Like a Fairytale

What is and What Never Can Be

    "Is that a book on how to get a date, because you must be reading it upside down?" Anderson mumbled, making Sherlock blush once again and do his best to ignore him. It actually wasn't a book on dates it was a book on Evolution, but he didn't expect Anderson to understand that.
"Oh, is that your next crush? You going to try to kiss that one too? He's way out of your league though..." Anderson laughed, pointing to a rough sketch of a partially evolved monkey man.
"Why would I have any interest in your mother?" Sherlock asked, smiling a little bit at his quick thinking. Anderson only laughed though, as if he agreed with that statement, and went back to his worksheet, which was only one quarter of the way completed. Sherlock read in silence for the remainder of the class, and finally when the bell rang he shot off, as if from a cannon, trying to get as far away as possible from John, Anderson, and every other scummy football player in this school. After he got his things from the locker he made a bee line to the front door, so far no one noticed him, maybe he could just do it... A powerful shove made him go flying into the notice board, all the little pushpin backs digging painfully into his skin. But to his surprise it was Mary who had pushed him, coming out of the crowd without any of her boyfriend's bodyguards at her side.
"What did you think you were doing?" she hissed, her fake blonde hair contrasting badly against her angry red face. Sherlock didn't answer; he had to admit there was something a lot scarier about a jealous girl than a mad footballer. "Did you think he would like you, can't you open your eyes?" she growled. Sherlock nodded fiercely to say whatever she was looking for, she was right of course, he had no chance.
"I'm sorry." He forced, but that just made her roll her eyes.
"Yes, sorry, I'll believe it when you hang yourself." She muttered, walking away with one last shove to the neck and disappearing from the crowd. Was that really what everyone wanted, for him to just get it over with and hang himself? But he couldn't do that, this was just school, he didn't even have a full year to go, he could forge through. As the week went on the story faded away more. People still actively avoided him and there was no way the taunting from the footballers got better, but now the hallway didn't part like the Red Sea. John was starting to look a little bit more like himself, although he actively avoided making fun of Sherlock. In fact they hadn't talked since the incident, the tutoring obviously forgotten. But that was a real problem because when Sherlock looked over John always looked completely stumped, as if he had no idea what to do with the problems in front of him. Finally, on Thursday afternoon, just as the bell rang, Sherlock was about to leave the classroom when he heard someone call his name. He looked around to try to see if this was some type of joke from Anderson, but he was still packing up and looked very annoyed with his textbook.
"Sherlock?" it said again. Sherlock spun around, thinking now that he was going mad, but saw John standing near him, looking right at him. Immediately Sherlock's face went beet red and he tried to duck away through the door, obviously a trick. His brain seemed to shut down, it was John, he wanted to talk, not of course not, he was going to throw him into the trash can and dump soup all over his hair.
"Really, I want to talk to you!" John called as Sherlock rushed on, through the crowd, as if he were running from an angry bull charging.
"Sherlock!" John called.
"What do you want!?" Sherlock groaned, putting his hands up in surrender. "Go ahead, kick me, punch me, break my nose, just hurry up so I can get home!" he groaned. John stopped in front of him, looking confused but completely nervous, his face red as if he had gotten sunburn and his hands almost shaking.
"Well actually, I was wondering what happened to the tutoring. If you haven't noticed my math grades haven't been going anywhere positive." He pointed out.
"No, you don't want to be near me." Sherlock decided, trying to turn away to open his locker.
"Well, no you're right I don't, but if it means staying on the football team I think it's worth it." John decided. Sherlock's heart rolled in his chest, he wanted it to stop right now, John wasn't giving him a second chance, he was getting his revenge somehow. He would push Sherlock in a rain gutter or shred his books or push Redbeard out the window or something those footballers took enjoyment to.
"Do they know you're doing this?" Sherlock asked as he shoved his lunchbox into his bag.
"No of course not, I'm sure Mary would set fire to the school if she knew." John said with a forced sort of laugh.
"So you're asking for the tutoring again?" Sherlock asked, hardly able to believe it.
"If it's not too much to ask."
"Aren't you scared of me, don't you want to run as far as possible because I'm gay?" Sherlock asked, shouldering his bag and shutting his locker aggressively.
"Well, yes, I suppose, but it's not a sin or anything." John decided. Sherlock didn't know whether to scowl or laugh at that.
"I'm not going to the pitch, I'll be mutilated." He pointed out.
