Life on Baker Street was, usually, quite dull.

For a slightly hyperactive teenager such as Sherlock Holmes, this could be bothersome, for his ever changing thoughts and ever observing mind were so bored with his surrounding environment. This lead to Holmes getting in far more trouble than what it was worth.

For a teenager raised by a father so high up in the military, such as John Watson, it was a haven, as the thought that he would ever be able to do something even remotely bad was stricken from his parents minds. This of course meant Watson got into more trouble than they could even dream of conceiving.

This of course, rose the question as to why the two got along so famously.

If one had the right amount of knowledge on the matter, though, it wouldn't be nearly as mind boggling.

Such facts would be that they grew up in the same apartment building, number two-twenty-one on Baker Street (B and A, to Holmes and Watson respectively), and being the only children on the otherwise ancient street they'd realized, "Hey, we can play space pirates versus space cowboys together."

(Actually, it'd been John who made this very astute observation. Sherlock had been sitting on the steps to their building, a colander placed precariously on his crazed hair. John had walked down the steps, one hand wrapped around his broom stick, the special one with the plush horse head attached to the top, and the other holding a cowboy hat spray painted silver.

"What are you doing?" John had asked, sitting next to the slighter boy.

Sherlock had looked back up at him through long, long eyelashes that John thought were very girly, and if the boy hadn't seemed so distraught, he would have commented on that fact. "My older brother, Mycroft, won't play Space Pirates with me."

John contemplated this, biting the inside corner of his lower lip. "You can play with me, but it'll have to be Space Pirates versus Space Cowboys, 'cause I like Space Cowboys more.")

There was also the fact that Holmes had the incessant need to be entertained, so even if Watson hadn't wanted to be his friend, Watson highly doubts that Holmes would have taken "no" for an answer.

(The one time John had tried to "ditch" Sherlock had been at the end of school "dance" that the elementary put on every year, at the end of third grade. One of the older boys had told John that Sherlock was, to quote, "Too weird to function."

John, who was, at the time, very invested in the idea of popularity, proceeded to say as much to Sherlock himself, who looked very much like he wanted to cry, and walked away. Their estrangement lasted all of another hour, as John realized that the older boy who said that was, in fact, a "Dirt-licking cootie eater, who couldn't tell his mouth from his bum," according to a girl in his grade. John went back to Sherlock (who'd been sitting in the corner by himself) and gave him half of his peanut butter cookie, and all was well, as peanut butter cookies were and alway will be perfect in every way, especially with jam on top.)


Achilles had Patroclus, Alexander had Hephaestion, Johnson had Boswell, Captain America had Bucky, Batman had Robin, Chandler had Joey, Harry had Ron, and Holmes has Watson.

Of course, Holmes is under no false idea that they are in anyway as iconic. Yet, anyways. He's working on that.

"Holmes? Holmes! Are you even listening to me? Holmes!" Watson's face had reached that delicate shade of irate red-purple that notified Holmes that he'd better pay attention.

"Yes, my dear Watson?"

Watson rolled his eyes and sighed with the pain of an exasperated best friend. "If you had paid attention the first time I wouldn't have to repeat myself, you know. It'd save us bucket loads of time."

"Please, Watson, you were avoiding talking about how you thought you've failed your test in Chemistry by rambling about your father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia," Holmes said, straightening his back from his previous slouched position against the locker next to Watson's. He would have laughed at Watson's father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia if it had not been for his previous experience with Watson's father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia. As Holmes has been Watson's best friend since they were five years old, he'd experienced the cowboy obsession at a very early age. This did not in any way dull the hilarity of the fact that a grown man's study had a cowboy border, designed for pre-pubescent boys.

"And how could you have possibly known that?" Watson asked, retrieving his Calculus binder and book from his locker, and placing it in his duffle bag.

"It didn't really take much deductive skill. You've been poring over your Chemistry book for the past few days." Watson rolled his eyes. Holmes thought for a moment, about what that could mean. "Oh, how did I know you were avoiding that? You don't bring up your father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia unless you want me to, indeed think about your father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia, and you only want me to think of your father's obsession with cowboy paraphernalia if whatever you're really talking about is quite embarrassing." Holmes ponder such for a moment, "Though really, I don't know why your embarrassed by your lack of understanding in the matters of science, everyone has their short comings."

Watson merely scowled at him. "Why do I deal with you again?"

"Um..." Holmes mocked thinking, and finally quoted, "I'd like to think it's because of my perky nipples."

Watson barked out a laugh. "Holmes, what have I told you about watching Supernatural when you can't sleep? You get those stupid quotes stuck in your head."

Holmes shook his head, "I do not understand how you can so simply deny how completely and utterly magnificent that show is."

"You just have a hard-on for Dean," Watson rebutted, smirking and looking down at Holmes through the corner of his eyes.

Holmes ran a hand through his already wild hair and grinned wide. "It's not my fault Jensen Ackles has such a lovely ass."

"So, what are you doing tonight, Holmes?" Watson asked as they entered the school's lobby. Ah, of course, Watson, change the topic away from things that make little straight boys squirm. "Are you free to hang out, or is Adolph Holmes drilling Nazi killing techniques again?"

"Funny, Watson, and so very original! Yes, my father is Hitler reincarnate! But no, not under father's rule tonight." Holmes didn't exactly seem happy though, so Watson gestured for more information. "Violin drills, tonight. Mother's sick of the scratching at three a.m. and said, 'At least if you can play the blasted instrument, I might get some sleep! Even if you can't.' I of course replied with, 'You can't sleep because of the humanoid slab of lard that lay, snoring, next to you!' I refused to define 'humanoid,' so she punished me with drills."

Watson's only reply to Holmes's story was a sigh. He scowled and glared at the back of Watson's head as he stepped before him to exit the school. "You know, usually, when one tells his or her best friend that said person is getting punished, said best friend is supposed to reply with sympathy. At least faked sympathy."

"In most cases one's best friend feels sympathy for said person. In most cases one don't call his or her father a 'humanoid slab of lard.' In most cases one's best friend's adjacent 'one' isn't you!"

"Now that was a little harsh, now wasn't it?" said a sugary-sweet voice behind them.

Holmes and Watson turned their heads in unison over their respective shoulders. "Ah, Irene, back from your vacation I see?" Holmes asked.

They'd stopped at the end of the block, on the corner of the street that led to the football field, and the street that led to the school proper. Holmes looked to Irene, dressed to tease any one who may take a fancy, as usual. Her long dark hair fell in tendrils around her face, from a messy bun on the top of her head. She had gone with a geek-chic look for the day, with pencils in her hair, a (pretty much half unbuttoned) button up shirt under a low-cut argyle sweater-vest, and a very short plaid, pleated skirt.

"It wasn't a 'vacation,' Holmes, it was a suspension issued for putting the principal's car in his office!" Watson proclaimed, eyes glaring with some unknown Watson-like emotion that Holmes couldn't determine.

