#teenlock fanfiction

[psychosomaticfangirl]

After probably ten years away from the fandom world, recently I have been reminiscing the days of RPing Johnlock on Omegle. Imagine my surprise and horror when I saw that Omegle shut down a few years back 💔

SO! I am hoping to find some new pals to RP Johnlock with!! Let me know if you are interested, or have a suggestion for a site that I could do this on!!

[vanimelda4]

Hey! I've finally written a short single chapter story again!

If you're in the mood for fluffy Teenlock: give it a chance.

"Teenage Sherlock has the biggest crush on the waiter who works at the small café near the beach in the town where he lives.

Surely the feeling can't be mutual.

Surely John is nice to everyone.

Surely."

Rating: teen (8665 words)

[mahaijpg]

No it’s not the cover i drew for the french teenlock fanfic i’m currently writing… well maybe it is…

I may or may not translate it in english if some are interested ? But for the moment i’m not finished with the first chapter in french lmao 😭

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hello beautiful!!!!! Do you know fanfictions where we look at Sherlock and/or John past especially exploring their relationships with their parents?? I'm looking for something near our bbc canon so no teenlock/au pls 🙏 love ya Steph!!!!!

Hey Nonny!

Ahhh, closest I got are these fic lists:

Meeting the Family With a Fake Relationship

Parents & Family

Parents & Families Pt 2

I know that's not exactly what you're looking for, so hopefully our Lovelies have something more relevant for you!

Anyone able to help us?

[topsyturvy-turtely]

TEENLOCK FICLET

[posted on tumblr because all my stories from wattpad were stolen and i'm scared now.]

Title: Volleyball

Sherlock had just recovered from a hit to the stomach that had taken his breath away. Now he was back in the game. Merely 3 minutes later the ball hit him straight in the face. Sherlock stumbled back and clutched his nose. It was bleeding. Fuck.

“Imma- I’ll just go home. It’s clearly not my day.”, he said and walked out. Fuck school anyways. He hated sports. He had grown too fast and he wasn’t used to his lanky body yet. The first hit to his stomach had been from Jim. He was actually on Sherlock’s team, but the boy always had this weird obsession with him and kept hurting him. So he doubted he had been hit by accident.

But the hit to his face was John Watson from the opposite team. He hated that fact. He always had sort of liked the boy. He had a kind smile, was obviously good in any sports and he looked amazing at everything he did. Especially when he stroked his hand through his hair. Maybe he was a bit too distracted by John’s face when the ball had come at him. Okay, maybe Sherlock had a crush on John…

“Hey.”, John said, awkwardly standing in the doorway. The boy looked up and quickly back down. John had no doubt he was mad at him. Slowly John walked over to him and knelt down before him. “Here, let me help you.” Big eyes looked at him. God, he looked so scared. This boy has been treated badly and his trust in other people was obviously scarred. With a steady hand, John quickly tied Sherlock’s shoe laces and sat back up, looking at Sherlock. Said boy was leaned back and struggled getting the bleeding under control.

“Hey, Sherlock”, John gently touched his shoulder. “You should lean forwards and hold your nose closed.”, he guided Sherlock’s neck forward, barely touching him at all. He saw Sherlock’s skin making goosebumps. Oh, shit. He must be so scared, John thought.

“Breathe through your mouth.”, he said at a lack of better words.

For a few seconds the boys just sat there in awkward silence. Finally Sherlock asked: “Did you hit me on purpose, too?”

“What?! God, no! Why would I do that?!”, John asked, shocked.

There was a minute of no response, and John doubted he’d get an answer when he heard Sherlock mumble: "Because everyone does."

“Well, then they are fuckers. I would never do that, believe me.”, John said, fists and heart clenching upon hearing those words. Bullies were fucking idiots.

After another minute, John gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s back. The boy’s body stiffened. John started making circles with his flat hand. “Should I stop?”, John asked. The last thing he wanted was to make Sherlock even more uncomfortable. Another pause, before Sherlock shook his head. His gaze was fixed on the floor the whole time. Slowly he relaxed under John’s soothing hand.

When ten minutes were over, John asked: “Has it stopped?” Sherlock checked and leaned back: “Yes.” He shot a quick look at John before he looked away again. He couldn’t believe his crush of two years was sitting next to him, being friendly and had rubbed his back. “Thank you, John.”, he said quietly, moving to get up.

“Hold on!”, John pulled his sleeve so Sherlock was facing him again. The shorter boy inspected his face with an intense stare. First he looked at his nose, then directly into his eyes – holding eye contact for an unnecessary long time. Then his gaze dropped to his mouth. John Watson licked his lips.

