Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty Nine - The Rabbit Hole

A/N: love me.

John

John entered, with Sherlock's hand on the arch of his back. When Sherlock saw his father, John felt what seemed to be a tremor - but maybe it was nervousness. Siger was reading the paper; his perfectly black hair had a gray streak in it, and he was humming.

"Dad," Sherlock said.

Siger looked up. "Is this John?"

John could tell Siger hated him immediately. His eyes searched John for a semblance of formality, but he could find nothing in those bright high tops and mismatched pants. He wished he was wearing his "nice clothes."

"Yes."

"Do you need anything?"

"No, we're just going to do homework and watch something," Sherlock said.

John tried to be extra super polite. When Siger offered them food, John said, "Oh, yes, thank you," and when Sherlock called his dad "sir," John picked up on that, although it felt strange off his tongue.

Sherlock looked so happy, although his dad was looking at John like what he was - a mistake. John used most of his concentrating on Sherlock's endless smile and his hands, which looked heavenly in the blue-white light, but it was hard to focus when he was focusing on not falling apart.

It was the little things that freaked John out. Like how the couches and wallpaper matched. And the flowers on the curtains. And the fruits decorating the house. The apples and peaches and limes.

He wondered how Sherlock became so broken. So beautifully broken, in a house as formulaic as this. As boring as this.

John almost felt superior. But then - he thought of how much he wanted his own room - and about the fact he really really wanted food in his house. And about the fact Sherlock had seventeen spices in one cupboard, save the herbs. And his own telly.

And his own parents.

Sherlock

John was right. He never looked nice. He looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

Having John in the room was like having the windows open. It was like having a swimming pool in the living room, with little towels and a ladder and everything. It was like... it was like breathing again. It made Sherlock feel real again.

John tried to hold his hand, but he emphasized that Siger couldn't know, ever. When Violet came home, she said he should come over tomorrow.

Siger was being exceedingly civilized. He hid upstairs most of the time, but Sherlock figured that that was okay. If he wanted to restrain himself during John's visits, that was a blessing.

John came over on Thursday, and Friday. On Saturday, his mum offered that John stay for dinner while they were reading Where The Red Fern Grows (John fucking hated that book), and he nodded yes over and over, like his chin was being pulled up and down.

Everyone set up, and John sat next to Sherlock and Sherlock's mum. Siger kept on asking and asking about John's previous life, despite Violet's obvious glares, and soon they stopped talking. John ate all his food, anyway, "It was delicious," he said, and tried not to notice Sherlock eyeing his food like a sick puppy.

Maybe he had a stomach ache. "Eat," John said with a smile, and everyone's head raised as if John had assaulted Sherlock.

Except for Siger.

"You should listen to John," he said. Mycroft began to furiously dig into his corn.

After dinner, John watched Back to the Future with Sherlock, and Violet made popcorn and sat on the couch behind them. Siger retreated upstairs, and the two of them sat on the floor.

Halfway through, Sherlock felt John's hand slip into his furtively. Sherlock almost said no, but then John's hand dipped into his palm and his eyes fluttered like he was falling asleep.

When the movie ended, Violet insisted Sherlock walk John home.

"Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Holmes! Tell Mr. Holmes I thank him for his hospitality," and John didn't sound sarcastic, or biting. He sounded genuinely happy.

"Goodnight!" John called when they were at the door. Sherlock shut it.

John exhaled deeply, as if he was full of tension, and Sherlock hugged him once they were off the porch, to help him let it all out.

"Sorry," John said.

"What for?"

"Nothing. Sherlock, you know you can't walk me home," John sighed.

"Yes, I know. But I can walk you halfway."

"Sherlock, I..."

"It'd be my pleasure, John."

John put his hands in his pockets and walked slowly, kicking a rock with his white high tops.

After a minute, John said, "Your family is brilliant." A pause. "Really brilliant."

"Mm," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Maybe."

"I feel like I need to show you something." John took Sherlock's arm in his hand and pulled him down the street. "Which house is your grandparents'?"

"Do you want to commit a crime?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John answered smugly, "No, I have to show you something."

Sherlock led John into a crevice between a pine tree and an RV, where no one could see them.

"What did you want to show me?" Sherlock asked, voice a mere whisper. He backed into the RV, leaning into it. John pulled Sherlock's arm as he replied, "Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to be alone for a moment, so we could talk."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "How original," he said.

"I know," John said, turning to him. "Next time, I'll just say, 'Sherlock, I need you to go in a dark alley with me so I can kiss you.'"

Sherlock said nothing as his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He blinked rapidly for a few moments, thinking. John looked as if he'd just witnessed heaven.

 Sherlock put his hands in his slacks, so John placed his hands on Sherlock's elbows instead; "Next time," John whispered, "I'll just say, 'Sherlock, duck behind these bushes with me, because I will lose my mind if I don't kiss you.'"

Sherlock didn't move, so John put his hand to Sherlock's cheek, which was just as soft as it looked. John could see the faintest gold speckles spattered across his pale nose, like fragile porcelain.

"I'll just say, 'Sherlock, follow me down the rabbit hole...'"

John put his thumb on Sherlock's cupid bow lips, and waited for him to move. He didn't. He just stared. And John leaned forward, eyes closed.

When their lips were almost touching, Sherlock shook his head once. Their noses rubbed.

"I've never kissed anyone before."

"It's okay," he replied.

"This is going to be the most awful experience," Sherlock insisted gently.

"No, it isn't." John shook his head.

"You're going to rue the day you kissed Sherlock Holmes," he said.

That made John laugh, so he had to wait a second or two before he kissed him.

John didn't rue it at all. He liked the way his cupid bow lips tasted, like candy and mint. He could feel Sherlock's heart in his cheek, and he felt every tremor run through him. It was good Sherlock was nervous - it gave him the strength to be calm, to be quiescent and unmoving. It steadied him to feel Sherlock's trembling.

John pulled away before he wanted to. Sherlock hadn't done this enough to have known how to breathe. John faintly remembered going up on his toes, but that didn't matter.

The light on the porch was on, and it caught Sherlock's face - eyes closed, body still, against the RV. He looked like an angel that had fallen out of heaven. He looked like he was married to a star.

John's head dropped just as Sherlock opened his eyes, and then John was against his chest and was burying his face into the crook of his neck.

"Come here," Sherlock said, "I want to show you something."

John laughed. Sherlock lifted John's chin.

The second time was even less terrible.

John

They walked all the way to the end of Sherlock's grandparents' drive way. Sherlock sat in the shadows, watching John as he walked away.

John told himself not to look back.

When John got home, the TV was on and the family was watching. Pickard was holding a water bottle and his mum was in his lap. Harry was laughing at a joke he'd told about the main character, which was followed by him looking at John.

"Where have you been?" Pickard said. He didn't seem angry. Just curious. Maybe anxious, even. "It's late."

"Oh, baby, I told you. He was at Graham's."

"Greg's," John corrected, smiling.

Pickard looked at John. "Greg, huh. Giving up on girls already?" Pickard laughed, and John laughed harder. Oh God, that was funnier than he'd ever know.

John went into his room and shut the door, then looked out the window. He opened it; it was freezing, and foggy. There was not a sign of life out there, but he thought of Sherlock watching him in the darkness like a guardian angel. He wiped the window of the fog, closed it, and stared outside.

His breath made it condensate again. John closed his eyes and laid his forehead against the glass.