AU where John is a pizza delivery driver, he and Sherlock are both in their late teens, and tipping is expected in England.

John Watson hated delivering pizzas.

To be fair, he had known when he applied for the job that it wasn't going to be all that exciting, but he needed the money and employees received free pizza as part of their perks. He knew he liked driving even if the car was a junky one, and delivering seemed easy enough. He just had to take the food out to the car, drive to the customer, exchange the pizzas for the money, and be on his way.

What he hadn't known, however, was how irritating the customers could be. It was bad enough that he didn't always get tipped—his actual salary was pennies after all, he needed tips—but sometimes people would insist there was something wrong or that he had messed up their order and then demand he go back and bring them another pizza for free. Other people whined about the prices or how long it had taken him to get there. The worst were the prank deliveries, his only consolation for wasted time and no tip being that at least he was allowed to eat the pizzas that were ordered.

But John kept at it anyway. At seven months in he was getting better at finding shortcuts while driving and keeping a smile pasted on his face. Today it was difficult, though, because this order had taken him into a filthy-rich neighborhood set in a gated community. John couldn't help glaring a bit at the enormous houses. Show-offs. No one needed a house that big. Must be nice. He drove through street after street, the houses getting bigger and fancier. He found himself shrinking down a bit as men in golf carts and women walking designer dogs gave his crud-covered car looks.

He sighed. "What am I doing here?" He knew the answer, of course. If it weren't for that damn waiting list I'd be off serving by now.

By seventeen John had had a plan. He would graduate school with perfect marks (which he did, not that you could tell it now), serve two years in the military—maybe three if he liked it and it paid well—and then use the benefits to pay for university and hopefully medical school. He'd spent the last year trying to get in shape so he could pass the physical and enlist right away, since his dad had made it more than clear that he was not going to support a grown man. But the army couldn't take him for another year, so until then John was stuck being a delivery boy until either a spot opened up or something better came along. Not like these folks.

As luck would have it, his customer turned out to live in the grandest house in the entire development. "Showoff" did not even begin to describe the towering columns, ten-car garage, perfectly manicured and blinding green lawn, and marble fountain bubbling out front next to a gazebo. A British flag waved proudly. It was difficult to tell from where he was, but John had a strong feeling there was an Olympic-size swimming pool out back and a Jacuzzi to go with it. Probably have lawn chairs made of solid gold too. It's a wonder they ordered from us instead of hiring a bloody private chef.

John parked the car in the pristine driveway, slammed the door shut, and started to grab up the order. It was a big one: four extra large pizzas (three of them with multiple toppings), two sets of breadsticks and chicken wings with extra dipping sauce, four large drinks, and five different desserts. Usually orders like these meant either a party or a family of picky eaters where everyone got their own food separate. Given the quietness of the house and the lack of other cars around, John figured the latter was the case, which meant these folks were so rich they didn't even have to share food. Which meant John was going to have to make five fucking trips to the door. At least he'd get a decent tip.

Carefully, and with much grunting, he stacked the breadsticks and desserts on top of the pizzas and carried them in like pyramids: pizza at the bottom, then breadsticks or chicken wings, then dessert on top of that. Fortunately the drinks came in grocery bags so he could simply put his arm through the hole. Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, until his arms ached and all the food was sitting in front of the door. He pulled out the crumpled receipt from his pocket and double-checked that everything was accounted for. Under "special instructions," the customer had asked that he press the button on the intercom so they could buzz him in. They have to screen you, do they? Can't even let you touch their knocker.

John pressed the button and heard a voice over the intercom. "Yes?"

"Lisa's Pizza," John said, straightening up his hat and uniform just in case they could see him.

"Excellent. Please come in, John. And bring the food with you."

John's momentary shock at the man knowing his name disappeared when he realized the man expected him to pick up all of this food again and bring it into the house just because his pampered lazy arse couldn't come to the door. They better be bloody generous with their tipping, John thought as he rolled his eyes and opened the door. He gathered up the food and stepped inside. Right in front of him was the longest winding staircase he'd ever seen. You'd better come down now because I am not lugging this shit all the way up those stairs, he wanted to shout but didn't.

