Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Two - Misconstrued Manners

John

John surveyed his options. There weren't many. He could sit here.

He could ride the bus.

Or he could sit here.

His "dad" wasn't even plausible. He was probably drunk, or asleep or something. Sitting here was the best choice.

He let kids brush past him, getting hit by their shoes and backpacks as they ran from school in a haze of flailing limbs. It was a sea of unbridled humanity, and John loved it immensely. Though he hated it, too. It swamped over his head. He felt helpless, like a goldfish fighting a current. Like Marlin in Finding Nemo.

John chuckled from the stupidity of the analogy.

He just didn't have a Dory to speak of. He wondered how many years it'd take for him to get one friend in this sinkhole of rich clothing and perfectly manicured nails. All his options for friends were too... angry.

The one person he met was named Mike. He was fat, and jolly, but had this mysterious complex where he was always happy. Always. John would look up at him, and he'd be smiling about this and that, "Oh yeah, your hair, mate, it's funny," and, "Oh, yeah, that butterfly? Yeah, that's cute," or "That teacher is wearing a Cardigan! Ha!"

Everyone wore suits. Westwood. Devore. The list went on for a long, long time.

His jumpers caught attention. It wasn't his fault he liked being warm, it was their fault that they judged him for it. Maybe he just wanted to be alone.

But not alone in the middle of a crowd. He took out his cell that was from 2004, and phoned his mum. She'd listen.

She was off in some far off place, probably teaching some poor kids how to read. Pickard, or as he liked to call him, Dickard, payed the bill every month, even though they had no money to speak of. That was the only thing John didn't openly despise about Pickard; that he was with John's mother. (Or maybe that was the thing he especially despised about Pickard.) Ex-mother. You couldn't break up with your mum, really, but it sodding felt like that. She was so small now. She never stood up for anyone anymore, not Harry, not him, not herself, and maybe it was because she didn't bloody care, but John cared lots.

He felt the hole in his chest. He missed her. She was so pretty, too. So beautiful. She looked like Harriet spoke, sharp, poignant, maybe inarticulate but still kind. And he just wanted their old life back; the single mother and the single children.

"Hi," his mum said, "I'm not here right now. Leave a message!" That was it. It was just nice to hear her voice. John described what happened to his mum that day in intricate detail before hanging up sadly. Maybe she'd receive the call. Somehow.

Then he tried to phone Pickard. He picked up on the fourth ring.

"Ay," he answered.

"Hey, dad," John said stickily. "Can you pick me up?"

"No," Pickard scoffed. "Go on the bus."

"I can't."

"Why?"

Because it's hell.

"Because the bus driver said I needed to have a signed permission slip," John lied.

"Fuckin' liar, you are," Pickard mumbled, "Just fucking go."

"What, no, they won't-"

"Bye." There was an end tone, and then John was alone. He sat on the steps as the teenagers climbed onto the buses, and then they rolled away while he sat, knees crossed. All alone. Again.

Sherlock

Sherlock saw the blonde boy, phoning someone on the steps. He was sitting all alone as the last peterings of children ran down the pavement, Westwood suits kicking up dirt. It was a sea of black in which one yellow sunspot reared its slightly rounded head, and then all the black was gone, the buses disappeared into the forest surrounding.

The boy had his head in his hands. He was the type of person that cried when no one was watching. Sherlock nearly felt tempted to interrupt his peace of mind; to disturb his self pity session, but he didn't.

Sherlock walked as quietly as he could down the steps, trying not to disrupt the serene quiet. After all, he had places to be, too. He had to be with his father. Oh, his father. He just loathed his father. There was no other word to describe it. Pure, honest loathing. Sherlock never thought about it, though, when he had better things to think about. Waste of brain space. He liked to pretend it didn't take up all his brain space.

But when he was nearly on the last step, the boy spoke. "Hey," he said. He wasn't actually crying. Sherlock should've listened more; he was just distracted by his own focused tiptoeing.

"...Hello," Sherlock said coldly.

The boy gulped, gauging Sherlock's response. John thought Sherlock looked icy. "I wanted to thank you for this morning."

"People often do," Sherlock growled. "I don't humor them with misconstrued 'you're welcomes.'"

"Oh."

"I'll see you, hopefully, never."

Well.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or a vote, if you fancy. :D ily all!