Irene Adler's smile was sickeningly sweet as she hugged Holmes, looking straight into Watson's clear blue-grey eyes. She had a weird scent to her today, under her perfume...Roses? Lupin? And was that...Freshly-mowed grass? In March? Most curious. "My father let me go to Paris for the two weeks I was gone."

"Blackmail him, again? Or was it bribery this time?" Watson inquired bitingly.

(As you could probably assume from the attitudes of one John Watson and Irene Adler, they didn't like one another. This...contempt started in junior high, when Adler moved to their school district (i.e. Got kicked out of the last private school in the area). Adler had decided to put it upon herself to make one Sherlock Holmes realize he was gay and come out of the proverbial closet.

Now it wasn't that Irene "made him gay," no, it definitely wasn't that. Watson knew since they were little that Holmes didn't like girls. No, no it was more the way in which she made Holmes come out, that did it. To be more exact, the way she tried to make out with him in the middle of the cafeteria, and then made him explain, "Why, exactly, Sherlock, don't you want to kiss me?"

To which his reply was, "I do not have romantic interests towards you."

"Well, why not, I am the prettiest girl in the school, after all."

"I-I," it was the only time Watson had ever heard Holmes stutter, "I'm gay."

Principal Lestrade was not amused by their antics. Nor, for that matter was Watson. Now, Watson didn't think Holmes should have hushed-up his inclination towards men, but that didn't exactly mean he should announce it to the entire school. (When Watson said as much to Holmes, Holmes said he hadn't. When Watson asked him to clarify, Holmes said seventeen people were absent that day.)

This was Holmes first detention, followed by a very steady decline on the social hierarchy that was high school. As Watson was dragged along on every "case of moral high ground," as Holmes put it, he, too, fell to the bottom wrung of the ladder. That was why Watson hated Adler.)

"'Twas neither, John Watson, and I'm appalled you'd think such of a lady," Adler said, accentuated with a hand flutter against her chest.

"What lady?" Holmes asked, eyebrow high on his forehead. Watson smirked, and decided to continue walking, Holmes following quickly behind. "So, Irene," Holmes asked, "what have you planned for this weekend?"

Adler suddenly seemed apprehensive, and Watson stared at her from the corner of his eye. "I'm, rather unfortunately, busy. Mother is coming home, and I must be there and presentable."

If Holmes doubted the excuse (Which he did, they had just gotten a cold front, so they didn't have those flowers. Maybe she'd gone to a greenhouse? But why?), it didn't show on his face. "That's too bad, Watson and myself were going to have our Monthly Monster Movie Marathon."

"Oh, Holmes, about that-" Watson injected.

Holmes turned his head towards him, taking a step off the curb at the same time, and almost got hit by a Buick speeding past, driving dangerously close to the sidewalk. Watson quickly grabbed him, pulling the slighter boy to his chest. "Watch it, Holmes."

Holmes seemed distinctly less startled than he should have, for someone almost run over by a car. Though Watson could feel his heart beating erratically under his hand. "That's what I've got you for, my dear Watson!" he said, breathlessly.

Said boy shook his head. "Anyway, I can't make it this weekend."

"And why would that be?" Holmes asked, his mouth twitching once on the left corner.

"I-" Watson cut himself off, looking to Adler, then back to Holmes, "I'm helping Mary Morstan study for the Chemistry midterm."

This time it was his right nostril, the telltale signs of repressed emotion, though of what emotion, Watson couldn't tell. Holmes swallowed, "Well, then I'll just have to watch Lord of the Rings all by myself."


Holmes and Watson had been having Monthly Monster Movie Marathons since they were allowed to watch movies that weren't pre-watched by their parents. (Also known as the awesome age that was ten years old.)

The movies weren't necessarily "monster movies" either. In fact, they usually weren't. Though the movies usually fell under the category of sci-fi or fantasy, the reason the weekends were called Monthly Monster Movie Marathons was because it always started on the third Friday of the month and lasted until the early hours of Monday morning, therefore monster meaning large, not scary beast. Good fun was usually had by all, and they had never missed a month in eight years, that's ninety months in a row. Until this month. This month, Holmes would be watching the Monthly Monster Movie Marathon all by himself.


Sherlock Holmes sat in the quiet of his room. "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" Extended Edition was playing, muted, on his twenty-five inch screen. His violin was in one hand, bow in the other, but he wasn't playing. His stereo was turned to level thirty, as high as it'd go.

He stared at the wall.


"Honey? Honey? Where's Johnny? I know today is your movie thingie! Honey? Are you okay? Sherlie? Baby, are you alright? Honey, are you crying? Baby?"


"You got that boom, boom, pow!You got that drivin' me wil'! You-"

"What in the holy hell are you singing?" Holmes asked, leaning against the opening of Watson's locker.

Watson quickly turned around, eyes uncharacteristically wide. "Nothing."

"Really?" Holmes said, smirking, "Because I distinctly heard-"

"Mary had it playing when I arrived on Saturday." Watson turned back around, to get his Chemistry binder from his locker. "It's stuck in my head."

Holmes had instantly lost his cheer the moment the girl had been mentioned. He turned away from the other boy and asked, "How do you think she'll fair?"

"To be honest, I don't know why she asked for help, she's brilliant at this stuff. And you know I'm pants at it." Holmes felt a weird, unclassifiable pang in his chest, but quickly shook it off by shaking his head at his friend's naïvety. Only Watson.

"Maybe she's interested in you. You're quite the strapping young lad, after all!" Holmes said, fake cheer in his voice.

"You think?" Watson asked, as they walked to the science wing. Watson had regular A-level Chemistry, and Holmes had AP. "I do need a date for the Valentines' Day Dance."

Holmes bit the inside corner of his lower lip. "Oh, I'm sure. You're a catch, you know. All the girls think so. Smart, handsome, pleasant to talk to. It's why I keep you around..."

"Please, Holmes, you don't keep me around, I keep you around," Watson said, smiling wide. "No one else would have you, remember? Adler tried to auction you off last year."

Holmes scowled, and furrowed his brow. "I can't believe I was bought for three dollars and fifty cents. I mean, come on! I rank number one in the school! I'm handsome! I-"

"You're short." Watson's smile was turning into a wide grin, which was always infectious, no matter what Holmes did to try to repress it.

"I'll have you know that I'm proportional!" Holmes shoved Watson, who stumbled but mostly stayed up right. Holmes didn't really push him that hard.

"So does that mean your dick's short, too?" a nasty, high-pitched voice asked. Holmes and Watson turned around, seeing Blackwood and his two cronies Coward and Dredger.

"Least mine's in use, Coward, not just getting the occasional reach-around from your owner," Holmes hissed, accosting the boy who addressed him.

"And there goes my wonderful mood, congratulations, Blackwood, I do believe that is a new record," Watson said, turning into his class, "Later, Holmes. Ass-hats, you as well, unfortunately."

Holmes glared at them for a bit, then tried to continue down the hall. Blackwood made a small noise and suddenly Dredger, the giant French exchange student, whom was also on the football team, was in his way.

"Excuse-moi, grand monsieur," Holmes said, trying to edge around the hulking figure.