"Thank you, John," the voice said, and John looked up to see a heavyset young man, dressed to the nines and twirling an umbrella, coming down the stairs. "I would have been happy to open the door for you, but this way did save time."

For you, maybe. "You are…" He checked the receipt. "Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes," he answered, and now that he was downstairs John could see just how heavy he was. His shirt bulged a bit and his shoulders were broader than even John's dad's, which was saying something. "How much do I owe you?"

"Uh," John made himself look away from Mycroft and at the receipt. "A hundred and forty-nine pounds."

"Splendid," he said, and John thought he talked like someone much older than he probably was. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open more elegantly than John would have thought possible for someone his size. "Hundred, forty, ten. Here you are." He handed John three bills. In the seven months John had been delivering pizzas, this was maybe the second time someone had paid him in cash for an order that was more than thirty pounds. "Keep the change."

John stared at Mycroft, hoping he'd reach back into his wallet. Or yell for another family member to come give him some cash. He didn't. John slowly shifted his eyes to the ten-pound note in his hand. One pound. That was it. That was all this fat rich arsehole was going to give him. Even if he were only tipping a measly ten percent instead of twelve or fifteen, John should have walked away with at least fourteen pounds. Cheapskate bastard.

"Is there something wrong, John?"

"No no, everything's fine," John said quickly, trying not to sound short. The last thing he needed was another customer complaint against him. "Have a great night." Then he stopped. "Sorry," he said. "How did you know my name?"

Mycroft smiled. "I keep a weather eye on those who come into my home. We are equipped with the finest security in Britain and—"

"And your name was visible on the receipt, which you were holding in your hand when you pressed the button on the intercom." John turned to see another man, a much younger and skinnier one, appear from the hallway. He looked to be in his teens, probably not much younger than John. "For God's sake, Mycroft, are you going to make him beg?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No Sherlock, of course not. Though I won't deny it would be amusing." Now he reached for his wallet and handed John a hundred-pound note. "Here you are. Our compliments to your fine service."

"I—wow. Thank you sir, very much." John quickly stuffed it into his pocket before Mycroft could change his mind. His dad would have been appalled, considering that large a tip to be shameful charity, but John had stopped caring about two months into the job. Shameful charity was pretty effective in keeping bills off the table.

The man called Sherlock glanced at the boxes. "Really, Mycroft. Cookies, brownies, ice cream, cinnamon sticks, and a cinnapie? Your sweet tooth seems to have gained a forty percent increase in intensity."

"These are for all of us," Mycroft insisted with a tight-lipped smile. "Anyone who likes may have some."

"Then you won't mind if I offer it to John." He turned to face John with a smile on his face, and to John's amazement, actually winked at him.

John blinked, holding back a smile. "Uh, sorry, me?"

"Of course." Sherlock bent down and picked up one of the pizzas and desserts. "My brother really should have someone monitoring him. Join us for dinner?"

For the second time that night, John wondered what he was doing there. He had tried to explain that he had to get back, that there were probably other orders waiting on him, but Sherlock hadn't seemed to hear him. Sherlock kept insisting that he should "make sure Brother Dear doesn't indulge himself too much and ruin his diet" while Mycroft gave him dirty looks.

Nonetheless, John sat in a chair that probably cost more than his entire apartment while Sherlock took the sofa across from him. Mycroft, finally having had enough of his brother's comments, took some food upstairs with him and left the two of them alone. At one point Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came down and took some food as well, but they disappeared quickly, mumbling something about needing to get back to work.

"So how long?"

"Sorry?"

"How much longer will you be delivering pizzas before you join the army?"

John's mouth opened so wide the piece of breadstick he was chewing on nearly fell out. "How did…"

"Newly formed muscles on your arms and torso, clearly visible through your shirt, which is too tight for you. Suggesting you either don't have much money for new clothes or you've just recently acquired the muscle, probably both. Your haircut is a military one and it's obvious from your face and your demeanor that you're not happy in this job, so it's most likely a temporary gig that you're only in for money. Normally at your age one would think it's for university, except you'd need far more than a delivery driver's salary to pay for that, so I'm more inclined to say you're just trying to get by. I happened to pass by the window as you were walking up the driveway and I noticed your eyes lingering on the British flag outside, suggesting a feeling of patriotism. So, why would a young man with patriotism and a military haircut who is clearly attempting to build up his strength deliver pizzas when he so clearly hates it? Obviously to make money until he can join the army, possibly so he can use the benefits to attend university."

