Beloved Silver

Chapter Sixteen: "Will We March Together?"

A/N: Chapter title comes from "This Time, This Year" by Defiance, Ohio.

Sherlock recovered.

The next day, as soon as he woke up, since John must have put him to bed after he'd cried himself out into exhaustion, he went over to John's house. He vaguely remembered last night. He remembered what made him so upset, of course, but he also remembered John curling up next to him in bed and letting him rest his head on his chest as he stroked his hair and whispered to him, things like, "You're okay," which he wasn't, really, but the words helped nevertheless.

He knocked on the door and waited, not caring who answered it. Sherlock didn't like the fact that John's parents didn't like him only because he intended to be with John for a very long time, and if they didn't like him, that could cause complications, but he was otherwise fine by it. Plenty of parents didn't like him. Except it would be nice to have this particular set of parents like him.

As it turned out, John's father answered the door. He looked Sherlock up and down with obvious disapproval of his outfit, still not accustomed to the things he wore other than his school uniform (today it was ripped black jeans tight enough to make David Bowie blush, a white Clash shirt, and the leather jacket he'd reclaimed from John that still kind of smelled like him), but he managed a weak, fake smile.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Watson. Is John home?" he asked quickly, not wishing to be drawn into an awkward conversation with him. Perhaps he should be trying a bit harder to earn their approval, but by now he was convinced they'd despise him no matter what he did.

Without another word, his father went and called for John, who came bouncing down the stairs a minute later with messy hair, a white t-shirt, and some blue jersey shorts. He'd been up for a while now, but hadn't bothered to change clothes or brush his hair. Or come downstairs, for that matter.

He peeked out the door, saw Sherlock, and burst into a bright smile that his father didn't see, as John was standing behind him and his father was still taking in Sherlock. But when Sherlock's lips quirked upwards, he turned and looked at John, who acknowledged them both before disappearing into the bathroom to make himself actually presentable, even if he and Sherlock were just going to be talking.

They didn't have to talk, but apparently they were. John still wasn't going to pry, but he was curious and wouldn't object if Sherlock wanted to tell him. In actuality, the whole event kept him up most of the night, just picturing the horrified look on his face and the tears John had never previously experienced all over again, and how he couldn't have done anything to stop it.

Once he was dressed and combed his hair out a little, he said goodbye to his father quickly and left with Sherlock, deciding he was going to take whatever they said about it when he came home. Right now it was all about his Sherlock and if he was feeling better. He looked okay. He was smiling and laughing and extra cuddly today, wanting to hold John's hand tight and warmly and hug him and kiss his cheek several times in a row. John accepted it all and saved every smile in his mind for whenever the memories of last night returned to haunt him, trying to replace the tears with the laughs.

They weren't going to talk about what happened. Fine. John wasn't sure if he even wanted to know. He had this feeling that whatever caused this would make him go on a murderous rampage to find whoever did whatever to him. Just a hunch.

Sherlock and John arrived at Regent's Park with John on Sherlock's back, which was the position they'd taken a few minutes ago. John was giggling loudly and pressed a kiss to his temple before they sat down at an elegantly carved black bench, still sitting very close with Sherlock's arms wrapped around his waist. No one was giving them nasty looks or anything, despite them being two boys, which filled John with hope for the future, that maybe coming out wouldn't be bad at all. An old lady even smiled at them.

"Look at them, they're in love," John heard her say to her friend, who was just as old and smiley, and Sherlock smiled and brought John in a little closer.

"Lesbian daughter," Sherlock murmured to him.

John nodded to constitute as an 'oh'. "Good to know not all parents disown their gay kids."

Sherlock didn't even feel tempted to add in that his parents never did such a thing because he knew what this was about. It was always going to come back to his parents and what they did to his sister. He thought about it a lot, wondering if her alcoholism and drug habit had anything to do with it, if they would do the same to him, and he knew that John did the same.

Staring at the piece of art in front of them absently, Sherlock ran his thumb over John's arm before saying, "If they were to ever . . . disown you, John, you do know that you can stay at my house, don't you?"

It only made sense. Unless John had some other family member willing to take him in, but considering he doesn't know where his sister is, well. Who wouldn't want John, though? He is the single greatest thing in London, possibly the world. He's heaven, he's perfect, he's incredible, he's the entire world. Of course there are still girls who want him (some even flirt with him when Sherlock's sitting right there—John will let his fingers trace along Sherlock's under the table as he talked to them), but a family member is different.

"I know," John said, but he sounds relieved and mildly surprised. Did he really think Sherlock wasn't an option when he needed somewhere to live? Now he's staring at the artwork in front of them. It's pretty, easy to follow, with no hidden meanings or at least none John could come up with because he wasn't really an art person, but it was still pleasant to look at.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked quietly, and John realized he'd never heard him say that before. He'd said it to Sherlock before, but not the other way around because he always seemed to know what was going through John's mind. His face was pressed against John's temple, his voice close to his ear and sending tingles down his spine, in the best way.

"I think," he began, "that I want this year to be the year." Before Sherlock could respond, he pulled back, still pressing their shoulders together, and pulled out his phone. "Get on Facebook."

Sherlock looked confused. "I get on Facebook maybe once a month, sometimes two months."

But John was already tapping away on his phone, a smile on his face. Sherlock wasn't one for social media, he'd learned, but he still had them all, and they were all pretty unused, but he still somehow manages to get fifty likes when he changes his profile picture, the attractive bastard. "Get on anyway."

So he did. He worked his phone out of his pocket, and John watched his face go from blank, standard Sherlockian to uncharacteristic surprise, and he looked up at John with his eyebrows raised up to his hairline.

"You . . . put that you and I are in a relationship," he stated.

"They know it's been over six months, too," John said, replying to a few comments and liking some. There were already quite a few. Most were positive, but there was one of John's friends who commented 'are u guys joking', which he ignored. It was probably a legitimate question, but John wasn't sure. He would give all of his friends three months to simmer down before going back to school. "I don't have family on here, by the way. Small steps."

It was a pretty big fucking step, actually. Mike was texting now, with the words 'So you are gay. I knew it' popping up on the screen. He smiled and replied to him, watching Sherlock stare at his phone in amazement.

"Oh. All right, then," Sherlock nearly whispered, and he liked the post and Greg's comment (which was 'i would like to thank not only god but also jesus'). Then he burst out laughing. He put his arm around John and pulled him close, kissing his tenderly on the lips. "Nice one, love."

John tried not to visibly melt at the use of the term of endearment. "Feels good."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed under his breath, nuzzling against John's neck. "I love you," he murmured against his collarbone that was nearly covered by his jumper. Sherlock loved to joke about them, but he loved them and John knew it. There was one in particular that was practically Sherlock's at this point, that was baggy on him, but showed his flat, pale midriff when he lifted his arms or laid down.

John remembered a few weeks ago when Sherlock was wearing it when they were sitting in Sherlock's room, a Velvet Underground record playing, and Sherlock was lying down on his bed with his arms behind his head with his belly showing, the light of his matching necklace glinting due to the window that the sun was happening to pass over at that exact moment. John thought he was so beautiful right then. He was always beautiful, but right then, a lot of things were running through John's mind, things he was ignoring.

They were bad things and he shouldn't be thinking about them because this was Sherlock and he didn't want to rush things with him and Sherlock panicked when John touched his thigh and he wasn't going to be trying anything like that. It was final, necessary to their relationship. So John was pushing those thoughts back deep into his mind and just appreciating his boyfriend for everything that they actually do together.

"I love you, too."

"I never thanked you for last night," Sherlock then said, lower, in a tone that said that he really would rather not bring it up but needed to thank him.

"It's fine. You shouldn't have to thank me. Comforting you is a natural thing."

"I know, but . . . I don't know. Can I change the subject?"

"Definitely."

"Okay. Come to Bournemouth with me."

John leaned against his shoulder and toyed with one of Sherlock's hands with both of his own. More and more kids were showing up now, it seemed. He was sure some parents didn't want their kids to see two boys holding hands and cuddling, but fuck it. He saw a girl and a boy just a few minutes ago with their tongues shoved down each other's throats. Yes, he was being bitter about it, but he couldn't seem to help it. It was probably the fact that John's parents had been the parents to shield him from gays.