"Ne peut faire, monsieur." Now, normally, Holmes would have had absolutely no problem in dealing with a situation such as this. Normally, Holmes would have whatever ruffian in his path on his back in ten seconds flat, feeling worse for wear, both mentally and physically (As, you quite assuredly know, straight teenage boys have something very strong against gay teenage boys being able to better them in physical activities, especially when that activity is getting their ass handed to them).

But today, well today is different. Because today is part of March, the last half of March, to be exact. And March is before April. Before the Spring Fling. And Holmes had promised Watson he wouldn't get anymore detentions before then, because one more, and he's suspended. Suspension means you can't go to school functions for the rest of the term.

Holmes rolled his eyes, and said loudly, "Look, Blackwood, I don't care how bad your blue-balls are, I'm not gonna blow your micro-peen!" Not exactly eloquent, but he needed attention from those around him, i.e. teachers.

"Holmes, you-!" Blackwood started, only to be stopped by Mr. Clark, Holmes's homeroom adviser, putting a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I believe you boys should be heading to class, as the bell is about to ring," he said, mustache bristling. True to his word, the bell rang as soon as the teacher was done speaking.

"Right-o, sir," Blackwood said, nodding his head in Mr Clark's direction, then motioning to Coward and Dredger to follow him. He slammed hard into Holmes as he walked by, but Holmes barely moved at all. "See you later, Nancy."

Holmes turned to glare at him, and was about to call back something that promised to be witty and insulting (of course) but Mr. Clark interrupted him. "I'll walk you to class, Sherlock, in hopes you don't get into trouble in those ten feet."

"Oh, Clarkie, you should have no hope in that."


"Oh my god, if I never have to take another midterm again, it will be too soon," Watson groaned out, flopping back onto Holmes's massive California King sized bed.

Holmes resisted smiling at his friend's relaxed pose. "But finales are okay?"

"Argh! Don't bring those up! Don't even do it!" Watson groaned with a smile. "I don't think I'll be able to handle my Chem finale!" Holmes laid down next to him, cuddled up to his side, and laid his head on his friend's shoulder.

"Don't impugn my honor, boy! Like I'd let you fail!" Holmes said, all serious and solemn, but then began tickling Watson's side. And yes, Holmes knows that serious and solemn are synonyms, but he has his best friend giggling under him, the last midterms of his high school career are out of his way, and life is looking good.


"So...If I told you that I got a date to the Spring Fling, would you kill me?"

Holmes turned to Watson and squinted his eyes at him. "So, Mary said yes?"

"Uh...yeah?" Watson said, flicking his eyes from Holmes to his notebook, where he scribbled a few quick words.

"I'm not mad, it was really expected. Now I'm just going to be a third wheel, is all," Holmes said jotting down a few notes on the corner of his Calculus homework about the hacks he wanted to do to his laptop.

Watson frowned. "I-I can cancel. We can go stag."

"Aren't you trying to convince people you are straight? Dropping a very cute girl to go 'stag' to a Spring Dance with your 'best friend' will not help your cause."

"Shut up," Watson said, pushing Holmes's shoulder with his foot.

"I'm fine with it really. Don't sweat it. And hey! Maybe in twenty days I can even find a date!" Holmes slapped a smile to his face and clicked his pencil on Watson's nose.


"Sherlock, really, I don't understand why you're reacting this way," Mycroft said, frowning at his younger brother. In all truth, he did, indeed, know why Sherlock was reacting this way to his best friend's proposition.

Young Watson wanted Sherlock to meet his girlfriend.

And Sherlock has yet to realize that he's jealous in a romantic way, rather than a 'that damn bitch is taking my best friend's time away' sort of way.

For all his younger brother's wit, and his astounding observational skills, he is not good with pure emotion.

This is unsurprising for anyone who knows Sherlock.

"I'm reacting this way because the girl is...is one of them," Sherlock's enunciation seemed even more pronounced through the telephone line.

"One of 'them,' really, Sherlock, you make it sound like she's a leper."

"It's worse, Mycroft, she's a cheerleader." Mycroft sighed heavily, and rubbed his brow. A girl walking by looked at him with sympathy.

"Cheerleader or no, it appears to be that John is taken with her, so be nice."

"When am I not nice? And really Mycroft, you should really think of expanding your vocabulary, nice is much more aspersing than it is a complimentary."

"You made grandmother cry at my graduation party."

"She needed to be aware of how obvious her wig was."

As much as Mycroft agreed, he was trying to make a point. "Sherlock," Mycroft felt like banging his head against a brick wall. "Just, don't do that thing you do."

"What thing I do?" Sherlock asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

"Where you use your 'deductive powers' to assume the worst you can, under the false guise of looking out for John."

"I am just looking out for Watson! He's my Boswell." Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock sit down in a huff.

"Sherlock, the moment you realize your true emotions will be the moment hell freezes over and announces itself as 'Happy-Wonderland-Fun-Time.'"


Holmes frowned, turning up the music on his iPod louder, metal-orchestral music pounding into his eardrums. He walked quickly, foregoing his usual end of the day stop to Watson's locker. He pushed the iPod into his skinny jeans's pocket, and pulled his shirt down from where it'd been rucked up.

Suddenly he felt someone jerk his shoulder back. The only negative to having the iPod loud enough to blur the sounds of the rest of the school's inanity is that it was severely detrimental to his senses. He turned around to face whoever was pulling at him.

Ah, it was Watson, with a severely pissed off look on his face.

Holmes pulled an ear bud from one of his ears. "Ah, Watson! What's with the severely pissed off look on your face?"

Watson glared at him, and pulled him over to a nook, so as to not be in the rest of the student body's way. "Where were you? It's not like you to just leave."

To be truthful, Watson was correct, It was very rare for Holmes to leave without his friend, as he didn't like to walk alone. Holmes liked walking with cheerleaders (i.e. Mary Morstan) even less, though, so the entire situation was, in fact, a double edged sword.

Holmes liked to think he chose the better option of the two.

"Holmes? Back to reality, if you don't mind!" Watson cried, cold blue eyes narrowing at the slightly older boy.

"Mother, she wanted me home as soon as possible, and if I had walked with you, I would have needed to detour to one Mademoiselle Morstan's house. I thought I'd take the awkward position of you needing to decide in front of her out of your delicate hands." Truly, it was remarkable what utter bullshit Holmes could come up within a moment's notice.

Watson looked unsure, but then shook his head in a familiar exasperated manner. "I wish you had asked me though, Mary's not here today. The French Club went on some sort of field trip to-"

A sudden inexplicable anger ripped through Holmes, "Oh, so now that you have a girlfriend, I'm nothing but a last resort?" It seemed that they weren't as close as Holmes had thought. Of course they weren't. Who could like Holmes? Watson himself had said no one wanted him, that he was stuck with him.

Watson narrowed his eyes at Holmes. "Yeah, I've been your best friend since nursery school because I secretly hate you," he replied sarcastically.

Holmes shook his head, and turned his face away from Watson. He was being ridiculous. "Regardless, I have to hurry home, and was getting a ride from Irene."

