A Study In Him (Teenlock)

The Blonde Boy

A few days passed and the two roommates were free and set on course back to the school. Once the cab stopped in front of the metal gates, John helped Sherlock out, swinging his arm around the future doctor's strong shoulders.

Slowly, the made it back to room 221. John helped Sherlock lay down on his bunk, then he sat himself down on the rug. Sherlock's utter embarrassing crush on him still pulsed through his veins, tainting the blood than rain through them.

The fact that John had done so much despite the hurt Sherlock no doubt caused him made his knees weak. Maybe it is possible for John to--?

No. Not possible in any way or form. John is not gay, and even if he was, he'd never like a guy like Sherlock. And even if he did, Sherlock is in no way a suitable boyfriend for John. John needs someone who can hold him up, not pull him down. All Sherlock would ever do is slam him down to rock bottom, with him.

Sherlock wouldn't wish that on anyone, certainly not John. John deserves so much better.

"Sherlock--"

"I know what you're going to say, John."

"What am I going to say?"

"Something about this," Sherlock yanked up his sleeve, revealing the numerous scars.

John looked at the rug, admitting defeat. Sherlock pulled his sleeve down and turned back over.

After long moments of silence, Sherlock let out a sigh, "It started a year ago."

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock was...CONFIDING in him.

Not something he does every day.

"It just...Never stopped, y'know? The craving to get rid of any feelings to avoid hurt. I now know it's not the way to go about it."

"That's right," John got up, striding into the bathroom. He dug around a few cupboards until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah-ha!" John held up the pencil-sharpener blade, "This is what you use, eh?"

Sherlock slowly nodded, not sure where this was going.

"Well, ploonk," John made a strange sound effect as he dropped the small, horrid thing in the toilet. Sherlock felt helpless, there was nothing he could do to stop him. But then again, he felt free. There was nothing he could do to stop John from saving him.

John pulled the lever and sent the wretched metal blood-bringer down the pipes. No more.

He wanted to speak no more of it, so he searched for a random subject-changer.

"Hey, John," he started, "Did you know that the sayings or doings of someone while drunk or high are often hidden truths from their subconscious, and the intoxication brings it out from hiding momentarily?"

John nodded, understanding, but then he froze, the exact way someone would when something sunk in or hit them. But what?

And then Sherlock remembered: Falling off a building, landing in sharp bushes, and breaking your leg is a painful experience, so the nurses would have used a ridiculous amount of painkillers.

Enough to put him in a slightly drugged state.

"Speaking of which, John, how high was I in the hospital?"

He sputtered a moment, trying to find words, then he cleared his throat, "Very. You thought you were dead and you..."

"I...What, John?"

"Never mind. It's not important."

Strange. It was definitely something important a moment ago. It's as if there's something John doesn't want him to know...

Sherlock cringed. Not that. Please, God, anything but that...

"Ahem. Well anyways," John began, "I've got homework to do. You rest, okay?"

"Yeah...Sure," Sherlock propped himself up against the wall next to his bunk, pulling out a book to read while John sat on the floor with his work.

After quite a while, maybe half an hour of pure silence between the two, Sherlock, for some unknown reason, got the hiccups.

In the silence, they were rather loud, despite his attempts to muffle them. John sighed irritably, "Could you shush? I'm trying to concentrate."

"I'm sorry John I can't help it. I need a...Shock, I believe, to stop them. I read that somewhere."

John, out of the blue, flung a pencil, hitting Sherlock square on the forehead, "Better?"

Sherlock hiccuped loudly, "No."

John sighed, loud and ragged. He got up, slowly and wobbly, as if preparing himself for a big feat. He snaked over, seating himself right between Sherlock's legs, clutching the collar of his uniform.

"John--" Sherlock was interrupted by a hiccup, "Wh-What are you doing?"

"Shocking you," John murmured, closing his eyes, inhaling, and pressing his lips to Sherlock's, leaving him in awe and confusion. What the hell was happening?!

John pulled away, a smirk plastered on his lips, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes, "Now shut it."

He crawled off, returning to his work. As he did so, he clutched his hair as if he'd just been possessed by some animal and had no idea what had come over him.

'Oh, John,' Sherlock thought, 'You never cease to amaze me.'