The first time John learned about being gay, he was eleven, at a rugby match with a few other boys. The oldest boy who was twelve (John can't even remember his name) had called Mike, who'd tagged along, a faggot, and he'd defended himself. Later, John asked Mike what a faggot was, and he said it was being gay, so he asked what that was. And he got his answer. It was a bad thing, apparently.

So when John started to develop a crush on a boy when he was thirteen, he was fucking terrified.

He didn't want that for his kids, if he decided to have them. He wasn't sure if he did or not. He's good with kids, and they like him, and they're easier to talk to than people his own age, but one of his own, to look after and worry about and not screw up. That was a whole other thing.

"Bournemouth? Why?"

"Because my parents are making us go for no apparent reason, and I already asked Lestrade, and he's going and so will Mycroft, so there goes his attention. Plus, it's for a week, and I'll miss you," he mumbled into John's hair.

"You say that last part like it pains you to admit it," John said, a little smile on his lips.

"Well, it isn't like I tell very many people I miss them. You're an exception."

"But what will I tell my parents?"

"You could always tell them you're with me," Sherlock mumbled, inspecting one of his nails. He sounded sad, almost. Hurt.

John looked at him, then looked back down. "I can't," he said. And he didn't say anything other than that. He couldn't tell Sherlock that his parents didn't like him, that he was referred to as "that horrible boy" by them, or that they would never agree if they knew it was him. Deep down, Sherlock likely already knew these things. He had to. Certainly he knew their true feelings about him, even if they didn't know who he really was to their son.

"Oh. Okay. It's fine."

John sighed. "No, it's not. You're upset."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I know you."

"John, I assure you, it's fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He wouldn't ask, then.

xxx

"Hey, Mum?"

John's mother held up a finger to tell him to hold on, murmuring something into her phone and leaning back in her chair, looking agitated. Maybe he should have waited to ask, then.

He stood there shifting his weight and wringing his hands for a five minutes waiting for her to end the phone call. Luckily, whoever she was speaking to cleared themselves of being an idiot in her eyes, meaning she was in a better mood.

She hung up the phone after saying goodbye and placed it face down on the arm of the couch in case a text came through.

"What?" she asked, growing impatient when John was silent.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Okay. So, I was wondering if I could go to the beach with a friend. For two weeks. There'll be adults."

"Where is it?" she asked, not showing any sign of being against it or for it yet.

"Bournemouth."

"Hm. Which friend?"

Now came the hard part. John couldn't stop a nervous laugh from erupting from his lips, which cause an eyebrow on his mother to rise. He cleared his throat and attempted to put on his poker face, the one he used when he was determined.

"The one who's been here a few times, you know? Tall, skinny, curly hair . . ."

"The emo kid?"

"I think he prefers punk," John tried, adding another laugh, and it faded when she didn't return it.

"I don't know, John—"

"He's a good person. He really is. And his family's really nice. They're also really rich, so they'll pay for everything, and all I'll have to bring is stuff I already have, like a bathing suit and a toothbrush and all that. I'll text, like, every day."

She went quiet, chewing on her lip and teetering her pen with two fingers on one hand and tapping her nails against her leg with the other. She took a deep breath like she was getting ready to say something, but then said nothing, tilting her head to the side slightly as if she were trying to see John differently. How differently was the question. "By 'adults', do you mean a twenty-year-old with a face tattoo and a criminal record?"

"No. His parents and grandparents will be there, and so will his brother, who's an Oxford graduate," John said, trying to impress her as much as he could, even if it meant laying it on a little thick. "Sherlock comes from a really good family. He'll—they'll take care of me." John winced once he realized what he'd almost said.

His mother just sighed. "Fine. Whatever. You better keep your promise and text."

"Thanks, Mum," John beamed, so happy he could hug her. Almost.

So he got out his phone and typed out a single text.

I'm going to the beach with you, and yes, my mother knows it's you. I told her all about your nerdy family. Dweeb.