"Oh, well...I'll just walk home, then." Holmes could see Watson look down, his face a picture of confusion.

"I-Mother will understand me being a few minutes late."


"C'MON WATSON, MOVE YER ASS!" The middle-aged football coach yelled as his team ran down the field after the white and black ball. Holmes glared at the back of the man's head.

"Glaring at the man won't stop him from being a big, fat bitch," Irene said, from her place resting on Holmes shoulder.

"That doesn't make me want to do it any less." Holmes shook his head, and moved his eyes back to his AP Chemistry homework. He scribbled down a few answers, and moved his notebook to the left a little.

"I don't know why he sticks with this horrid hobby team. He could join the school team and get plenty of scholarships," Irene said, "I mean, damn if I know anything, but he's pretty much pwning out there."

"But this is his hobby," Holmes says, watching the taller boy out from beneath his fringe. "Basketball, baseball, hockey. Those, yeah, he likes, but he doesn't ever get a craving to go shoot hoops, or practice pitching, or slapping the puck around. Offer to kick a football around? He'll grin at you like it's going out of style."

Irene smirked and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Goddamn you're in lo-"

"Shut up."


"Are you busy this evening?"

"No."

"Well, you want to come down and watch Doctor Who?"

"When don't I? I mean David Tennant is so very handsome after all!"

"So, you didn't get in trouble for decking that guy at my game?"

"Shit, no! I'm grounded for two weeks."


"I thought you were grounded?" Watson asked, as Holmes crawled through his window. Watson's brow was furrowed in that cute way that - Holmes stopped that train of thought before it went to far. Watson's brow was furrowed in that way that had nothing to do with confusion and more to do with not wanting to get in trouble.

"Well, my dear Watson, when have I ever cared about the frivolous rules of groundation?" Especially when it came between him and a night of watching old DoctorWho reruns on BBC with his Boswell.

"Holmes," Watson said, shaking his head, "How can you use words like, 'frivolous' and then nonsense words like, 'groundation,' in the same sentence?"

Holmes just smirked, picking up Watson's bag from his office chair, plopping down and wiggling over to the bed on which his friend sat.

"Very carefully. So, Watson which companion tonight? Obviously the Tenth Doctor, but Rose, Martha, or Donna?"

Watson looked unsure for a moment, but moved swiftly to stubborn. That was the first time Holmes realized what Watson was wearing. The younger boy was wearing a button up shirt and pleated pants, that showed his defined leg muscles wonderfully.

"We're doing neither. You are going to put on these clothes," Watson promptly threw a bag of new clothes at Holmes, and continued, "And we are going to meet Mary at Olive Garden."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at Watson, taking the clothes and shedding his shirt that proudly exclaimed 'I 3 PENIS,' "This was a dirty trick. Tease me with the idea of David Tennant, then make me go out to dinner with the harpy."

"She is not a harpy, Holmes! You will meet her, Holmes! You don't have to like her, but at least act kindly to her."

"Mycroft said the same thing," Holmes said, dropping his pants. His boxers had bat symbols on them. "I really wonder if sometimes you two conspire against me."

"Yes, we do. We have monthly phone calls that we call the Sherlie Address."

Holmes couldn't tell if he was being sardonic or whether he should begin worrying about these phone calls. He quickly put in place a plan to steal Watson's phone.


"It's so nice to finally meet you!" The strawberry blonde teenage girl announced.

"Indeed, Miss Morstan, I have no clue what could have possibly taken..." Holmes drifted off, Watson had told him to act kindly, so he would. "...John so long to introduce us!"

Watson cut his eyes to Holmes. He very rarely called Watson 'John.' He usually only did it when one of them was very, very upset. (Personally, John thought (both at the time, and sort of, sometimes, now) that all of it was ridiculous, but, what was he to do? John thought (and, to be truthful, still thinks) that it was all about when John had "abandoned" Sherlock for those few hours, at the end of the year party, in third grade. Sherlock had seemed weary around him for a few days, and it had come to a figure head when John brought it up. Sherlock had merely said, "It's nothing, Watson," and the last name had stuck.)

"Sorry, Sherlock, I don't know what I was thinking." And God that name was damn awkward to hear from that voice, after so long. (Watson hadn't called Sherlock by his first name since seventh grade. Sherlock had told him that the fake volcano for the science fair would seem more realistic if they used gun powder. In the wake of the explosion, Watson had yelled, 'Holmes!' and they were both grounded for two months, or until they'd finished scraping dried dough off the very high ceilings.)

"So, Sherlock, what's it like to have the highest SAT scores the state's ever seen?" she asked, leaning on the table, showing off her not so impressive cleavage.

"To tell you the truth, Mary," Holmes said, donning a sugary-sweet voice, "It's ever so lonely. I can't find a boy who's okay with dating someone smarter than him," here he gave a brief glance to Watson, whose face held an emotion he couldn't quite place.

"Aw, so...show me your deductive skills? I hear you can deduce the most extreme things from the tiniest of details, and I'm not sure if the small things are really that important."

"Well that doesn't sound quite right, now does it. I like to believe that the tiny details are, indeed, the most important." Holmes turned to Watson, and grabbed his arm, who instantly flinched. Holmes flicked the collar of his shirt to the side, revealing an ace bandage wrapped around the shoulder joint. "Take Watson."

"I intend to," she smiled flirtatiously, and Holmes could feel her run her foot up his calf.

He jerked back a little and said, "That's my leg, Mary." Holmes thought she might blush, but she merely moved to Watson's leg. Holmes snorted, and the look (maybe bitterness?) that had flitted across his face earlier, took longer to leave this time. "The way he favors his left arm, even more so than a normal right handed person, can be explained through extensive shoulder pain. Pain, one can assume from his corded upper body muscles, and strong legs, that is caused from soccer. In this case, from a man significantly larger than Watson slamming into him at a full run, not even two days ago."

"But you know John so well," she pouted, "and you were probably there.What can you deduce from me?"

Holmes looked at Watson, and shook his head. "Ah, no I don't-"

"That's really not a-" Watson cut in.

"I insist!"

"The girl insists, John!" Watson glared at Holmes, who smirked wide. "You're a cheerleader."

"Yes. But what made you-"

"Your hair."

"What about my hair? Is there something in it?" she fretted.

Watson smiled, loving how worried she was that she'd embarrassed herself. "There's nothing wrong with your hair."

"No, nothing wrong with it, per se, but your scrunchie is the school colors, implying school pride, that added with your almost unhealthy leanness, and grass stains on your white sneakers, which you forgot to switch out of, implies your a cheerleader." Watson looked to Holmes, he was getting that crazed look in his eye, and he pushed his friend under the table. Holmes didn't notice. "The dirty spots on your knees have a distinct smell. A mix of oil, cat litter, and spoiled milk? Implies you knelt down, not caring about what you landed in. From the smell of the alley next to the restaurant (who's upstairs tenant owns cats, as I'd guess from the cat in the window) I'd assume that's where you'd been kneeling." Watson frowned, and Holmes almost didn't want to say the rest. Watson didn't deserve this. But Mary did. That's why Holmes said, "And from the sleepy, pleased, and ruffled look of the school's football captain, whom is sitting right across the room, I'd assume that is why."

Watson's eyes widened, and his grip on his silverware tightened until his knuckles were white - and suddenly Mary's Diet Caffeine-Free Pepsi was on Holmes bitterly smirking face.

"You filthy liar! How dare you imply such a horrid thing!" she went to continue, but was interrupted by Watson, who's face was the purple-red color Holmes always gave up against.

"Holmes, please, excuse us. I must speak to Mary in private."


"What? But, Irene! I can't go to the dance alone! That'd just be...pathetic. People would think I was just going to tag along after Watson! Like some sort of love sick puppy!" Holmes said, clutching the phone tighter against his face. He'd gotten the call when he'd exited the restaurant, waiting for his aforementioned friend to come out.

Irene huffed, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but when faced against a real date, tagging along as a fag-hag so my fake date can pine after his best-friend fell a little short...You'll see I sort of have to go with the real date. People already think I'm in love with you."

"But...It's Blackwood! That's less of a date, and more of a...pity-party-" Holmes was interrupted by Watson storming out of Olive Garden.

Interrupted by Watson storming out of Olive Garden and punching Holmes in the face.

"Watson!" Holmes said, eyes tearing. He put his shirt sleeve to his nose, and moved it back away. Blood had stained the cloth. "Irene, I'll call you back."

"You had no right!" Watson shouted, already walking down the street. "Even if she had-"

"She did!" Holmes interrupted, "I'm not wrong!"

"Right, because it's so damn impossible!" Watson yelled, "Don't make me punch you again! As I was saying, even if she had, which she didn't!" Holmes went to open his mouth, but Watson quickly continued, "She fell, walking down the alley."

"A likely excuse!"

"She had scrapes on he hands, and on one elbow, Holmes!" Watson pressed the button for the crosswalk furiously, barely waiting for it to turn before walking across the street. "But, like I was saying, even if she had, that's something you tell me in private! Not in the middle of the bloody Olive Garden!"

Holmes shook his head, and turned away. They'd arrived at two-twenty-one and Holmes just wanted to be away from this. All of this.

He quickly darted up the stairs. Shouting a "whatever" back at Watson he unlocked the door, and ran up to Apartment B.

"Holmes!" Watson shouted behind him, and Holmes turned to see him leaning against the railing. "I'm sorry for punching you in the nose."

"But you still believe her?" Holmes didn't ask, instead he just nodded, and ran into the apartment. If the tears lasted longer than they normally would for a broken nose? Well, his parents weren't home for the weekend, so no one was there to tell.


Holmes didn't talk to Watson for the rest of the five day weekend. Instead he spent it playing the violin and watching Doctor Who.


"I do not understand why I have to go with you, nanny." Holmes was very unimpressed. Ms. Hudson had dragged him along with her to see an old friend of hers. Holmes found it unnecessary to remember her name, and only remembered her as Blackwood's father's maid.

"Because, your mother pays me to keep you occupied, and that's what I'm going to do." They were admitted through the gate, and Holmes already wanted to turn around, and run in despair. They had garden gnomes.

The walk wasn't that long, maybe fifty yards, but Holmes hated exercise (excusing a boxing match, down at the underground ring, every so often) so very much that he'd gotten out of gym class by breaking his arm before, so it felt more like one-hundred-fifty.

When they arrived at the door, a woman about his mother's and Ms. Hudson's age answered the door. "Martha! Oh! And you brought a boy with you!"

"Yes, unfortunately this is the only day I could come see you, but-Sherlock, what do you think you are doing?"

"Ma'am, what is that smell?" Holmes asked snuffling at the air once more. Where had he smelled it? Was it... "I know it's roses...lupin...and...freshly mowed grass?"

"Very good, Mister Holmes, very good indeed," an aging man said, walking down the stairs to the left. Holmes noticed the ring on his right index finger. "That would be the smells wafting from the internal garden. We have it going all year round. Nice for dinner parties, don't you know."

"Oh? Do you mind showing it to me?"


"So, you're telling me that Irene Adler has been in Blackwood's home?" asked Watson, early Thursday morning.

They'd had a silent agreement that neither of them would mention last Friday's goings again, as Watson still didn't believe Holmes and Holmes still knew that Mary was lying.

"No, I'm telling you that Irene Adler has been in Thomas Ruthman's home. If Blackwood lived there, it wouldn't be peculiar, as it would seem that they are a hair's length away for dating. No, it's peculiar because Blackwood lives across town, with his mother, and has never stepped foot in his father's manor."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because, there were no pictures of Blackwood on any of the walls," Holmes said, like it was common sense to know why that wasn't a non sequitur.

"So?"

"So," Holmes said, "Blackwood doesn't visit daddy, otherwise daddy would at least fake caring whether or not Blackwood thinks he loves him."

"Okay, so Adler is visiting Blackwood's father not knowing that it's his father?" Watson asked, thinking the situation through.

Holmes cocked his head. "That's an intriguing idea. Maybe."


"Is this my Sherlie?"

"Yes, Gram."

"I just called to tell you that your Auntie May died."

"Gram, I don't have an Auntie May. I don't have any aunts."

"You don't?"

"No. Wait? You mean your dog, May?"

"...Oh, yes, she's a dog."

"Gram, she died five years ago. I helped bury her."

"...Oh, yes. I remember now."

"So how are things, Gram?"

"Fine, fine. Nothing I can't handle. Your grandfather's doing good. The barometric pressure's been killing his joints, but he's fine."

"That's good, Gram." Holmes didn't mention that Gramp had been dead longer than May.

"How about you? You still gay?"

Holmes snorted. "Yes, Gram. I don't think that'll change anytime soon. Your daughter-in-law has ruined me for any female."

"You shouldn't speak that way about your mother."

"Eh."

"How's that boy you were seeing?"

"What boy, Gram?"

"That one you were friends with for so long? James Wilson, I think it was?"

"You mean John Watson?" Holmes sighed. "Gram, Watson and I never dated."

"Are you sure? Your mother said you were hopelessly in lo-"

"YES, Gram, I'm sure. I have to go now."

"Homework to do?"

"Sure, Gram, homework to do." Holmes hung up the phone, sighing he walked into his room, swearing to himself that he'd kill his mother.


Holmes was listening to music, again at an extreme level, while walking down the hall when he spotted them. Watson and Mary. Making out.

Watson was pressed against Mary's locker, her tongue down his throat, her hands in his hair.

This mustn't register on an emotional level.

Holmes looked away, sighed, and walked to his locker.

"Holmes! Why haven't you talked to me all weekend?...Holmes? Holmes, c'mon, man! Holmes?"

"WHAT!" Holmes shouted, turning around to face his persistent friend. "What could you possibly want?"

"What I want is an explanation! Why didn't you answer any of my calls? Why didn't you let me in?" Watson asked, hands in the air. His duffle-bag slapped against his thighs, and Holmes distracted himself with thinking how much crap Watson carried around with him during the day.

