Four Thursdays John Would Never Forget

Chp 1

Hope you guys like this, it's the beginning of part two of my three installments. If you haven't read the first one I suggest you do or this will be confusing. If you're are joining me from the other one then I welcome you and thank you for deciding to continue reading this story! (sorry it took longer to get this up than I thought!)

It is important to note that by John's nineteenth year on this planet, first year in university, and third year living with Sherlock he had already seen nine hundred and eighty eight Thursdays come and go. It is also important to state that most of these Thursdays were less than important, just another day on the calendar. However a few of them held great importance. For example, one Thursday in primary school he'd shared his first kiss with Sarah Sawyer. Then of course there was the Thursday of his eleventh birthday when he'd found the stack of James Bond novels at the school library, those had been life changing. One Thursday his father broke one of his bones for the first time.

All of those Thursdays were important in some way, and John could recall each one. If you asked him about them being on Thursdays though, he would be sure to give you an odd look, because he really wouldn't know. He couldn't tell you what the weather was like on those days, or what he'd had for breakfast, or what he was wearing and he certainly didn't know what day of the week it was. No, these Thursdays held much importance to the young man, but they were events that had blurred with time so the details had faded. Which was common, not everyone had a mind palace after all, to which they could store such information away if needed.

For that reason, if someone were to ask John about one Thursday in particular that was important to him; he wouldn't know what to tell them. Because what John didn't know is that he had approximately three thousand, four hundred, and eighty four Thursdays left. Meaning there would be roughly four thousand, five hundred, and twenty four Thursdays in the entirety of his existence. He also didn't know that of all these Thursdays there would only be four that if you asked him he could tell you exactly what he ate for breakfast that morning, he could tell you the exact temperature along with whether the weather had varied even a minuscule amount throughout the day, he'd be able to tell you everything he'd worn right down to his boxers.

He didn't know of course because he hadn't lived through these four monumental days yet. Not yet, but soon. Too soon in fact, but then, things like this always come too soon. Even if he'd been warned there would have been no way to prepare himself, there could have been no way he wouldn't have remembered them for the rest of his life. For what it was worth, he wouldn't want to forget all of the Thursdays. No, not all of them...that wasn't the point though, the point wasn't how John felt about these Thursdays. In fact his feelings towards these days were the least important thing of all. What was important was why they happened and what happened because of them.

Which is why this story doesn't start with one of these Thursdays, or even anywhere close to any of these Thursdays, it starts with John getting ready for another day at 221b. Just another ordinary day that would for the most part fade with time and become just a string of events rather than vivid details. The particular events of this day were important though, despite John's future inaccuracies. Today was the day that he would announce to all that cared to know that he and Sherlock Holmes were in fact in a relationship, and had been for a little over a month now.

As he looked into the mirror he straightened out his relatively new cardigan over his pin stripped button up. Normally he could be found in a pair of jeans and a ratty old jumper or a tee shirt, but today it seemed important to look…professional. The detective didn't seem to notice (or he just didn't care) that John was more than a little uneasy about their public proclamation. He hadn't wanted to explain it really; there was something about saying it out loud that terrified him. It was illogical but he was afraid that if he told Sherlock then he, along with everyone else, would believe it. The 'it' being that their age difference making things…not so good.

He was nineteen now, and had been a consenting adult in the eyes of the law for some time, but that didn't really matter. In every day life people didn't think in terms of what was legal or not, they thought on the basis of their own opinions. Which was what unsettled him, there weren't a lot of people that found such an age difference inappropriate. Especially given their circumstances, Sherlock had been living with him since he was sixteen. