Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 12

[A/N: I just discovered Billie Eilish and DAMN. Time to add 10 new songs to every single Spotify playlist I own.]

Sherlock and I reached the new paved trail, leading elegantly into a bunch of land thickly populated with bright red and yellow trees. It was pleasantly and surprisingly warm, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets in contentment as the two of us walked into the pretty scene in front of us. Before Dad went bonkers, he used to paint a lot. His work was always so lovely, and it quite reminded me of this.

Sherlock glanced down at me from where he was standing, unmoving, staring at the picture in front of us. We began walking again, slower now, both wanting to take as much of it in as we could. Squirrels scurried about the trail, almost as excited about it as we were, their small paws hitting the fresh Tarmac as we approached. I breathed in the cool, satisfying air and slowly let it back out again, sighing out of tranquility and wishing to never forget this moment.

Returning back from my thoughts and into reality, I noticed Sherlock humming what sounded like an overrated Billy Joel song. I smiled suddenly, realising that he actually had a very nice voice and wasn't tone deaf like most people. My mum had always told me to marry a girl with a nice voice. I didn't know why she thought that, but it was true that finding out someone can sing makes them a good fifty percent more attractive. Which, of course, didn't make me gay. I wasn't gay.

I sighed. Forget it, I reminded myself. Forget it.

I had always read about it in books and seen it on television, never believing it existed, but, at that moment, I knew it was very real: I suddenly noticed that I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And not in a subtle way, either. My heart, along with my feet, stopped as I figured out that I had been attracted to him ever since we had met. And I, John Watson, had fallen in love with him. For him. Or whatever.

And I know that sounds naïve. It is naïve. But I had never felt just like this about anyone in my entire life before. Ever.

There was a slight predicament regarding this, however: I was almost one hundred percent sure that it wasn't mutual. Not like I expected it to be. Here I was, an average-looking, slightly chubby, short boy with an average personality, considering myself in love with a flawless and almost mythical creature. There was no way the feeling would ever be returned to me from him. Hell, I didn't even know if he was gay in the first place.

"John?" Sherlock asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned to face him, feeling my face redden as I caught his eye.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Are you alright?" he asked, bending over to look me in the eye. "You stopped walking. Are you going to faint again? Are you overheating? You're all red."

I shook my head, looking at my feet. "I'm... fine," I said. "Let's just keep going."

So we did. A few isolated leaves were scattered carelessly across the blacktop like papers on a desk, and they crunched beneath my feet as I stepped on them.

Tell him, I told myself. He's a genius; he can probably tell anyway. Just say it. Awkwardness is inevitable anyway.

I swallowed as we reached a more hidden part of the woods. Taking a chance, I closed my eyes and took in a breath.

"Sherlock," I said, sitting down on a park bench. He turned his attention to me promptly, and sat down next to me out of politeness.

"Yes, John?" he asked.

I huffed out a nervous exhale. "I have something to tell you."

He nodded. "Alright."

"I want you to know," I said, "That I'm-"

I trailed off as Sherlock diverted his eyes suddenly away from mine, squinting as he watched something behind us. I turned my head in that direction.

"Can your 'something to tell me' wait a moment?" Sherlock asked, and I shrugged, knowing that I probably wouldn't have the courage later.

"Sure."

On the section of the path from whence we came, there was a masculine figure making its way toward us. I awaited its arrival as it steadily and suspiciously strolled towards us. Sherlock seemed to recognise it, somehow. As the person came closer, I realised that it was, in fact, another boy about our age. His eyes were bright, yet dead and disturbed, and he smiled dimly as he stopped in front of us.

Sherlock stood up. "Moriarty," he greeted him, not offering a handshake but a mere nod of the head.

"Oh, Jim, please," the new acquaintance laughed dryly, his thick Irish accent even apparent in the chuckle itself. "Moriarty sounds so evil." He rocked back on his heels and then back forward on his toes. I stayed sitting in the bench as he turned to face me.

"Oh, and what's this?" he asked, staring straight at me, his eyes quite like ones of a corpse. "This must be a new pet." He spat the word as if he were cussing. Pet.

I nodded and held out my hand. "John," I said. "I'm his friend."

Jim knelt down, ignoring my offer for a handshake. He raised his eyebrows in a cartoonish manner, resting his hands on his knees and pushing his face uncomfortably close to mine. "Oh, but Sherlock doesn't have friends, John. You must be something else. A colleague? A lover? A pet?" He stood straight up again, not breaking his eyes away from mine, the icy blue chilling my spine. "I think you're a pet. He likes having you around. I can tell." He giggled halfheartedly as he said it, the sound monotonous and dead and decomposed. I didn't like it.

Sherlock, who was facing the concrete floor beneath us, glanced up at him and scuffed his foot on the ground. Jim tucked his hands neatly into his pockets and smiled coldly at the two of us. "Good evening," he said, and walked away, his figure fading from view a lot faster than it had earlier appeared.

"Who was he?" I asked once he was out of sight.

Sherlock looked down at me, expressionless, and pressed his lips firmly together, making a small line of a mouth under his nose. "He's my arch-enemy."

I snorted. "That sounds extreme. I thought only superheroes had those."

"As do geniuses," Sherlock replied, and I sighed at him self-inflating his ego. "But the problem with it is that he thinks of me as a good friend. But I know I'm not. I can see the evil in his eyes. There's no life in his features at all. Ever." He snarled dramatically, his top lip drawing back and exposing his teeth.

"Much like your brother," I observed.

Sherlock turned to me. "Really?" he asked, furrowing his brow and squinting his eyes at me. "I had always thought it was quite like me."

I was taken aback for a moment. "Who ever told you that you look lifeless?"

He stayed quiet, puckering his lips the tiniest bit, as if he was trying his hardest to keep words from falling out of them. A shallow person would say he was being rude, but I thought he was just sad. Maybe it was because I knew him better than most people. Other people didn't put in the effort to get to know him. I didn't understand why.

I take that back. I knew exactly why people didn't like him. Because he was an arse. But beneath the arse was the heart. Which is a terrible analogy; I'm aware.

I stood up from the bench, looking at my feet. "I think you're one of the most alive, most... most awake people I've ever met in my life." I felt relief saying that, sort of huffing afterwards as if it was difficult to do so.

We began walking again, and, though I didn't get a response, I saw my friend smile sheepishly out of the corner of my eye.