"I...didn't know you called," Holmes said, truthfully, the volume on his stereo didn't go below "MAX" the two days he was alone.

"I'm sorry, like really sorry about how Friday went down, but that was more than a week ago, I thought you'd be over it by now! We've talked between then and last weekend!"

Holmes glared at him. "But you still believe her! Believe her enough to do that bullshit, that I thought you were against!"

"What?" Watson asked, truly confused.

"The make-out session against her locker!" Holmes almost shouted. Watson's expression didn't change. Holmes looked at him. He'd gotten a hair cut. He'd gotten it last Tuesday, so he wouldn't get kicked off his football team.

The boy Mary was making out with had longer hair. A faux-hawk. Not Watson. How hadn't he noticed? What was wrong with him? Why does Watson have his affect on him?

"Uh. She was making out with a random guy, apparently, against her locker this morning." Watson glared at him.

"Again with this Holmes? Seriously?"

"Wha- Watson!" Holmes glared right back, and yanked the iPod headphones out of his ears. "This! This right here is why I was ignoring you when we first started here. You trust a piece of tail over me!"

"She's not a piece of tail! She's my girlfriend!"

"No! She's your excuse for leaving me!" Holmes looked at him for a moment. Looked at his blank, shocked face. He shook his head and walked away.


The thing is? Holmes never slept. Ever. Especially after a fight with Watson, he has such a horrible time trying to sleep, he rarely even tries. Usually he sits in his office chair plucking the strings of his violin while popping that bull-shit anti-ADHD meds that his doctor prescribed him.

Watson, on the other hand? Is so dependent on sleep that if he gets less than eight hours, he passes out whenever he sits down for the next two days.


"Holmes. Holmes! Goddammit, I know you're awake!" Watson hissed at his window.

Holmes turned the office chair and continued playing his harmonic b scale. "What." It was less than a question and more of a demand for a reason.

"You were right." Watson sniffled under his breath, but not in a "I can't breath through my nose way" but a "I've been crying and I'm a teenage boy, so leave me alone" sort of way.

"John, have you been crying?" Holmes asked, putting his violin down. He was never one to follow social convention.

He approached the taller boy, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Watson was sitting on the window sill, one leg in Holmes's room, the other hanging in the air. Watson rested his head on Holmes's chest and turned his face into him. Holmes moved the hand on his friend's shoulder so he had an arm wrapped around him, and moved his other hand up to run through his hair.

"John. My dear Watson. It will be okay. She's not worth this."

Watson looked up, and rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like a sleepy child. "I'm not cr-I'm not like this because of her. Well, not like that, anyways. I'm like this because...because she made me doubt you. She made me doubt our friendship, and I should know better by now. I should know your deductions are never wrong."

Holmes looked down at him, and bit his lip. "So...how right was I?"

Watson narrowed his eyes into a glare. "Now is not the time, Holmes."

"No," said Holmes, frowning, "that's not what I meant. I mean, Jesus, how insensitive do you think I am?" Watson looked at him blankly, his bright blue, almond-shaped eyes rimmed with puffy pink. "All I meant was...the football captain?"

Watson shook his head and said, "I don't know."

"How do you not know?" Holmes asked, running his hand through Watson's hair. His head was once again resting on Holmes's shoulder.

"Well, I asked her, 'Holmes told me you were making out with someone against your locker?'

"She gave me this look like, 'What on earth are you talking about?'" Here Watson thumped his head on Holmes's shoulder.

"You didn't believe her did you?" Holmes asked, running the arm around Watson's shoulder so it was around his waist.

"No. Other people told me. Blackwood mocked me over it, thinking we'd broken up. He said, 'Wow, Watson, you must be memorable! How long have you and Morstan been broken up, five minutes? And she's already moved on!' And I figured why would so many people lie to me?" Watson said, nuzzling into Holmes's neck. Holmes bit his lip and grabbed Watson's leg that was dangling out the window, and pulling it into the room. "So, I told her, 'So, I asked around a little, and no-one disputed it,' and she dropped the look and I felt my hands clench up in anger, because I know that meant that she was lying. And, yeah, I knew she was, but that didn't mean I wanted to admit it to myself, ya' know?

"She looks at me, and says, 'Yeah, your faggy little friend was right. I made out with Alfie in the hall, he was right about everything!'"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry," Holmes said. Even though he'd flinched at the term 'faggy' Holmes didn't really care what that harpy thought about him.

"No!" Watson looked at him and shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. "What's wrong with you, Holmes? Why won't you realize I can be at fault?"

"No, Watson, you are purely a victim of circumstance," Holmes said, frowning. He patted the side of Watson's face, who broke free and leaned against the wall, next to the window.

"Don't patronize me! This is my fault! I should have believed you!"

"It is not your fault that that stupid bitch cheated on you! Watson, you're not making any sense!"

Watson just stared at him, then broke out laughing. Holmes looked at him, startled. "Look at how we sound! Listen to this! Like this doesn't happen every day, all over the world! Jesus!"

Holmes shook his head, and patted Watson's. "Let's go to sleep. I'm suddenly exhausted." Watson nodded and dropped his trousers. After unbuttoning and taking off his button-up shirt, he flipped Holmes's massive black comforter back, and slipped inside. Holmes slipped in after him and shimmed over him, so he was on the inside. He tucked himself against Watson's side, and rested his head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around his friend's waist and fell into a deep sleep.


"Holmes! Holmes! Wake up! God dammit! Holmes! We're late for school!" Holmes felt a blunt finger press into his side again, and groaned.

"Watson..." Holmes looked up, and said boy flicked open the curtain. "Oh, Watson, be gentle with me!"

"Holmes, you drama queen! Goddamn!" Watson wiggled out of Holmes's grasp and bent down for his pants. Well, thought Holmes, there are worse things to wake up to than Watson's very lovely ass in my face.

"You can borrow one of my button-ups, or a t-shirt if you want," Holmes said, going back under the comforter and crawling on his hands and knees to the end of the bed. Once there, he flipped the blanket off him, and opened the top drawer, pulling out black boxers. Momentarily going back under the comforter to switch them with the ones he was wearing, he paused and came up with a wonderful, nigh, magnificent, NIGH! STUPENDOUS idea.

"Watson! I do, in fact, have a stupendous idea!" He emerged from the comforter pointer finger held high.

Watson seemed to hold the statement with a grain of salt. "Whenever you say that I either get a, detention, b, arrested, c, grounded, or d, on one very memorable occasion, all of the above."

"Oh, for the last time, Watson! I did not plant that water buffalo in the girl's bathroom!" Holmes said, rolling his eyes. He pulled a pair of orange skinny-jeans out of his third drawer and an Iron Man shirt from his second drawer. Holmes also grabbed his loosest shirt (which was one, some random queercore band tee from some queercore band he'd gone to see with Irene, and two, still quite tight) for Watson to wear. "It might be a bit tight."

"And for the last time, Holmes, I will never believe you," Watson said, the last half of the statement muffled from him pulling the shirt on. As Holmes had predicted, though the shirt was still lose enough have a few wrinkles on the abdomen, it was quite tight around the shoulders and pectoral muscles. Not that Holmes was complaining.