“I definitely wouldn’t fuck up such a pretty face on purpose.” Sherlock stared at him in shock. Had John- did he just-?! And then John winked at him. Sherlock felt everything inside him melt. If he hasn’t crushed on him before, he definitely would have now. With undoubtedly red cheeks he looked away.

John stood up. “Come on!”, he held his hand out. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Hesitantly Sherlock grabbed his hand, letting himself be pulled up. John released his hand, but took it again with his other hand and pulled him to the bathroom of the gym. “Hold on one second, I’ll grab my towel real quick.”, John said once they were at the sink. Off he was, leaving a very lost Sherlock back, who was currently fighting his emotions back. His heart was beating too fast, his stomach felt weird and out of control and Sherlock could still feel John’s hand in his. He stared at it in wonder. John Watson held my hand, he thought.

Sherlock heard approaching footsteps and quickly let his hand drop. He tried to look anywhere but at John. He looked just too good. His usually neat hair was a mess. The sports shirt clung tightly to his torso and you could see his muscles underneath. He was also wearing that darn adorable kind smile. Or was it a smirk? Sherlock couldn’t tell.

The boy let the water soak the towel he had gathered. Then he made a step towards Sherlock and smiled. “Come here, pretty boy.” Sherlock was sure his jaw had dropped to the floor. John in return just chuckled and pulled him closer. Sherlock wasn’t sure if this kind of closeness was needed. “Will you stop-“, he started. “Stop what?”, John Watson was definitely smirking now. “Flirting with you?” Sherlock was avoiding John’s gaze, because he felt his cheeks darken. “Ooh, see, I like that color on you, though.”, John said his voice grinning. Had John any idea of what he did to him? Immediately his brain answered his own question: Yes. And he likes it.

John gently grabbed his chin and turned his face towards him. He started cleaning Sherlock’s face with the towel. Meanwhile, Sherlock stared into his eyes. John looked very concentrated as he took care of Sherlock. His irises were of the deepest blue he had ever seen. He got lost in them.

Suddenly those blue black holes shot up at him. Smiling eyes. Internally Sherlock shook his head, externally he settled on looking out the window. He was hopelessly in love with the boy in front of him.

He didn’t see it coming when John whispered into his ear: “Meet me at the swing set, after school, will you?” Sherlock looked at John with big eyes. What was his plan? He didn’t know but he found himself nodding his head. “Fantastic!”, John stood on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheeks. “See you later, pretty boy!”, he said, and then he was jogging back to join the last ten minutes of sport.

Sherlock stood at the same spot for another two minutes, before he could finally muster the strength to gather his stuff and head towards the swing set. Smiling like an idiot.

[A/N: please tell me any mistakes and what you think of it. I literally wrote this at 3AM]

[wheneverfeasible]

Someone shared this picture in a FB Johnlock group saying it gave them kid vibes and then it sparked a Johnlock AU fanfic idea for me and I….I know nothing about engineering or mechanics but I DID just finish reading the Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer about a cyborg Cinderella who was a mechanic and I just…..lol what if I did write this?

[prettysherlocksoldier]

Dani I'm sending you the "I can't do this" prompt.. I hope it inspires you 💗 and spreads the happy faces 🤗

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No. Nope. Can’t.”

“Yes you can, just like we practiced.”

“That was you, not Sherlock bloody Holmes!” John waved a hand down the corridor to where the man in question was bent over his bookbag, swapping textbooks into his locker. “It’s easy asking you out.”

“Cheers,” Greg deadpanned, but smiled when John rolled his eyes with a huff.

“You know what I-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg dismissed with a wave, “but the words aren’t any different. You just go up and say ‘Hey, this project has been a lot of fun. Wanna see if we have chemistry?’” He clapped his hands together, stretching them out to his sides as he tipped his head with a grin. “Eh?”

John’s shoulders slumped.

“Alright, so maybe you leave the pun out of it,” Greg muttered, shrugging. “I don’t get it, mate, why are you so twisted up over this one? You’re the last person I expected to ever need dating advice.”

John sighed, his locker jangling as he leaned back against it, tipping his head at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said, skull grinding into the cool metal as he shook his head. “It just feels different.”

Greg let out a shrill croon. “Ooo, is our Johnny Boy in love!” He leaned forward, making kissing noises in the air until John whacked him in the sternum, sending him into a fit of coughs.

“No,” he said firmly, “I just…don’t wanna screw anything up. We’ve gotten to be good friends.”

“So I noticed,” Greg muttered, massaging his chest. “I’ve damn near been usurped. Two of you watching movies into the sunset together.”

“I tried to call you!”

“I’m kidding,” Greg chuckled, nudging him on the arm. “I know my best friend card doesn’t expire. We have something pure.” He lifted a hand to his heart, sniffling with melodrama, a grin cracking over his face when John snorted. “Seriously though, just march over there and say- Sherlock!”

John blinked at the overhead light, dropping his chin with a frown. “Sherlock what?”

“Greg,” a low voice greeted at his right, and John jumped, slamming back against the locker. Sherlock’s forehead furrowed under rain-frazzled curls, blue eyes sweeping John’s face. “Sorry,” he murmured, glancing between them, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

John shook his head, straightening up and trying to regain some of his dignity. “No, you-you didn’t.”

“We were actually just talking about you,” Greg oh-so-helpfully interjected, beaming back at John’s glare. “John wanted to ask you something.”

Sherlock turned to him, brow lifting, John barely getting his mouth open before Greg chimed in again.

“Oh, is that the time!?” he exclaimed, looking down at a watch that wasn’t there. “I’ve gotta get to French.”

“That’s not for another half hour,” Sherlock said, checking his actual timepiece, and Greg shrugged, backing away from them toward the stairwell.

“Yeah, but sometimes Ms. Ward gets there early.” He winked, darting away from them as Sherlock chuckled, John trying to swallow the knot in his throat.

“Anyway,” he muttered, shaking his head and looking to John, “what did you want to ask?”

John’s lips parted, a croaking sound emanating from the back of his throat. “Nothing really,” he muttered, mind scrambling. “Just…wondered how you were getting on with the conclusion.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, a pinch in his brow John might have interpreted as disappointment if he’d had longer than a blink to examine it, “fine. I can email it to you tonight, if you want to look it over.”

“No, I- Friday’s fine.” He shook his head. “I trust you,” he added with a smile, trying to undercut the awkwardness he knew he was creating.

Sherlock smiled, tucking his chin and adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “Well, I have class, but do you want to get together after and look over everything one more time?” he asked, glancing at his watch again. “If you don’t mind hanging around. You’re done for the day, aren’t you?”

John nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He shrugged, patting the messenger bag on his hip. “Give me a chance to start on some homework.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied. “Wanna meet in the lounge at half 1?”

John wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Naw, too stuffy. How ‘bout that cafe on the corner? I’ll try to snag a table before the lunch crowd comes in.”

Sherlock twitched a shoulder. “Works for me. See ya then,” he said, and, with a flick of his wrist, turned away and started down the corridor, disappearing into the crowd of milling students.

John sighed, falling back against his locker with a clang.

Why were study dates so much easier than the real thing?

He snuck into the cafe just before the lunch rush of businessmen and chatting mothers, snagging a small table in the corner, far from the autumn draft whistling through the door. Pulling out his laptop, he made a show of looking busy, idly clicking through pages of their A-level Chemistry project while his gaze truly lingered on the door, awaiting a tall dark figure. He finished his first coffee within the hour, the crowd dwindling as he returned to the counter, keeping an eye on his things and joining the line for the register.

The bell over the door chimed behind him, and he turned, finding Sherlock flipping a wind-ruffled curl out of his eyes, smiling as he found John’s gaze.

“In the corner,” John said simply, pointing toward his open laptop. “I’ve already got the project up. What do you want?”

Sherlock frowned, and then shook his head. “I can get it,” he said, but John only smiled, waving a hand.

“No sense us both waiting in line. You can get the next one.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted, and he nodded, tucking the half-drawn wallet back into his pocket. “Alright. Just a black coffee, two sugars. Maybe a medium?” he asked, as if for permission, and John smiled, shooing him away.

“Go guard my computer; it’s new,” he ordered, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head but obeying.

John watched as he scuttled between the chairs, dropping his bag beside John’s on the patterned tile floor. He gently lifted John’s computer, turning it to face his chair, and braced an elbow on the wood, balancing his chin on his palm as he began clicking through their project, brow wrinkling in thought.

His phone buzzed not a moment too soon, his staring about to cross the creepy threshold, and John shuffled up a place in line, wriggling his mobile from his pocket.

Did you ask him yet?

John rolled his eyes, swiping out a retort.

No. No thanks to you

I was creating an opportunity

You were creating an ulcer

Agree to disagree

John huffed, tucking the phone back in his pocket as he reached the register, completing his order and moving to the edge of the counter to wait, Greg sending a few more messages in the interim.

It’s gonna get harder the longer you wait. Half term is coming up. Who knows what will happen then.

He goes yachting with his family in the Mediterranean. Meets a tan young stranger who’s worth millions in olive oil.

They float off into the sunset eating said olive oil.

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

Are you just hungry or harboring secret gay fantasies I should know about?

We’re all a little gay for olive oil millionaires

John snorted, turning it into a cough as the woman waiting beside him glared.

I don’t think we all are Gregory

Quit trying to change the subject

I’m not, I’m trying to love and support you in your gay olive oil dreams

You’ve just gotta rip the bandaid off

Would you go to uni down there or would you two try the long distance thing?

Just ask him out. Then one way or the other you’ll know.

Either way you should move there after graduation, give me an escape from winter

You’re not invited to my gay olive oil villa until you ask out Sherlock Holmes

But I was best man at your wedding!

I gotta go, we’re heading out on our yacht: Extra Virgin. Ask him out!!!!

John sighed, moving to tuck the phone back into his pocket when it buzzed a final time.

And don’t forget the details

“John?” The barista dropped two cups to the counter, John turning his smile up with a nod.

“Thank you,” he bade, sweeping them up and making his way to their table, scanning the sides of the cups for distinguishing marks. “Alright, I think this one’s yours,” he said, hovering a cup down at Sherlock’s shoulder, “but, if it tastes like 90% milk, it’s probably my latte.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, John looking past the cup to find the man blinking up at him, cheeks pink and eyes wide, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

“Are you alright?” he asked, lowering Sherlock’s cup to the table and glancing at the page of their project currently displayed on the screen. “Okay, the graphs are pretty bad,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “I haven’t figured out what all the buttons do yet; I’ve only had PCs before.”

“No, it- It’s not-” Sherlock muttered, closing his mouth as a swallow rolled down the front of his throat. He looked away, turning back to the computer, his finger sliding over the mousepad to click on a background window.

John’s fingers forgot their job, the coffee sliding a couple centimeters in his grip before his brain reestablished communication, his heart being a little slower on the uptake, stalled in his chest as he read through his conversation with Greg. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, his tongue undecided on if it wanted to lie or scream.

Sherlock’s head turned in his peripheral vision, but John couldn’t look at him, couldn’t move, the blood rushing to his face making him dizzy enough already. “I- Er…” He swallowed again, the click of it snapping in John’s ears. “We don’t go yachting,” he muttered, and John blinked, certain he’d fainted and was now hallucinating, “and…I’m free on Saturday.”

His heart kicked against his ribs. “What?” John murmured, dropping his gaze, and Sherlock smiled, cheeks darkening anew as he looked down at his hands twisting in his lap.

“Well,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, eyes glinting when he lifted his chin, sending John’s heart into cartwheels, “I do owe you a coffee.”

///credit to @mssmithlove1 for confirming how Apple products work///

[fangoddess221]

A Craving For Danger by Lola_hyuga

(E, vampire!Sherlock, human!John)

Hey, everyone!

I’m here to promote a fanfic that I beta’d. The author asked me to share it with as many people as I could, so here we are.

I also drew the cover myself ;)

It is updated every Monday (and occasionally on other week days, if the author feels like there is enough people reading it!)

Thank you

[alifetimeaheadtoprovethat]

“He fell asleep that night curled up on his side. There was a pressure in his chest like he was underwater, too far underwater, like the water around him was closing like a fist squashing the breath out cracking his ribs squeezing crushing pressing pressing pressing. But still the tears would not come” [Juxtaposition - @clueda]

[calipsolieu]

Es de mi agrado anunciarles que ya terminé de escribir mi fanfic The Two of Us!

Pueden encontrarlo en Wattpad:

También en AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306675

[slightly-brazilian]

Today is the day I will publish my first teenlock! I can't wait to show you my AU with young Sherlock and Molly ❤

The story has a stubborn Sherlock going through difficulties because of a bully, and a fearless Molly willing to save everyone

[cutelock]

AU TeenLock by @cutelock Part - V

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV. Bonus

I couldn't gather my courage to go and meet him again. Instead I chose go to a medical school. There I learnt that I had a fascination for both medicine and war , so soon I started my training as an army doctor and after years of training, I became one.

There I served for years . New experience helped me forget everything I left behind... Everything except ...one.

After years of serving finally I decided to come back to London - living in cheap motels - couldn't afford London on my army pension - a flat share sounded like a good option but who would want me as a flatmate!?

I was walking my way back to my motel and it'd been raining all day.

And yet, that was the first time it had rained after I came back. The last London rain I remembered, I had Sherlock with me - running , laughing , dancing.

How was he ? in London? What was he doing? enjoying the London rain ? Or missing me like I was missing him ?

I must have....

Sherlock?

It was him , holding me again, saving me from falling - Sherlock Holmes - my Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't they teach you how to walk on a rainy day in the camp? " he asked

"How do you know? "

"Oh! I kept an eye on you. Also I am Sherlock Holmes , so it's not much of a deduction. "

"What's that supposed to mean ? "

" I assume you are living in motels and surviving on cheap meals - I know a place in central London which together we can easily afford. I can call the land lady if you are interested "

"I am"

"Good. "

"Sherlock , are we ... "

"Friends? Boyfriends? - you decide , it's all fine "

He left the hold of my hand and started walking . "Sherlock?" I whispered. " I love you "

And then

He kissed.

"we need to get rid of that thing from your face though , can't be seen wandering around with an old man"

"only if you grow back those curls "

"Done! "

"What did you mean when you said - deductions !? "

"Welcome to my world Doctor - You are gonna love it. "

...... And I do. I do love it.

The two of us against the rest of the world. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson - the Baker Street boys.

[highfunctioning-clotpole]

working on 3 of my wips today whilst sat in the sunshine and day drinking 😎

[godmolly]

the anonymous wall (teenlock)

Based off this headcanon  (from @grumpy-swoop)

Read it on ao3

Mike had known that something good would come out of this stupid Anonymous Confession Wall, and now he had proof. Amongst all the I spent thirty-two hours watching a tv show for seven-year olds last weekends and the If you’re reading this, go to the corner of the boys bathroom on the third floor near the chem labs and the cute doodles, there was the smallest, shyest, and most interesting confession.

I’m gay and hopelessly in love with the rugby captain

It was a cramped and basically illegible sort of writing, almost as if it had been written by the non-dominant hand. And even though Mike had called everyone on the team except for John to the top floor to examine it, no one could identify the writer.

They all loved John, and he had recently come out as bisexual.

The entire team was buzzing around Mike’s phone in the locker room at the next practice, and just seemed to disperse when John asked what was going on.

He found out soon enough, though, when there was a flyer with a picture of someone’s confession posted in the hallway.

John stopped to look at it, despite that it would probably make him late to chemistry. (Which he hated; he liked to spend as much time as possible in chemistry.)

His cheeks flushed with an uncomfortable heat when he saw the type over it (he couldn’t read the actual writing so quickly, even enhanced), something about someone having a crush on him? His brain wasn’t focused on it.

The bell rang again, letting John know he’d definitely be late now, even if he ran, so he stuffed the flyer in his bag and jogged up the stairs.

They’d already gotten started with the lab in chem, meaning his coming in late wasn’t a big deal, thankfully. He just nodded at the teacher and mouthed a ‘sorry,’ then headed for the desk that he and his partner shared in the spacious room.

John dropped his bag on the floor next to the black table and pulled out his stool.

“What held you?” came a soft, deep voice from the microscope. John looked over at the mess of black curls, who had moved a little upon hearing his abrupt arrival. “The hallways weren’t busy. You were … looking for something? No,” he said, removing his eyes from the petri dish and fixing them on John, which the latter was unprepared for. John felt his cheeks flush as Sherlock Holmes stared at him, skin glowing and eyes sparkling with the light flooding in through the windows. “Looking at something. What was it?”

John just looked at him blankly. Sherlock had never talked this much, especially to John. He had heard rumors, of course, of the one time Sherlock had raised his voice, apparently to yell at a teacher about how it didn’t matter what the Earth revolved around.

(John wished he’d been there.)

Sherlock shifted, eyes suddenly downcast. He seemed to think he’d overstepped. Get so panicked that he isn’t here for ten minutes that you forget to turn off your mind.

“Just, just something in the hallway,” John finally answered, also averting eye contact. Sherlock was so smart, he’d be sure to figure out why John was acting the way he was. “Hey, don’t you need goggles? That could be dangerous.”

Sherlock just slipped his pen from behind his ear and fiddled with it, then leaned over the microscope again.

“So, what’s the lab?”

Sherlock turned around slowly, a rosy pink flush on his neck and cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“I’m studying this bacteria culture and how it reacts with various chemicals. I think they’re,” Sherlock nodded up at the rest of the class, not even bothering to look at them, “doing something with plant cells,” he said quietly.

John smiled at this. Sherlock did this often, like he had both no interest in the class and no regard for rules or possible consequences.

He was so enamored with his shy but brilliant lab partner that he couldn’t care less about getting into trouble for not doing work.

“Do you ... need my help?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock didn’t elaborate.

“What for?”

“Get me fifty milliliters of digoxin. And a clean dropper, if you will. Also, twenty-three milliliters of mercury, if you can find it.”

“Isn’t mercury dangerous? Like, fatal-dangerous?”

“Yes.”

John swore his voice never rose above a murmur.

He left the table then, sifting through bottles in the cabinet to try and find what Sherlock was requesting. He smiles and shook his head at himself as he realized he’d never question Sherlock, even when he was dealing with dangerous substances.

There was a noise irritating Sherlock, boring through his ears into his brain. He looked around near the floor, where the noise seemed to be coming from. He didn’t see the source, but there was a crumpled-up piece of paper on the floor, seemingly from John’s bag, which was lying only centimeters from it.

Sherlock knew he probably shouldn’t look at something that wasn’t his — that would be invading John’s privacy.

He picked it up right after having that thought. He wouldn’t let his moral compass rule him.

With steady fingers, Sherlock uncrumpled the paper. His heartbeat jumped into his throat when he realized what it was.

It was his message. The message he’d left on that wall. That stupid, stupid wall. He’d known there would be negative repercussions if he actually wrote something. And he hadn’t just written anything; no, he’d just gone and bloody outed himself and confessed his undying love for someone who would in no universe reciprocate any such emotion.

His heart sank. That must’ve been what all the rugby players were talking about. He’d overheard them at lunch. They were talking about finding out who it was.

Well, Sherlock knew that wasn’t going to happen. He’d written it with his wrong hand, and in a completely different script than normal. There was no way they’d make the connection.

But Sherlock was still kind of sad. John had recently come out as bi, and if he knew it was Sherlock who had written that, maybe they could become something.

“Stop fantasizing,” he scolded himself verbally. The people at the tables around them didn’t even turn around: by this point, they were used to the weirdo in the back sitting with John Watson talking to himself.

“What’re you fantasizing about?” John’s voice came before Sherlock could gather himself. He felt another flush making its way across his face when John saw him with the flyer.

“Oh, that. I found that in the hallway. I think … I think it’s from the wall. Y’know, the —” he cut off, seeing Sherlock nod. “Yeah, my teammates made those. It’s sweet, and all, but y’know …” He cut off again, turning redder than Sherlock, whose face had gone slack and shy once again.

“You know what?”

“Well, you’re the first person I’ve told this, but my heart belongs to somebody else,” John said, almost as quietly as Sherlock. Their eyes met for the first time, John trying his best to tell Sherlock through eye contact It’s you.

And he really couldn’t see it, but Sherlock’s façade was falling apart. John’s eyes were sending Sherlock a message that was clearly It’s not you.

It’s somebody good, somebody pretty, somebody intelligent, somebody normal.

Somebody else.

He felt crushed; the first time he’d allowed himself to have feelings for someone.

Mycroft was suddenly sitting on Sherlock’s bed, shaking his head at his younger brother, who had just met another kid for the first time, and been pushed away and called a freak.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. They’ll never truly understand you. So why let them try?”

Sherlock felt a hand on his arm and shook himself out of his mind palace. He hadn’t revealed that part of himself to anyone except Mycroft, and he didn’t need John thinking he was any stranger.

“Are you okay, Sherlock? You look a little … green.”

Sherlock waved his arm aimlessly in John’s general direction, then walked out of the classroom slowly. He bumped into several people on the way, but didn’t pay them any mind. They weren’t important. Right now it was just Sherlock. (Well, and John. The John in his mind palace.)

John kind of stared after him, wondering what he’d done wrong. Every time he tried to convey some fraction of his feelings to Sherlock, he seemed to either not notice them, or ignore them. This was the most direct he’d been in a long time, Sherlock had run away. If that wasn’t a you-should-give-up-now-this-isn’t-healthy sign, he didn’t know what was.

But as he replayed how Sherlock had looked with rosy pink scrawled across his cheeks and his curls splayed out over a microscope and his limbs that were too long to be graceful and were instead endearingly awkward, he couldn’t ever see himself giving up.

At first, he’d thought the message on the wall could have been from Sherlock, but that was just his mind letting him fantasize. First off, Sherlock’s handwriting was different than that of the note. It was messy, as if his mind moved too fast for his hand (which it did) and he couldn’t be bothered to care (which he couldn’t).

And the idea of Sherlock Holmes actually loving him too was just unrealistic. Sherlock Holmes was a thing that happened in John’s dreams, the dreams where you wake up with a tingling feeling from the imaginary contact that felt so real but was all in your head.

Another day.

He’d get there, eventually. No matter how long it took.

Sherlock went on as he was, building his wall back up. Every time he saw John, he imagined who his heart belonged to. The somebody else.

They’d be stunning, of course. Crisp in a suit or a gown and somehow just as gorgeous in pajamas with nothing shiny. And funny. And interesting. John Watson was someone who valued interesting things — he liked to collect strange objects he found, and wrote a backstory for them in one of his many journals.

Some days, Sherlock was surprised John didn’t scoop him up and write him a backstory.

This went on for a while, until John plucked up courage to finally get out his Sharpie, which he’d kept in his backpack since the day he’d met Sherlock (over two years ago now), and put it to the use he’d imagined for so long.

Sherlock did a double take when he realized there was something new.

He knew everything on that board, despite it being something sentimental, and therefore something Mycroft would advise deletion of.

There was one more Sharpie scribble, and it was very near the small, irrelevant corner Sherlock had written his in, hoping to go unnoticed.

He drew closer, and read what it said.

