlock flips his coat collar up and John envies him that damn coat and his striking looks, his obvious intelligence and his air of mystery and importance. He’d have no trouble getting a girlfriend, John thinks.
“Come on.” Sherlock is holding a hand out to him expectantly. The hand waves with impatience when John doesn’t take it at once.
“Boys don’t hold hands,” John says and Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together, his hand dropping slightly.
“Don’t they?”
John blinks. He looks at Sherlock’s (angry? hurt?) frown, and thinks of Moran shoving him. The boys calling him queer. He thinks of Uncle Greg’s gentle voice on the phone, that photo he’s never seen of his cousin and his cousin’s partner. He imagines them smiling in it, arms around each other. Happy.
“Okay,” he says, and takes Sherlock’s left hand in his right. The leather of his new glove stops him feeling the cold palm that presses against his.
The “place” that Sherlock knows is a little restaurant just outside the town centre, a ten minute walk away. John’s never been before because it’s getting towards an area of town even his mum advised him to stay out of.
They’re quiet throughout the journey, Sherlock determined and John trusting. Their hands stay clasped together until they enter the restaurant.
“John,” Sherlock says when they walk in, with a quick lift of his chin at the man behind the counter. The bell above the door signals their arrival. “This is Angelo’s.”
“Sherlock!” calls the man - Angelo, John supposes.
Sherlock nods as Angelo approaches, offers his hand stiffly for a shake, but Angelo has other ideas. He sweeps Sherlock off the floor in a bear hug the moment he reaches him and swings him around for a good thirty seconds, despite Sherlock’s vicious protestations.
“Put me down or I’ll retract my statement!” he snarls and Angelo laughs good-naturedly, setting him back down and ruffling his hair.
“Sherlock here got me off a murder charge,” Angelo says by way of explanation to John, who is stifling laughter at Sherlock’s obvious displeasure at his treatment.
“You still got charged with breaking and entering,” Sherlock reminds him, attempting to flatten his hair. The mop of curls was unruly to start with.
Angelo smiles, all his teeth on display and a hint of gold at the back. “Table for two?” he asks sweetly.
He directs them to the table by the window without waiting for an answer. Sherlock sits with a huff, immediately shedding his coat and folding it across the back of his chair. John sits across from him with a small amount of trepidation chasing itself around his belly - it’s hardly a posh establishment, but John hasn’t been to dinner anywhere but McDonald’s in the last two years. And before that he only went to that nice Italian place for someone’s birthday.
Angelo looks at them both for a moment, taps a finger against his chin and seems to come to a decision. “I’ll get a candle for the table for you and your date,” he says and then winks. “It’s more romantic.”
John’s jaw drops. “I’m not his-”
He glances at Sherlock who’s looking out the window, like he hasn’t heard or just doesn’t care at all. Angelo has already bustled off. Well. “I- never mind,” John finishes lamely.
Sherlock’s attention snaps back to him then. “Have whatever you want, John,” he says, pushing a menu across the table with both hands. “On me.”
Angelo returns, places the candle (off-white, misshapen, wax dried in runs down the sides from where it’s been lit before) on the table, gives them a thumbs up and departs again.
John lifts the menu for something to do with his hands, ostensibly also to decide what to order, and notices Sherlock is watching him, his own menu discarded. “Aren’t you going to order?” John asks, using his menu to gesture at Sherlock’s.
“Case.” Sherlock shifts his left arm to cover the menu as if it gets rid of the problem. “Slows me down, remember?”
“Oh. How’s it going?”
Angelo comes to take John’s order personally while Sherlock is complaining that the police still won’t let him into the pool where Carl Powers died so he can have a look around.
Sherlock stops mid-rant and glowers at Angelo for interrupting him with a discreet cough.
“What’ll it be?” Angelo asks, pen poised over a grubby notebook.
“He’ll have the Hawaiian pizza, light on the pineapple,” Sherlock says before John can answer.
John opens his mouth and Angelo turns to him with a knowing smile. “That right?” he asks and John can only nod, because (of course) it’s exactly right.
“And a coke,” Sherlock continues. “That will be all.”
He closes the menu and hands it to Angelo without looking at him, eyes still fixed on John, who is trying (failing) not to let his admiration show yet again for Sherlock’s uncanny ability.
Angelo chuckles and walks off, whistling ‘Love Is In The Air’. John feels his cheeks heat.
“How did you know?” he asks.
Sherlock merely smirks in a way that manages to be conspiratory rather than superior for once.
John shakes his head and smiles too. “So, Carl Powers then,” he prompts, and Sherlock starts again with his impassioned speech about the local police force and how they continue to obstruct him, and John listens raptly with his chin resting in his palm.
“Did you know him?” Sherlock asks at the end of his rant. “He went to your school. Did he have enemies?”
John makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “I didn’t know him, not really. He was quiet. Shy. I remember he had pretty bad eczema, and that’s about it. As for enemies, do you count bullies?”