"Any way! My plan! We should skip school." Watson looked cynical.

"No."

"Bu-"

"No."

"I-"

"No."

"Wat-"

"No."

"WATSON YOU NEVER LET ME HAVE ANY FUN!" Holmes shouted, eyes squeezed shut and stomping one foot. But he had a secret weapon. A weapon that worked against anyone. (Well, not Irene, but that's not relevant to this moment.)

He used his puppy pout. His already wide, brown eyes got wider, and he let them get watery, to shine. He pulled his full lower lip into an even larger pout, and just stared at Watson.

"Not The Face." Watson said, trying to turn away, but unable to disengage his eyes. Holmes crawled forward on his hands and knees until he was kneeling at Watson's feet. He grabbed Watson's hips and rested his chin on Watson's lower tummy, where the hem of his pants rested.

"Please, Watson." The key was not to whine, but to sound sad. As if Watson saying 'no' would be the biggest disappointment of Holmes's life.

Watson looked at him with crazed eyes, and if Holmes didn't know any better he would have said Watson had...desire in his eyes. Watson's usually full lips were now a thin line, and when he finally spoke, he sounded pained. "Fine."

Holmes's pout became a wide grin, and he jumped to his feet. "Yay!"


"Please, tell me again why I let you do these things to me?" Watson asked, from his position bent over a trash can.

Holmes just kept happily munching on his cotton candy, and absently patted his hurling friend's back. "Because you love me, and want me to be happy."

"Argh..." Watson stood up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, then wiping it on the back of Holmes's purple satin and black pinstripe vest that he'd thrown on before they'd left the house that morning.

"We should totally go on the roller-coaster next," Holmes said, after popping another smidgin of cotton candy into his mouth. "To be fair, I told you at breakfast to eat light."

"You didn't tell me we'd be going to a theme park!" Watson said, disquieted, as they ambled their way over to the roller-coaster. "Holmes, this thing looks like a deathtrap."

Indeed, it did look like a deathtrap. The old roller-coaster was rusty, and creaked as carts (the theme of penguins) moved along. "Oh, Watson, live a little! Now is the time! Carpe Diem, and all that!" Holmes said, hands waving every which way.

"Holmes, my girlfriend cheated on me," Watson said, shaking his head, "I didn't get diagnosed with cancer. Drama queen."

Holmes smirked, and wrapped an arm around his friend. "Still. If you get on that roller-coaster I will give you five dollars."

Watson shook his head again, and momentarily Holmes wondered if he ever got motion sickness. Nevertheless, Watson got in line to the Penguin Races Roller-Coaster.


"I told you this thing was a deathtrap," Watson muttered, crossing his arms. Holmes looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"No one likes a negative Nelly. Besides, we haven't died. Hell, we haven't even gotten hurt. Not so much as a splinter!" Holmes cried, leaning back in his seat, and pulling his fedora over his face, once the hot spring sun beat down on him.

"I'll 'negative Nelly' you!" Watson shouted, hitting Holmes on the shoulder. "You're doing a real shit job in cheering me up!"

"Well you need to try more."

"Try more? Holmes, I found out yesterday that my girlfriend had been cheating on me pretty much my entire relationship with her and you decide, 'hey, let's skip school like a couple of miscreants!' and I go along with you, as always! AND NOW I'M STUCK AT THE TOP OF A PENGUIN THEMED ROLLER-COASTER AND IT'S EIGHTY-EIGHT DEGREES OUT-Why are you laughing?"

Holmes was indeed chuckling to himself underneath his ridiculous fedora. Watson had to admit that Holmes was beautiful when he laughed, and Watson wished the hat wasn't covering his face. "Penguins."

At the one word from his friend, Watson broke out laughing as well.

They didn't stop until the fire-rescue team got to them.


"I still can't believe you got that guy's phone number!" Watson cried, laughing as they opened the door to two-twenty-one.

"Well, it's not like I asked for it. We were just chatting, him 'checking me for shock' and he's like, 'wanna get some coffee, sometime?' and I can never turn down a pretty face..."

Watson rolled his eyes and waited, leaning against the doorframe, as Holmes put his key in the handle. "Well, whatever, he wasn't that cute." Holmes turned to him at the bitter tone.

"And you'd know, Watson? You lady-killer you." Not that Watson was wrong. Yeah, the junior firefighter had a nice body, but his nose looked like it been broken at least twice, and his hair was a tad too long for Holmes's taste.

"I'm not completely straight." Watson was staring at his nails, picking under them. "You know that."

Holmes stared at him blankly, and he was sure shock was dancing in his eyes. "I do?"

Watson was now staring at his shoes. "Yeah. Remember the last time your brother came home, and I couldn't really talk around him at all..."

"Mycroft? You're first big gay crush was on Mycroft?" Holmes hid his - he didn't even know. He didn't know what he was feeling. Bitterness? Jealously? Anger? But whatever he was feeling, he hid it with humor.

Watson seemed put-out. "What? He's smart, and handsome, and kind-"

"And lazy, and fat!" Holmes interceded, and that was definitely anger.

"He's not fat, he's just muscular. Not something you could appreciate. What with your scrawny ass!" Watson teased, pushing Holmes into his room.

"I'm not scrawny! I'm wiry!"

"Just like you're not short, you're proportionate," Watson said superciliously, and sitting down on the ground next to Holmes's desk. "What does that even mean?"

Holmes glared at him and turned to his computer, turning it on. "But, seriously, Mycroft? With all the hot guys at our school, you have to pick my older brother, who's away for nine months out of the year, and that's when he comes home, which he hasn't been for like, three years...Do you still like him?"

"No. Jesus. I was over that by the end of the summer," Watson said, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

Holmes wished he had a modicum of artistic talent, so he could some how capture how John Watson looked that that moment, relaxed and happy. But he didn't, so he picked up his digital camera and snapped a picture.

"Holmes, what have I said about boundaries?" Watson asked, creaking his left eye open.

"Watson, what have I said about the fact that I have bathed with you, there's no such thing as boundaries between us!" Holmes said, flicking through the saved pictures on his camera. Most were of Watson, some of Holmes and Watson, very few of just Holmes alone.


"Well, I better be getting home. Dinner, and all that," Watson said, untangling from Holmes, where they'd been on Holmes's bed. "I'll see you at school tomorrow?"

Holmes smiled up at him and nodded. Holmes was actually looking forward to school tomorrow. What, with Watson not dating the Harpy, Irene back from suspension-slash-vacation-to-France, and his AP Chemistry class was starting his favorite sub-section.

And Watson liked boys!


"Sherlock, do come here for a moment," Holmes heard his mother's shrill voice call through the hall. Holmes bit his lip, and tried to think if he should run or not.

"Coming, Mother." Holmes put down his pencil and meandered into the kitchen.

The pile of lard his mother called a husband was sitting at the table, pushing forkfuls of food into his mouth. His mother's lean, almost anorexic looking body, was leaning against the kitchen sink.