John was speechless. He stared at this strange man who only seemed to get stranger. And he was only just now noticing that this strange man was also incredibly handsome. Awfully thin and seemingly a little underfed (which John wouldn't have thought possible given the circumstances), but he could have easily been a model.

"John, you might want to put that pizza back on its plate now."

"What? Oh, right." He hadn't noticed the cheese had been falling off, threatening to drop onto the richly patterned carpet. "Wow." He shook his head. "That was amazing."

Sherlock smiled just a little. "Really?"

"Of course!" John shook his head with a grin. "You were spot on. I've never seen anything like that."

Sherlock's smile widened and John thought he might be blushing. "I simply observed."

He's got a nice smile. John took another bite of pizza, reveling in the fact that he wouldn't go to bed hungry tonight. But he frowned when he noticed that Sherlock had only picked at his. "Aren't you hungry?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine."

John looked away, not wanting to be caught in an awkward silence. He scanned the elaborate furnishings and decorations until his eyes landed on something out of place. On the table a few feet away were forms. John couldn't read them from where he was, but he could clearly make out Sherlock's name, last week's date, and the words "Release From Rehabilitation." Given that Sherlock didn't seem tempted at all by the wine cart nearby (John was though; he wished they had offered him some of that instead of pizza), that only left one option. Suddenly John felt a little sick.

"You all right?" John jumped. Sherlock was the one staring now. Shit. He had probably noticed John looking. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Did he think John was judging him? I wouldn't, John thought. Everyone has their vices.

"Yeah, fine. I really do need to get going though." He set his empty plate aside and stood up. "Thanks again, though. I really enjoyed the food."

"Course. Don't be a stranger." Sherlock looked a little sad to see him go.

"Thank you." John paused, a small smile forming on his face. He straightened his hat again. "And if you ever order from us again, don't be afraid to request me."

Sherlock's smile at that stayed with John the whole night. Even when his manager yelled at him for taking so long getting back, all he could think of was how good that smile made him feel.

Somehow, sometime soon, he wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again.

Unfortunately this was easier said than done. Sherlock and John lived on different sides of town, so it wasn't like they would run into each other at the shops. The Holmes lived in a gated community, and while John did know the code to get in—Mycroft had given it to him on the list of instructions so he could deliver the food—he didn't feel right using it for his own personal goals. He hoped every day that Sherlock would take him up on placing another order and requesting him as the driver, but after a month he gave up on that thought. He just made his boring deliveries to his ordinary customers like a good worker, and tried not to feel disappointed as he put Sherlock Holmes out of his mind.

One day he had just come in to work through the back door when his manager yelled for him. John swallowed a groan. Already? Who the bloody hell orders a pizza at four in the afternoon?

"What's the order?"

"No order," his manager said, and John raised his eyebrows. "Just someone at the tables out front wants to see you."

"Wants to see me?" At first he thought it was another disgruntled customer complaining about him, but they usually called instead of coming in. Just the fact that there was someone at the tables was unusual. Certainly people could dine inside at one of the two small tables inside the restaurant if they wanted to, but no one ever did. Delivery and takeout was Lisa's Pizza's bread and butter. John made his way to the front of the restaurant, feeling more puzzled by the minute, until he saw him.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the table, chin in his hand and one leg over the other, smiling at him. He had a full drink sitting next to him with the straw lying unwrapped. He nodded at it. "They wouldn't let me sit here unless I bought something."

"Hey." John wasted no time sliding into the seat across from him, smiling. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Of course not. How could I forget someone who gave such excellent service?" Sherlock asked, and John felt warm from head to toe.

They ended up talking about everything under the sun until John's manager had a delivery for him and asked with heavy implications if there was anything else Sherlock needed. He took the hint and said goodbye to John.

But before he did, he slipped his number into John's pocket.

They met three more times, each one better than the last. Sherlock was kind enough to suggest meeting in places like the park or by the river, where John wouldn't have to spend money. Sherlock continued to astound John by deducing everyone who walked by, and John told stories of outrageous pizza customers that made Sherlock laugh. Sherlock visited the restaurant more and more frequently, and they began to play a game of hiding from the manager and giggling as Sherlock hid under a table or in the corner. John began to look forward to work for the first time since he'd started. He told Sherlock things he hadn't told anybody else, like how badly he wanted to be a soldier and that he hoped to move up the ranks and become an army doctor someday. Sherlock told him that he and his parents had argued over the fact that he wanted to study chemistry but didn't want a career in it. "Neither being a chemist nor a teacher appeals to me," he admitted. "They're both boring."

John had a bad feeling he knew why Sherlock's family didn't want him to study chemistry. The subject of Sherlock having been in rehab never came up, but every day John wondered. Especially when he and John were leaving to go their separate ways; that was when the sadness that always seemed to lurk in Sherlock's eyes came back. He was still skinny, and while he did eat when pressed, it was never enough to satisfy John.

And what's more, Sherlock had bad days. Once John had tried to Skype him, and Sherlock had answered looking disheveled and depressed. He hadn't even uttered a greeting. He was still in his pajamas and looked like he hadn't left his bed even though it was 2pm.

"Not a good time?" John asked, trying to sound cheerful.

Sherlock shook his head and logged off. John didn't try to Skype him again, and the next time they met Sherlock was in much better spirits. But sometimes when they texted, John could tell he was having another bad day. His messages would get shorter and he'd stop making them grammatically correct, like he couldn't be bothered anymore. John never slept well on those nights.

One day he tried to think of a way to solve the double problem of Sherlock not eating and not being happy. "Sherlock," he said while they were sitting on the bank of a lake watching the ducks. "What's your favorite food in the entire world? If you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, what would it be?"

"You know I enjoy tea, as well as the occasional biscuit. I'm also fond of Chinese."

"Come on. Everybody has that one guilty pleasure food they can't get enough of. There must be something you love shamelessly."

Sherlock watched the ducks for a long time. Then he smiled, and John scooted closer. "When I was younger," he said. "My uncle Rudy would come over and experiment in the kitchen. He used to make a pizza that was made of cinnamon, honey, and frosting. He would buy flatbread or a tortilla, cover it in cinnamon and honey with maybe a pinch of butter, and add frosting of all kinds. Chocolate, vanilla, confetti. Naturally my parents were horrified given the amount of calories, but Mycroft and I would gobble it up. Especially Mycroft."

"Sounds delicious."

"I can't even remember the last time I had it. Surely more than a decade ago."

John was already formulating a plan before Sherlock had even finished his sentence.

John didn't care that he shouldn't spend the money. He didn't care that he could get fired for breaking health code by bringing outside food into the restaurant. He didn't care that he was stealing a pizza box and a pizza crust that one of the other employees had worked hard to make. He bought every ingredient Sherlock had mentioned and as many different kinds of frosting as he could find. Flatbread wasn't good enough; this pizza needed a real crust. On his day off, he snuck into the back of Lisa's, snatched a box and a crust when no one was looking, and took both into another corner of the kitchen. He quickly went to work covering the crust in honey with a pinch of butter. He snatched the cinnamon from the supply cabinet intended for desserts, shook it all over the pizza, put it back, and then stuck it into one of the ovens and prayed he wouldn't get caught.

"Yes, ma'am? That's one medium cheese and a large pepperoni." John swallowed as he heard his manager talk on the phone. "Your total is twenty-five oh six. Ma'am, that's including tax. Yes, we do charge a small delivery fee, but that is not considered a tip. Well ma'am, if you don't want to tip your driver…"

Please let that customer be one of the pain in the arse ones, John thought. They could keep you on the phone a good thirty minutes or more. He kept his eyes glued to the oven timer. Five more minutes. John clenched and unclenched his hand, begging it to go faster.

"John?" He jumped and whirled around. Thank God, it wasn't the manager. "What are you doing here?"

John glanced at the corner. Good, his manager was still on the phone. He racked his brain but couldn't come up with a believable explanation. "Ronny," he said, holding up his hands. "I will cover your shift for two days if you forget I was ever here."

Ronny raised his eyebrows and looked like he wanted to ask why, but he smirked. "Three days."

"Fine." John motioned with his hand and Ronny took the hint and left. He jumped again when he heard the phone hang up. The timer still had a few minutes left, but this would have to do. John opened the oven as quietly as he could, grabbed the box and the large spatula used for taking pizzas out of the oven, and carefully slid it into the box. Now he struggled to close the box while still holding the spatula; normally this was a two-person job. Not to mention the heat was radiating from the oven's open door.

Fuck it. John let the spatula drop with a clatter ("What was that?" his manager asked), he set the box on the counter and closed it, and shut the oven door. Then he grabbed the box and raced out through the closest door, which was the emergency exit. Alarms blared at a shrieking frequency over the shouts of the employees inside, and John knew that if he had been spotted or Ronny snitched, he was definitely fired. The thought made him grin as he ran as fast as he could without dropping the pizza box, stashed it in the back seat of his car, and roared out of the parking lot toward Sherlock's.

That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done. And the most fun he'd had in a long time.

John sped toward the gated community—damn his conscience, he was going to use the code for personal reasons—and around the streets toward the Holmes house. Before he could lose his nerve, he parked in their driveway and picked up the pizza box.

This time John ignored the intercom and knocked. He hoped Sherlock would answer. Hell, he hoped Sherlock was home! He wasn't sure what he would do otherwise, but he would drive somewhere else if he had to. The pizza wasn't going to stay warm forever.

John waited and waited. He knocked again. He heard feet stomping. They sounded angry. John bit his lip. He wondered if someone had been taking a nap and he was going to get a less than warm welcome. He started to turn away when he heard what sounded like Mycroft yelling. He pressed his ear to the door.

"What were you thinking, Sherlock? What more do we have to do?"

"Oh, shut up!" That was Sherlock. "I wasn't really going to do it. It was an experiment."

"An experiment that was going to end in you…" John couldn't hear any more. He nearly fell forward when the door opened a crack and a housekeeper stood before him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" She sounded impatient. Whatever was going on inside was serious.

John straightened up. "Pizza for Sherlock Holmes."

The housekeeper gave him a funny look; John supposed he did look a bit odd with no uniform, but she held up one finger and went back inside.

"Pizza for Sherlock?"

"I didn't order a pizza, go away!" John froze. He didn't like that tone at all. He didn't even have to see Sherlock to know this was a bad day.

The housekeeper returned. "He says—"

"I know, I heard him," John said. He thought fast. He could leave and try again later. He could ask the housekeeper to give the pizza to Sherlock, but what if Sherlock didn't open it and just threw it out?

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Sherlock shouted. "You don't really care what I do, so mind your own business."

John flinched. He felt a bit bad for Mycroft, but even worse for Sherlock. He sounded close to tears.

That settled it. He couldn't wait.

"Yes he did," John said in the military tone his dad used to take. "Trust me, he'll want it." The housekeeper started to shake her head. "Just tell him to come out here. Please."

She went back inside, and John couldn't hear what she said, but it was cut off by Sherlock stomping toward the door and flinging it open. "I said didn't order a—John."

He looked awful. His nightclothes and blue dressing gown were practically hanging off his body and his hair was a mess. Sherlock's eyes were red and he clearly hadn't shaved today. But the worst part was his neck. Sherlock had pulled up his collar so it wasn't very visible, but John could tell it was red and scratched and had—oh dear God—what looked like the imprint of a belt. John's knees wobbled and he almost threw up right there.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's voice was softer now, but it still made John jump. Jesus, what has he done to himself? Why?

John struggled for something to say. He looked down at the box in his hand and remembered. He gave a small smile, hoping it would make Sherlock feel better. "Pizza for Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked confused. "John, I didn't order a pizza."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one," John said, faking a lightheartedness.

Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth. "Is this a joke?"

"What? No. No, it's not a joke."