Sherlock gives him a meaningful look and John nods at the unspoken question. Moriarty and Moran were the chief tormentors, naturally.
“I count them as my enemies,” Sherlock says after a moment.
The pizza that arrives is hot enough that there’s steam coming off it and John burns his tongue when he tries to eat it too soon. Sherlock’s not making a sound, but John knows he must be laughing at him.
He looks up from the pizza to share the joke, and sees Sherlock isn’t laughing at all - his face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the flickering candlelight, wistful and so very young as he watches John pick up another slice.
“Is it… good?” Sherlock asks a minute later when the plate has stopped steaming and John has taken a few cautious bites. “What’s it like?”
“It’s good,” John says, when he’s fully chewed and swallowed his last mouthful. “It’s… Why don’t you just try some?”
He pushes the plate towards Sherlock who shrinks back in his chair slightly. “No, I-”
“Come on,” John urges, sliding the plate even further across the table. “One slice won’t hurt.”
“John,” Sherlock says, a pleading note in his voice as he eyes the pizza as though it were a bomb.
John is not having any of it. Sherlock does look healthier today, and John wants him to stay that way. “You need to eat, Sherlock.” He turns on his own pleading tone. “For me? I promise it’s delicious, really.”
Sherlock’s eyes are wide and mournful as he picks up the smallest slice on the plate, grimacing when the grease touches his fingers. He raises it to his mouth, takes a delicate nibble of the point and then goes to set it back down. John’s stern expression stops him halfway. Sherlock sighs, takes another two bites and forces a smile. “It’s… nice.”
John allows him to drop the slice the second time and continues eating while Sherlock wipes his fingers and mouth on a napkin, folding his hands in front of himself on the table afterwards, knuckles white with tension. He looks like he’s waiting for something.
“You okay?” John asks.
“Fine,” Sherlock says tightly. “Carry on.”
John doesn’t get through half of another slice before Sherlock closes his eyes in resignation for a second, abruptly stands and then darts out of the restaurant. John knows what that means, he’s seen his sister do it enough times.
“Crap,” he mutters, dropping a crumpled fiver on the table (it’s probably not enough, but it’s all he’s got) and grabbing Sherlock’s coat off of his abandoned chair before going after him.
He finds Sherlock in the alley by the restaurant, coughing a thin stream of yellow bile onto the floor next to the overflowing bins. One of his hands is clenched into a fist and braced hard against the wall and John knows there’s a good graze forming against the brickwork. There’s a puddle at his feet that John refuses to look at. He breathes through his mouth.
Just as John reaches him (reaches out for him), Sherlock gives a final cough and spit, wipes the back of a trembling hand over his mouth and straightens up.
John is frozen, one hand still extended to rub Sherlock’s back like he does for Harry, like his mum used to do for him.
Sherlock pants for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, the corners of his eyes bright with unshed tears. His mouth twists.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
And that one word is so pitiful that John can’t help himself. He steps up to Sherlock and throws his arms around his friend’s skinny, shaking shoulders and just holds on, squeezing his eyes shut. His blood-warm ear presses against Sherlock’s cold cheek.
Sherlock’s arms don’t come up to return the embrace. “John,” he says, soft and hesitant.
“Yes, Sherlock?” John replies without loosening his grip.
“Do you… like me?”
Of course, John wants to say. Of course I do. He tightens his hold. “Of course,” he says. “Of course I do.”
A hand comes up and fists in the back of John’s jumper. “Would you like me better if I was a girl?”
John’s eyes open and he frowns at that. Why is Sherlock even asking? What does he mean? “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. At this point, he’s not sure whether he likes girls better than boys or… or otherwise. He just likes some people more than others. He likes Bill more than Mike and Molly more than Henry and, right now, he likes Sherlock more than anyone.
“Would you still like me if I wasn’t a boy?”
John shrugs. Sherlock must feel it, this close. “I guess.”
Sherlock’s other hand snakes up across John’s back and presses against his shoulder blade. “Good.”
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They walk home in silence. Sherlock still has a sickly sheen about him, whatever illusion of health he had possessed earlier is now completely absent, replaced with his usual pallor. He’s silent because he’s gone off somewhere, deep into his own mind. John is quiet because he’s uncertain; he wants to reassure Sherlock, but he’s not sure what he should say that won’t send Sherlock (even more) prickly and unresponsive. He’s also not sure what’s actually happening here - people just don’t get sick after two or three bites of pizza.
He’s got a vague idea of what might be going on, because John remembers one of Harry’s friends, Helen. He remembers her coming round for a sleepover two years ago. He remembers drowsily walking in on her in the bathroom in the middle of the night, and he remembers that two of her fingers were shoved down her throat. There were teethmarks when she pulled them out to hoarsely beg him not to tell anyone.