"Did you skip school with Johnny?" she asked, her shrill voice sounded unimpressed.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "He found out the Harpy cheated on him, so we went to the Carnival down town."

"'Dd ou ude mm gar, bo-eh?" The Lard asked, chewed food filling his mouth.

"What?" Holmes asked.

"Did you use his car?"

"Yes."

His step-father just looked back to his mother, who rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Sherlock. Just...You're-"

"Grounded, for two weeks, yeah, whatever." Holmes said, walking back to his room.

"Sherlock, that's not what I was going to say," his mother said, making Holmes turn around.

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, and the Lard pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock.

"We bought you a car, honey!" his mother all but shouts, coming over to hug him in her excitement.

Sherlock looked down her back at the key in his hand. He couldn't believe it. "What! But I...You...Huh?"

"I was sick of you stealing my car."

Sherlock just looked at them for a moment, then ran out the door and down the stairs to Watson's apartment. He knocked furiously on the door, so hard and fast that he almost punched Misses Watson in the face when she opened the door.

"Sherlock, what do you need?" she seemed unimpressed by him, and Holmes realized he was in his boxer shorts and a tight junior-girls "My Little Pony" shirt (He'd bought it for ironic reasons. It's not like he liked the show…).

"Can I talk to Watson! I have to-"

"He's grounded." Misses Watson said and closed the door.

Holmes blinked rapidly and shot down the last pair of stairs to the garage/basement. There it was, between his father's Escalade and the Watsons' Vista Cruiser. The most beautiful car there ever was. A 1967, black, four door, Chevy Impala. Holmes decided that he would never complain about his parents saving money ever again.


It was five hours later, and Holmes couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned for about four hours of it, then moved on to staring at the ceiling (from his floor) and plucking at his violin.

Watson floated through his mind, and he was just too exhausted to repress everything like he usually did. Images of his friend's face, red with excitement on the rides today floated through his head. The football player's lean, strong body. His carefully manicured hair. His startlingly blue eyes.

Holmes felt the stirrings of arousal in his stomach, burning through his body. He palmed his half hard dick through his pants, and bit back a sigh. He lifted his hips from the floor, and slipped his boxer briefs down his legs, until they were past his ass.

He tugged, slowly on his half-hard cock, imagining the hand's fingers were blunter, calloused in different places, he imagined the palm wider. Biting back a moan, he moved his other hand to cup his balls, gently tugging. He tugged harder on his dick, twisting when he reached the tip, and moved the hand tugging his balls down to his hole.

He trailed his finger around the pucker until it wasn't enough any more. He reached up behind him to his bed-side table and rummaged for his bottle of lube. When he found it, he squirted a liberal amount into the palm of his hand, and smeared it on his hole. He slipped one finger slowly into his ass.

After thrusting a few times with one finger, he slipped his second in with it. He continued to jerk his cock, and thrust in himself, images of blue eyes and strong, corded muscles scorching in his head.


"Watson, my dear, dear Watson, I have simply the most wonderful, fantastic, splendiferous news you could possibly ever-" Holmes cut himself off at the image in front of him.

Watson. Making out with...well Holmes wasn't really sure who he was. Holmes bit his lip, and closed his eyes, slowly turning away, he walked to his locker.

Screw it, that damn car isn't that awesome anyway.


Holmes sat in his new, well, new to him, car. The only sound that could be heard was his breathing and the pitter-patter of rain on the roof.

Fuck he hated his fucking life.


"I'm sorry, Holmes, I just can't make it." Watson wasn't facing him, he was turned to his locker, which he swiftly closed, and turned to start moving.

Holmes caught his arm, holding him in place. "Again? You missed last month, too," he said, frowning, disappointed.

"I have a date, Holmes, I can't just-" Holmes tuned him out, knowing whatever he was saying would just make the anger rolling in his chest ache even more.

Maybe it was the result of being ignored for the month since Watson had started the vain attempt at showing Mary mother-fucking Morstan just, exactly, what she was missing.

Maybe it was the abandoned monthly/weekly traditions Watson had been ignoring.

Maybe it was Holmes's repressed emotions becoming more and more obvious as their time apart wore on.

But Holmes couldn't take it anymore, and just exploded, gaining the attention of all the students around him.

"You IDIOT! Why can't you see it? Are you really that stupid? Or are you ignoring it? Are those vain, vile sluts more important to you than I am? Truthfully? How can you not see how I feel? How can't you see that-that-" Holmes cut himself off, unwilling to continue. As angry he was at Watson for being ignorant of his feelings, and flaunting his 'relationships' with any girl or boy who looked his way, he wasn't yet ready for that bit of information to be revealed.

"What can I apparently not see, Holmes?" Watson bit back, "Your flagrant disobedience to your parents? My parents? Lestraude? Your obsessive compulsive need to always be right?"

Holmes could feel bitter tears begrudgingly build in his eyes. "You've never complained before!"

"Complain? When do I ever complain? When do I complain about you leading me into situations (without telling me what's going on, no less!) that get me detention? Get me almost arrested? Your general lack of hygiene? You stealing my clothes and never giving them back? The time you almost burned down the apartment building?"

"Oh, fuck you! If you hate me so much, why deal with me!" That's right, Holmes, anger is better then hurt, Holmes bitterly thought, narrowing his eyes at his so-called friend.

"Because you're my best friend! Because I care about you! Because I love you!"

Holmes blinked rapidly. Love?

He looked around at the growing crowd, everyone, from freshmen to seniors were there. Irene was standing towards the back, looking very much like she wished to intercede, but Blackwood's arm lay tight around her waist.

He drained the emotion from his face, and turned back to the angry soccer player. "I do believe, that we've become something of a spectacle, Watson, maybe we should continue this back at Baker Street?"

Watson narrowed his eyes at the other boy, before nodding jerkily, and pushing his way through the crowd.


Back at two-twenty-one Baker Street, Holmes and Watson stood, bodies turned half away from each other, facing opposite walls. Holmes stared at the DoctorWho poster, showing David Tennant and Donna Nobel looking ever so fierce.

"I-" Watson cut himself off, and Holmes could hear the frown in his voice.

"Did you-" Holmes cleared his throat, "What did you mean earlier?"

"What do you mean, what did I mean?" Watson asked, incredulous. "I meant every word I said, otherwise, I wouldn't have said it."

"Yes, but how-" Holmes cut himself off. Watson couldn't have meant love love. There's no conceivable way John Watson could love Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was too...too him. "I don't understand why you've been acting this way. Are Mary's affections really that important to you?"

Watson's brows were drawn together, his lips pulled down into a frown. "You are the dumbest genius there has ever been." Watson shook his head, and moved quickly to Holmes's side. "I love you, you fucking dumb sod. I'm in fucking love with you!"

Watson is right.

Holmes is stupid.

A grin broke across his face. "I love you, too."


The mystery of Irene Adler smelling like her boyfriend's father's manor house was never solved, as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were way too busy having glorious sex.

If they had solved it, they probably would have gotten a cut of the twenty-thousand dollars she blackmailed from him to keep it hushed up that he was in a cult. Also, their affair.