"Then the park. No one has to know about it, in fact it might be better if they didn't, I just need to stay on the team." John pointed out.
"I guess I'll be there, at the bench, five o'clock." Sherlock agreed. "And if this is one of your stupid little pranks then I'll never help you with another problem again."
"Football isn't worth pranking you; this is just me, not Anderson or any of them." John assured.
"Well that's great, make sure to bring a hazard suit just in case I breathe in your direction." Sherlock decided, and with that he walked past John and down the hallway, his heart doing an extremely annoying little dance in his chest. John was giving him a second chance, just when he thought everything was crumbling at his feet, was there a chance it could go back to how it used to be? No, of course not, even though John was willing to be tutored didn't mean he was willing to be Sherlock's friend again, he cursed the name, he should be running as far as he could in the opposite direction, but he was actually walking closer.... Sherlock walked quickly all the way home, not daring to believe it, not daring to get his hopes up once again because he knew where that led. When he got home he sat on his bed and stared at the clock on his table. He watched as the seconds ticked away, turning into minutes, turning into hours. He didn't know if he should believe it or not, was this just another joke by those pathetic footballers? Were they going to massacre him somehow? This was all very confusing to him, he didn't know what he should believe but he knew very well what he wanted to believe. Maybe John had a change of heart; maybe he wasn't entirely terrified of Sherlock even after all of that. What if he never was scared, what if he just reacted the way he knew his friends would want him to, what if he actually liked him as well? The thought made Sherlock's feeble little heart pound faster, with hopeless hope, maybe there could be something in his life that wasn't a disaster. Finally when four thirty rolled around he was off, swerving through the crowds of people and dodging around venders and signs to get to the park on time. He wanted to be early, that would make it a lot easier to calm himself down. This was going to be awkward, possibly one of the most awkward things he had ever done, one on one with the boy he had kissed and got beaten because of it. He was going to force a smile for the face that made him frown in the first place, but maybe, just maybe, his fairytale wasn't over yet. When he got to the park he sat on the bench, having pampered himself yet again, and tried to flatten out the curls undoubtedly poking up. He straightened his coat, retied his scarf, and tried to look as casual and potentially straight as possible. Finally, after a good ten minutes or so of OCD-ing over his clothes and appearance he saw John enter the gate, walking slowly over to the bench with his football under his arm, bag in hand, and a nervous look on his face. Was John as scared as Sherlock was? Obviously not, that seemed to be impossible at the moment as Sherlock's legs turned to jelly. They both saw each other but Sherlock pretended he didn't, not knowing what to do with himself if he focused on John instead of the nooks and crannies of the wooden table.
"Hey Sherlock." John said, dumping his stuff on the table and sitting down across from him. Sherlock dared one quick look up before muttering a quick hello. He also noticed that John had used his real name, and not freak. That was also a step in the right direction. Sherlock felt his breathing rate raise enormously as he felt those hazel eyes watching him.
"So, math?" John asked after a long pause. Sherlock nodded, looking at the table or the corner of his bag or his pencil but not John, nowhere near John, he knew somehow he'd mess up even a glance.
"Yes, sorry, uh, math..." Sherlock agreed, rummaging through his bag and pulling out several papers. He gave them to John awkwardly, still looking at the table. Sherlock knew this must be considered rude, but he knew if he looked at John, the face he had once (amazingly) kissed, he knew his face would be hot enough to fry an egg.
"Okay." John muttered under his breath, tapping his pencil against the table and staring at the sheet.
"So how exactly do I do this?" he asked, looking back up at Sherlock with a confused puppy sort of look. Sherlock actually looked up at John, and the moment their eyes met his entire face went beet red.
"You uh, multytuhexpnts." He said quickly, his tongue getting raveled up and his words tripping over each other.
"What?" John laughed, still trying to keep this whole thing cool, as if the whole week hadn't even happened.
"Um, multiply the exponents." Sherlock corrected, looking away as soon as he said it. John nodded, going to the work, still looking confused, but obviously he was being too polite to ask for help or something. Sherlock pretty much fiddled with his papers and pencils, tapping his foot and feeling a strange urge to sprint as far away as he could from John. It didn't make sense, he knew he loved John, but he was scared that John might actually not hate him. What if he made the first move, what was Sherlock to do then? Sit there like an awkward duck, not knowing what to do? He'd probably just pass out anyway, there's only so much his heart could take.

