A/Note: My Beta has officially retired from editing my Johnlock stories :( so all mistakes will be all mine. I hope this will live up to my previous readers' expectations. As usual, I will try to post a chapter a day. But if I do miss a day this time (life has thrown a few curved balls lately), never fear; the story does have an end ready, I just need to do the final editing as I post them.

I challenged myself to write an AU teenlock story (but aren't all Johnlock stories themselves already AU?) and this is the result. I know it has been done before, but I hope the journey is still enjoyable. I feel a bit on edge about this, but I'm going with the fact that the age of consent in the UK is sixteen. This story is a bit more "lemony" than my usual, so I'm hoping you (Johnlock fans) will enjoy it. If you're not into Johnlock, do yourself a favor and don't read it.

For those of you who might not know it yet, per ACD's canon, Sherlock learned "Bartitsu" (which he misspelled as "Baritsu"). Ever wonder how he learned it? Read on! :)

This has not been Brit picked, so please excuse any errors about the school and the language itself.

Steamy times ahead. Enjoy!

BJ

.

1. Summer break

'Goodbye Freak! Have a good Summer!'

Tedious! Leave already, so I can let myself out.

The boys left, laughing, leaving Sherlock inside a locker. A gift for their last day of school, Sebastian said. Sherlock was not worried. He had taken to adding a hidden pocket on the inside of all his jeans' waistbands to keep his multi-purpose tool. It was a flat heavy duty one that housed a strong plier. Being locked up worked in his favour; the boys found this highly amusing and satisfying in itself. Also, they were lazy; this required no effort on their part and they didn't want to break up a sweat trying to beat him up. So he kept this a secret by maintaining his usual behaviour during the proceedings and, once alone, bending the latch and putting it back into shape.

The laughter was dying in the distance, so it was safe to pull out his tool. He sighed, he knew this would take a while. But before he could do anything, he heard footsteps again. A different boy walked in and turned towards the bank of lockers across from Sherlock's. The lockers were elevated, to allow for benches right below them, freeing floor space at the centre of the room. From his position he couldn't see who that was, as the venting slots angled down. He could see the rugby uniform though, which was enough information for him to keep quiet. Most of the boys on the team picked on him.

He rolled his eyes. Now I'll have to wait for him to leave before I can let myself out.

The boy undressed quickly and walked away towards the showers. Sherlock didn't understand why exactly, but he blinked repeatedly, his eyes darting everywhere.

He sighed. Well, at least I can still fit somewhat comfortably in here. But if I end up growing up as much as Mycroft, this might become a problem. I won't have enough room to actually work on the latch. I'll have to ask father again about taking classes with Mr. Bart. He started making a list of skills that might possibly come in handy at school. Martial arts. Unlocking doors. Parkour. Turning every day objects into weapons and tools. Climbing walls - with and without ropes. Without would be more useful, of course.

As the list grew, he was taken by surprise by the boy's return.

The rugby player turned away from Sherlock and removed the towel from around his waist to finish drying himself. Sherlock's right eyebrow rose as he recognised the reason for his earlier - for lack of a better word - embarrassment. Huh! - he did have a preference, after all. The boy's backside was quite a sight; what he could see of the back and the thighs were muscular and tanned. And in between... a paler bit of skin, twin round shaped, perfectly smooth. The view affected his breathing, making it shallow. It was soon covered with boxer shorts, followed by a pair of jeans. The metal walls around Sherlock felt warm. The boy paused with a t-shirt in his hands.

'Hey,' another voice came from the entrance.

'Hey,' he answered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, Dear God, how many more are coming in? Classes are over! If they're going to carry on a conversation in this manner I'm going to die of boredom.

'Thought I'd catch you before you left. Good practice today,' said the voice.

'Em, thanks. We missed you out there.'

'Yeah, sorry I missed it. I was only able to glance at it once in a while through the classroom window. The coach always makes the last one fun.' He stepped in. 'Anybody else in here?'

'No, everybody already left. I waited for you for a while like you asked, but it was getting late, so I came down to shower.'

'Hey, what are you doing afterwards? Now, I mean?'

'Em, not much, really. Just going home, why?'

The newcomer approached. 'I was just thinking. Maybe- would you like to hang out?'

'I-'

The other boy was getting really close so the shirtless one took a step back towards Sherlock. Once they were about a foot apart, the newcomer reached for the boy's bare arm, rubbing it. 'Maybe come with me?' He got even closer, and slowly slid his hand up towards the shoulder. The boy's breathing was louder now, making his exposed muscles move and goose pimples spread throughout his back.

Sherlock could sense the fear and tension coming from the shirtless boy and his own breathing was just as laboured. There was something dangerous about this newcomer.

'My parents won't be home until six,' the other said quietly. He got closer still and now placed both hands around the boy's waist, towards the back. 'We could do whatever you want,' he whispered, sliding his hands up and down the tanned skin.

Now Sherlock heard the unmistakable sounds of kissing. The oxygen supply seemed to have diminished inside the locker, his own breathing matched the rapid and loud panting of the boys below him. He was mesmerised by the hands sliding up and down that bare and muscular back in front of him. He followed them with his gaze and could almost feel what that skin must feel like. The metal walls were hot and closing in around him. He was sweating.

The newcomer slowly sat on the bench behind him, pulling the half dressed boy to straddle him as they embraced and kissed. Sherlock could now see the mop of blond hair that crowned that back. He could also see how the boy on top ran his left hand through the other's hair. The blond one broke the kiss and whispered, 'I've never done anything like this before. With a bloke, I mean.'

'I know. Let me be your first, then. Please, John. Come with me.'

John. John. I know this voice. Rugby. Blond hair. Left handed. Voice. Sherlock's eyes widened. The boy that sits next to me in Chemistry classes! John Watson! He frowned, But he's always dating one girl or another. Who's the other boy?

In between kisses, the other said, 'Please John (...) I'm going to join (...) the Army (...) in a month and I don't know when I'll see you again.'

John stopped and pulled away, 'You're joining the Army? You're leaving?'

'Yeah.'

'What then?' He got up. 'What about me?'

Sherlock had already narrowed down the list of possibilities, yet it still surprised him. Mr.-Perfect-rugby-star-player-and-captain, Allan. He also stood up.

'John, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier-'

'You think you can just come in, do whatever you want with me and leave?'

'Please, John, it's not like that. You're very important to me.'

'So important you didn't think to tell me that? And you waited until today for this?'

Allan tried to hug John, but was pushed away. 'No, all you want is to get a leg over. Leave me alone!'

Allan reached again and hugged him. John fought a bit, but Allan kept him this time. 'No, John, John. Please. You are important to me, I swear. I didn't tell you because I was afraid.'

John stopped struggling.

'I was afraid that this was a mistake, that you didn't want this. I'm afraid once I leave you might end up meeting someone else. You'll forget me.' He dropped his voice to a whisper. 'John. I'm in love with you.'

John was breathing hard.

'I wish I could stay, but I don't have much of a choice. Please John, come with me. You don't need to do anything you don't want to, I promise. I just want to spend some time with you before I go. We can never be free here at the school.'

John pushed away. 'And we really shouldn't be doing this here.' He finished getting dressed quickly. 'People could walk in anytime.' He sat down and started putting socks and trainers on.

'I know. Sorry. I just- I couldn't resist seeing you like this.'

'Shut up, Allan. Not here.'

'Come with me then?'

John paused and sighed, looking down towards the floor. He nodded.

Soon they were gone.

Sherlock stood there blinking.

...

He was finally on his way home, his wet shirt sticking to his back as he walked. Me? Back. Hands. Skin. Hugging. Kissing. Me. Back. Fingers. Hair. Muscles. Me. Him. John. Allan and John. Me? Back. Hands. Skin. Hugging. John. Muscles. Skin. Him. Beautiful. Back. Tanned. Hands. John.

He never thought he would ever be like the others around him, guided by the hormonal phase of puberty. There were the expected inconveniences of course, but he thought he was different; that he would never actually find a specific individual compelling in any way, shape or form. Any interaction fuelled by hormones was just messy, involved the disgusting exchange of bodily fluids and, most likely, required an actual relationship. And he certainly didn't want to relate to people. People were boring and annoying.

There was much to think about. This was a two cigarette problem. He'd have to get his secret stash out once he got home.

...

Sherlock sat under the bridge near his home, on a smooth rock by the brook. This was his smoking/thinking spot; quiet, secluded, away from disapproving eyes. The familiar scent of damp and decaying leaves added to the constant sameness of the place, giving him stability whenever he faced chaos; cigarettes helped him lock himself inside his mind.

John Watson. The boy was in the rugby team, but he had never picked on him, like most of the others. On the contrary, he was usually polite and everybody seemed to like him. Next year, he would most likely become the new team captain, now that the current one was graduating. Not that he had ever paid much attention to sports, but it was impossible not to hear about it at school. Especially from girls gabbing away everywhere he went.

John had transferred to the school two months after the term had started last year and, as Chemistry classes happened in the lab, everybody already had their seats established. Most of the others avoided Sherlock; he had a history of making them uncomfortable with what he could tell about them with only a glance. So John took the only available seat, next to him. Sherlock tried to ignore him; all that he was was very clear. And boring. And potentially dangerous.

Family not rich (second-hand store clothes and old rucksack in a new school), practices sports, ah, stereotypically trying for the rugby team (pamphlet in pocket). Didn't have enough time to get ready this morning, missed shaving in a few spots, small cut on the upper lip: possibly a delay in using the loo. Not an only child then, has sibling. Even though his clothes are second-hand, they fit him, they are his, not a hand me down, therefore, either a sister or a younger brother. Hasty school switch, but sibling has not accompanied him, so it wasn't a move that involved a change of jobs of one of the parents. So he had issues at the other school that required a transfer. If only he had issues, most likely a sister, otherwise there's a higher probability that he and his brother would've transferred at the same time, to the same school. Overly polite. Possibly has gotten into trouble for previous bullying history? Passion for rugby especially suggests he is accustomed to violence, perhaps enjoys it. Callused/split knuckles show he is indeed accustomed to fighting. One more reason to avoid - much less encourage - interaction. Or read him out loud. Boring! Not worth it.

That resolve lasted all two seconds before the words came out of his mouth. To his surprise, he didn't get punched for it, nor did John get angry, but quite the opposite. He responded with astonishment and - dare he say - admiration? He seemed truly impressed.

From then on, John sat next to him in Chemistry classes. Sherlock still tried to ignore him, suspecting the polite behaviour to be a ruse to lure him into a trap. But he always managed to say something funny and/or intelligent, which never failed to surprise him. Sometimes, even draw out a chuckle from him - that was something. Who would've guessed there'd be more inside that head than just sports and girls, after all?

And apparently, not just girls.

...

That night, for the first time in his life, he found himself fantasising in bed. He was a bit disgusted with himself afterwards: he was no different from the other teenagers after all. Yet, that did become a constant occurrence from then on.