I’m bi and hopelessly in love with my lab partner

It had been written by someone’s non-dominant hand. Rather neat, suggesting an even neater print with the dominant hand, but rushed, as if the writer was keen to avoid attention. So someone popular. Obviously something this sentimental (why was everything suddenly sentimental? It was disgusting) would get popular people teased and questioned, no, they’d want to avoid that. The Sharpie was almost out of ink. Age, not overuse. It had dried up from being in someone’s backpack for a little over …  a year? No, two years.

Sherlock took out his phone and snapped a photo, to see what else he could glean from it at home, in a comfortable environment.

It couldn’t be a coincidence — it had been added directly underneath Sherlock’s in the same style in the same irrelevant corner. Someone was replying to his message. Someone understood this particular emotion he was experiencing.

That thought, that someone could understand at least a little piece of him, was both comforting and insulting.

Mostly insulting.

But still not worth his time.

He flipped up his coat collar and fluffed up his scarf, though it really needed no such adjustment.

He knew the anonymous writer was bi.

John Watson was bi.

And the only people allowed to use the chem labs at the school were juniors and seniors.

John Watson was a senior.

And it had been written by a person using the wrong hand, their right hand.

John Watson was left-handed.

Sharpie.

John Watson always had a Sharpie on hand if Sherlock needed one.

Popular.

John Watson was popular.

And yet …

It couldn’t be him. It was somebody else. Somebody else … why would you say “somebody else” if you were looking at the somebody else?

No, it wasn’t John Watson.

And John Watson (or his relentless rugby team, which was for some reason invested in the situation) would never find out that it was his lab partner who wrote that message.

Sherlock really couldn’t resist a challenge. And the reply to his message seemed to be smirking at him from that wall, as if it knew something he didn’t.

So he remained after school, until everyone was gone and no one would see him writing on the wall again.

Right under the other person’s note, he wrote Unrequited love, eh?

It was something he’d never say out loud, meaning it was perfect for this wall.

The last thing he’d expected was a response.

But there it was, in that some old dry Sharpie.

Really is the worst

And Sherlock did something he’d never thought would be a result of this ordeal: he smiled. He smiled, and wrote back to the person.

News spread around the school about the boy who liked John Watson and the person in love with their lab partner and their budding conversation.

Suddenly Sherlock was the subject of the school’s conversation.

Well, his anonymous persona was.

And suddenly it was getting harder and harder to write back to his friend, seeing as there was always a crowd of people surrounding the wall, talking about who the people could be.

John was beginning to wonder if his teammates would ever figure out who wrote the messages. Even though he wished they’d asked his permission before making such a big deal out of someone having a crush on him, it didn’t make any such difference.

He’d only had eyes for one person for ages. And he felt it really was bittersweet, but he was fine like this. At least he had a vent. Talking to someone who didn’t know who he was (and therefore that he was the recipient of their affections), but knew what he was feeling was incredibly therapeutic.

The school had started calling the two of them the Unrequited Lovers, and John’s entire rugby team talked about them often.

John imagined how they’d react if they knew he was one of them.

I’m gay and hopelessly in love with the rugby captain.

I’m bi and hopelessly in love with my lab partner

Unrequited love, eh?

Really is the worst

Looking at someone and knowing they’ll never be yours.

Yeah, well, we make do, don’t we

The other boy’s response was just a little doodle of John, which was adorable and spread color across his cheeks. It was rather sweet, after all.

That’s so cute

Yeah, if only he would see me

I’m sure he does John had to admit, it had felt a little weird writing about himself from another’s perspective, but he couldn’t just say I bet I do

Maybe so, but definitely not in the way I’d like.

And that was the pausing point of their conversation. John hadn’t really known how to respond to that.

He was at the wall now, and he’d taken out his Sharpie.

I have the same problem

Because no matter how much he dropped to help his best friend, however much effort John put into everything Sherlock-related, no matter how many reassuring smiles John offered when Sherlock seemed anxious, he never thought it was anything more than John just being friendly.

He sighed, and slipped the cap back onto the Sharpie.

“John?”

John turned around so quickly he hurt his neck, despite already knowing who it was. How could he not? He’d heard that voice everywhere.

Sherlock seemed to be paralyzed, which was exactly how John felt right now.

He realized that although he wasn’t the most socially involved at the school, Sherlock knew what was going on. What those messages said.

“You wrote those messages?”

John felt extremely uncomfortable, but decided to just bite the bullet and give Sherlock the truth as it was.

“Um,” he coughed. “Yep. I wrote them.”

“Wait …” Sherlock looked confused, a new expression on his face. “But … I’m your lab partner. Why would you —”

“Yeah, Sherlock. You are.” John shifted on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t get why Sherlock hadn’t known it earlier.

He still looked confused, but John met his eyes and conveyed the message correctly this time.

It’s you.

Sherlock’s cheeks glowed and he seemed to fold in on himself. Being so tall, it was surprising how small he suddenly looked.

Neither of them knew how to act.

Until suddenly, Sherlock opened his mouth and blurted out, “Well, it certainly is convenient that I wrote the other messages, then, isn’t it?”

John stared at him for a couple of minutes.

He was staring at the ground, face and neck so red John could practically feel the warmth radiating off of him.

Sherlock lifted up his eyes shyly and slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket with the ghost of a smile.

John just couldn’t keep the grin off his face any more. He practically skipped in place, before bouncing over to where Sherlock was standing, standing on his tiptoes, and kissing him on the cheek, before starting down the hallway.

Sherlock stood there for a minute, stunned at what had just happened, before his mind poked at him.

He’s leaving. He’s leaving, and this could be your best chance.

For once, Mycroft was silent about Sherlock’s foolish feelings. It was blissful.

Sherlock spun around and grabbed John’s arm, yanking him back. He leaned down and connected their lips, wrapping his arms around John as tightly as was possible.

John’s noise of surprise was stifled as he slipped his own arms around Sherlock’s neck, trying to let his mind capture every detail: how Sherlock’s hands felt like they were burning through his shirt, and how the curly hair at the nape of his neck was so easy to tangle his fingers into, how John’s nose squished a little bit against Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock broke away first, blushing furiously and leaving John’s head spinning. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and intertwined their fingers, partly because he thought he might actually fall over, but mostly because he’d thought so much about finally holding his hand.

“Would you,” Sherlock shook his head, “possibly want to be my boyfriend?”

John felt heat finally come to his face as he nodded forcefully. “I’d like that quite a bit, Sherlock.”

A smile of relief about what happened and disbelief that it had happened fell over both of their faces as Sherlock leaned down again and pressed their foreheads together.

News spread quickly around the school, especially that concerning everyone’s two favorite Unrequited Lovers.

John’s rugby mates all shouted when they saw Sherlock walking John to the gym, holding his hand.

In chemistry, their stools were so close their shoulders were touching.

Sherlock had taken to wearing John’s rugby jacket and going to all the practices. (Which he did anyway, but now he could sit where John could see him.)

And by the time senior prom came around, well, that was quite the experience. Half the school seemed more excited about Sherlock and John going than themselves.

John’s heart had warmed so much he was surprised it hadn’t melted when Sherlock had shown up at his locker with a bouquet of lilies and a blush, mumbling a shy “Prom?”

Sherlock always seemed a little surprised whenever John showed affection, especially around other people, but John was working on that.

They had chosen to meet directly in between their houses and walk up to the school together. It was a warm night, and the stars were brilliant. The moon hung low and glowed golden, mingling with the yellow tinge on the street lights to cast a truly gorgeous light over John’s features, Sherlock observed.

Fingers interlaced, they walked past the quiet houses and into the bright, noisy vicinity of the school. Sherlock winced when he heard the loud music.

“Is this too much?” John breathed, squeezing his hand.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Don’t say that. I know there’s a lot of propaganda surrounding the ‘perfect prom,’ but you should have fun.”

“But you want to go inside.”

“I don’t care about where I am, Sherlock, really. I care about who I’m with.”

“Well, then, meet me back here in seventeen minutes.”

John didn’t have time to bluster out a reply before he was gone, now a whisper. He decided to go inside and talk with the others before Sherlock returned.

They spent the rest of that night in the school’s courtyard, breathing in the honeysuckle and moonlight, John leaning into his boyfriend’s warm side, allowing the music he made to permeate his brain, leaving a soft static in his ears.

Sherlock had run home to get his violin, and sprinted back in exactly seventeen minutes. Now John felt so content he could fall asleep. And he might have, had be not been so determined to remember everything about this night.

After a while, though, his lacklustre attempts to keep his eyes open when the wonderful sound of the violin was lulling him to sleep failed, and the morning after he only remembered Sherlock’s arms picking him up.

~Lucinda

[ask-teen-sherlock]

Do you know what Sherlock X reader fanfic is????

What on Earth is Sherlock X Reader fanfiction and why does it sound so terrifying?

Hang on. Is this- is this about me?

SH

[prettysherlocksoldier]

MHITAS Update! No seriously.

IT LIVESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A heartfelt thank you to all the guys, gals, and nonbinary pals that encouraged, pushed, and waited. Thank you for helping me to finish what we started, not that this is the last chapter or anything, but it’s been a tough time getting back into this story, and I did miss it A Lot, so thank you for putting me on the path to the finish when I was surrounded by a bunch of those Mario Kart ‘YOU ARE GOING THE LITERAL OPPOSITE DIRECTION YOU ABSOLUTE TWATWAFFLE’ signs.

That’s what it feels like they’re saying, anyway.

At any rate, with all my love, here is Chapter 27.