"I appreciate you came out all this way, but in case you couldn't tell, this is not a good time."

"Please. It's not a joke. Just take it." John handed him the box. Sherlock took it reluctantly.

John nodded. "Open it up."

Sherlock gave him a look but did what he asked. As soon as he had gotten it open, he froze. His mouth fell open. "Th-this is…"

"Yes."

"S-since when does Lisa's make this?"

"Lisa doesn't. I did."

Sherlock looked back and forth from the pizza to John. "You made this?"

John nodded. "Just for you."

"Why?" Sherlock almost breathed the word. John was a little discouraged he didn't seem happier. He had pictured Sherlock lighting up with a great big smile when he saw it. It's a bad day, remember. He tried to avoid looking at Sherlock's neck.

Because you love it. Because it was your favorite. Because you need to eat more. Because you can't hurt yourself like that, dammit, I won't let you. None of these sounded good enough. "Because," John thought hard. Finally he said, "Because you deserve it."

Sherlock blinked rapidly. "What?"

"Because." Oh Jesus, now John was tearing up. "Because you are the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time, and because you've been a good friend to me. Because you've made my life interesting again and given me a reason to get out of bed every morning. And because you deserve it."

Sherlock hadn't blinked or moved since John started speaking. He stayed still a few more seconds.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Mycroft emerged from the side of the house to the door and stopped when he saw John. He looked at Sherlock, who, very slowly, closed the pizza box and set it on the ground. He moved it to the side with his foot.

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had crossed the distance between them in one stride, thrown his arms around him, and was hugging, squeezing, clinging to him for dear life and burying his face in John's shoulder. Mycroft stepped back inside and closed the door, leaving them alone. John rubbed Sherlock's back and didn't mention it when Sherlock began to tremble and whimper. His shoulders began to shake and John rocked him slightly.

"Promise me you won't leave," John said. "I need you and I want you in my life. You're something special, more than anyone I've ever met."

Sherlock tightened his hold. He lifted his head just enough to whisper, "Thank you." Before he could think too much about what he was doing, John turned his head and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. His skin was softer than it looked.

Sherlock nuzzled John's face, which made him relax a bit. He'd been afraid Sherlock might recoil. "Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

An hour later, both felt much better. Sherlock had declared that the pizza tasted as good as he remembered, and to John's relief and delight, he had eaten four slices in a row. Usually John had to push to get him to finish one, although in this case keeping the pizza from Mycroft may have provided extra motivation.

Now he was stretched out on the long sofa, looking tired and full. Hoping he wasn't being too forward, John stretched out next to him. Sherlock smiled and pulled him closer, tugging a blanket over both of them. John wound his arms protectively around Sherlock, settling his hands on his belly, which had swelled a little from those four slices. John could feel it gurgling and churning, not used to having so much food at once. He stroked it gently and Sherlock relaxed, looking more peaceful than John had ever seen him.

He had no idea how far they were going to go with this. Whether he could or should consider Sherlock his boyfriend now. For now he would focus on ensuring that Sherlock would never try an "experiment" like that again. The very thought made John hold him tighter.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, keeping his eyes closed. "Please don't leave."

"I told you, I'm staying right—"

"For the army." Sherlock clutched John's arm. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

John hesitated. "That's a long way off, Sherlock."

"I mean it." Sherlock opened his eyes. "Mycroft can find you a better job. You could be an assistant at the private medical office for government officials. It would pay well; you'd be able to go to school. You'd be serving your country in a way that isn't as dangerous." He gazed up at John with pleading eyes. "Let me help you."

John stroked Sherlock's hand. The army was something he had worked toward for a long time. He had always associated it with a future, a chance for a new life. But he couldn't imagine going a year or more without seeing Sherlock.

He intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's and kissed his curls. "Don't worry about me. I can't say what I'll choose for the moment, but know that wherever I end up, I promise I will always be here for you. Just so long as you promise to be here for me. All right? No leaving."

Sherlock smiled and leaned into his touch, nodding ever so slightly. John could feel them both drifting off. He closed his eyes.

"Get some rest now, Sherlock. I'll be here when you wake up."