He hadn’t understood at all what was going on then. He was just embarrassed that he’d walked in on someone in the bathroom, especially a girl. A couple of years later, and he understands a little more. He understands why Harry stopped eating and started counting instead. He understands the habits and rituals she has with food now.
Sherlock is awfully skinny, John thinks.
He’s timid as he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand in his own again. Sherlock flinches, like he’s startled, but he doesn’t pull away.
“All right?” John asks.
“Fine.”
The leather of John’s new glove creaks as Sherlock’s grip tightens.
When they reach the playground, they break apart and regard each other uneasily for a moment.
“It’s all fine,” John blurts out, because it’s been on the tip of his tongue since he found Sherlock in the alley.
Sherlock eyes him coolly. “I know it’s fine.”
The words are like a dismissal, and John feels unaccountably saddened by it. This night has been a disaster, and John has no clue how to fix this (fix them).
“I ought to go in before mum and Harry get back,” he says, shuffling his feet.
Sherlock nods. John waits, but Sherlock says nothing further.
Maybe he’ll see Sherlock tomorrow and things will be normal again. It doesn’t seem likely, though. As he turns to go inside, John feels the corner of the Morse code book in his inner pocket press against his side.
“Oh!” he says, turning back to Sherlock. “I should give you this.”
He draws the book from his pocket and hands it to Sherlock, bolstered by the look of interest that has appeared on his face.
“Morse code?” Sherlock turns the book over in his hands, his interest turning into a frown. “I already know it.”
“Oh,” John says, because of course he does. “Well, brilliant. That’ll save you having to learn it then.”
“Why did you want me to learn it?”
“So we can communicate through the wall,” John stops, unsure. “That is your room on the other side of mine, right? I’ve heard...” Shouting, arguments.
Sherlock winces. “You can hear me through that wall? No, stupid, stupid, of course you can.”
There are frequent arguments in John’s flat too, so he can’t see why Sherlock might be uncomfortable about it, but he tries to spare him anyway. “No, I mean… I’ve heard you playing the violin,” he says. “You’re really good.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock replies rigidly, as if he’s not used to receiving compliments or praise. John supposes he might not be, he knows that Sherlock’s parents are dead and he doesn’t see his brother much now. And he knows next to nothing about this Mrs Hudson person who Sherlock lives with, he’s never even seen her after that first night. He doesn’t dare ask about her either, not after the shouting matches he’s heard.
“The Morse code is a good idea,” Sherlock continues, handing the book back. “You should probably keep this for reference, seeing as I don’t need it.”
John takes it and flashes a radiant smile at him. “Okay, well, I’ll-” John mimes knocking, and then instantly wants to die, because that was just so awkward.
Sherlock smiles back though, his first since Angelo’s, but nothing like the ones from before they went there. With a leaden drop of his stomach, John realises that they’ve actually gone backwards, somehow, in terms of their friendship.
“Sherlock…” he begins.
“You were going in,” Sherlock interrupts before John can decide what it is he wants to say. “I should go too. Come along, John.”
And John follows him, because he can’t do anything else. As he unlocks his door, he looks over to 221B, to Sherlock, and finds he is watching John in return.
Sherlock’s face is neutral, but his eyes are soft when they meet John’s. “Goodnight, John,” he says in a voice that’s hushed, like he’s telling a secret, like it’s much later than nine o’clock at night and he doesn’t want to wake anyone.
Heart pounding and hand sweating where he’s clutching his keys, John impulsively darts across the gap between them and, on his tiptoes, he presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheek - right on that prominent bone. Predictably, it’s cold and smooth. John is quick to pull back and he sees Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his eyebrows are raised, and his mouth is slightly open in surprise.
Sherlock’s eyes stay closed while his hand comes up to touch his face, fingertips resting against the spot John just kissed.
When his eyes open again, John’s face burns under Sherlock’s suddenly intense gaze and unreadable expression. What have I done?
“Night, Sherlock,” John mumbles, hurriedly opens his door and ducks inside to escape.
He proceeds then to collapse against the door, throwing an arm across his face. Jesus. What if Sherlock didn’t want to be his friend now? What if he started calling John all the same things as the kids at school did?
With a groan of frustration, John goes to his room and throws himself at the bed. He’s almost too embroiled in his shame and dread to hear the repetitive scraping and tapping on the wall. But not quite.
Sherlock.
John nearly falls over in his urgency to swipe the Morse code book, a pen, and a pad of paper off his desk, before he returns to sit cross-legged on his bed, facing the wall. His fingers tremble with relief as he takes down the first word from the message: ‘John.’
The scrapes (dashes) and taps (dots) continue, and John discerns the full message after just two repeats: ‘John. Tomorrow. Playground. Nine. Please.’
John knocks once and the message stops repeating.
‘Okay.’ he spells out, slow and clumsy.
‘Sleep well.’ is the swift reply.
Part 3