"Done." John announced proudly, sliding the paper over to Sherlock, who mumbled something even he couldn't make out. He quickly checked over the answers but knew it was lost, he couldn't make out the numbers scribbled on the paper, he knew John was sitting right there, watching him, remembering...

"Good?" John asked after a while of Sherlock just staring blankly at the worksheet, not knowing what to do now.

"I don't know." He said quickly. "I mean yes, good." Sherlock slid the paper back with shaking hands, still not looking at John.

"You don't have to be so nervous Sherlock." John said after a while. Sherlock hummed his response, now feeling his legs shaking uncontrollably.

"Whyme?" Sherlock asked in a jumble of words, but John seemed to understand. Sherlock looked up nervously, accidently making eye contact, but he held it, he had to face his fears. To his surprise there was an amused sort of look on John's face, as if Sherlock's utter terror was cute or something.

"Because you're the smartest kid there is, and I must admit you are a good tutor." John shrugged. "No, why, me, after..." Sherlock's sentence cut off after that, he simply couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"I don't blame you! I mean, not to be self-centered or anything, but if I were in your shoes I'd lose control too, you're not the first. I mean sure, I was a bit shocked, there were a lot of rumors that you cut out your heart years ago or something stupid like that, but it's more Anderson and Mary you should worry about." John admitted. Sherlock didn't know how to react to this, so he didn't hate him, so there was a chance?

"Mary talked to me." he muttered.

"What did she say?" John asked cautiously, as if he knew what was coming.

"She told me to hang myself." Sherlock admitted, not looking at John's face once again. But he knew he had gone a strange shade of pale, as if he were actually worried somehow, about Sherlock's well-being.

"How dare she!" he exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table and making Sherlock jump so badly he almost fell over himself. "Sorry, but that's not fair at all! Whatever you do Sherlock, don't listen to her, if I find you hanging from your closet I'll kill you." John warned.

"I think I'd have saved you the trouble." Sherlock said with a cautious kind of laugh. John just gave him an annoyed sort of look, but it made Sherlock's blood run cold. Did John hate him even more now?

"I wouldn't do that." Sherlock assured, as if John actually cared.

"You better not." John agreed.

"I won't." Sherlock said again, as if John had trouble hearing him the first time.

"Well, I best be off and uh, if you would mind not telling anyone about this, especially Mary, she'll kill us both." John decided, grabbing his bag and stuffing the papers and books in that had been strewn around the wooden table.

"Of course not." Sherlock agreed, his voice coming out in an odd little squeak. Now they were keeping secrets, this was almost like a forbidden love without the actual love. A forbidden platonic friendship, that doesn't really hit the shelves does it?

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow." John decided, standing up and giving Sherlock a final smile and heading off.

"Bye." Sherlock muttered to his retreating back, but his words were lost in the breeze and John didn't turn back around. That night Sherlock stared at his ceiling, not a wink of sleep coming to him, and daydreamed, or night dreamed, or whatever the heck you do, about John. John Watson, worried about him, he could tell he was worried, he didn't actually want him to kill himself; he would say that's another step in the right direction. And the way he had gotten angry with Mary about making fun of Sherlock when everyone made fun of him recreationally, might there be something between them that hadn't been there before? The ceiling didn't do anything to answer him, it said as much as Redbeard really, and there was no little voice in the back of his head telling him exactly what to do. But he needed someone to tell him right now, because he was afraid if he decided his path on his own he'd end up on the green cobblestone road, right into the pit of despair, loss, angry bears, and John and Mary getting married, while the yellow brick road held John at its end, holding an engagement ring with watering, hopeful eyes. Will you be mine Sherlock, forever and ever, oh god yes...