Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty Four - That Boy

John

His eye went from purple to green to yellow, like a chameleon.

"How long am I grounded?" John asked, sitting patiently. "I need to go to Greg's to study, Ma."

"Greg's," she spat. "Huh. You're grounded until you're sorry about the fight."

"Yeah, well... I am sorry." But John wasn't, really. He felt safer on the bus, more relaxed, and people smiled at him in the hallway now. Mostly because he'd kicked Anderson's ass. No one had ever seen a boy actually tackle someone that hard. No one had ever seen anything as bad as John Watson, and he wore his leather jacket like less of a clothing item and more of a statement. If John came in smoking a cigarette with his hair greased, no one would question it. Suddenly, John wasn't a mistake. Suddenly, he was the boy that would beat you senseless if you touched his boyfriend. Everyone knew it, now. And no one made fun of Sherlock.

They were a team. Not popular, but not bullied. Mind and matter. The trench coat and the leather jacket. Sherlock and John.

"I must admit," Sherlock said one day, "it was pretty fucking brilliant.

"Learned it at rugby." The bruise was dying away. But Sherlock thought it was rather cool, like Scar's scar in The Lion King. It added definition to his face.

"Rugby? You were a jock?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John lied. "I wasn't."

"You just were... on the rugby team? You're awful at lying. You have the most obvious tell."

"What's my tell?"

"I'm not..." Sherlock smirked. "Telling."

"Shut up," John scoffed. "You brilliant, extraordinary bastard."

"Never."

"I knew you'd say something to that effect," John muttered.

"I want to try again."

"You're such an arse."

"Come to my house."

"The biggest arse I know."

"Would you?"

John turned to look at Sherlock. "Wouldn't matter."

"You're grounded..." Sherlock said, realizing.

"Yep."

Sherlock

Everyone knew that Sherlock was the reason that John Watson tackled Phillip Anderson and kneed him in the chin.

In the hallway, Sherlock heard whispers. But they were a new kind of whispers. They were the ones that felt good, the ones that people said because they didn't want you to realize that they actually liked you now. Sherlock could tell the difference between the two. One was darker. One was hidden, and their eyes watched you as you traveled down the halls. But this was a new feeling. A better feeling.

Someone asked Sherlock if it was true that John and Anderson were fighting over him.

"God," Sherlock chuckled, "yes. I'm Mr. Sex." When that got back to Sally, she'd be furious. And the looks Moriarty gave him in gym class were nothing short of delirious.

On the day of the fight, Graham Lestrade and a boy named Tom asked him to share every bloody detail.

"Well," Sherlock began, loving to show off John's brute, unbridled strength, "I gave that idiot a swift uppercut to the jaw, followed by a tremendous tackle from the right from John Watson. Anderson tried and failed to mercilessly beat John in the face, but he proved too uncoordinated, and finally, was kneed directly in the mentum."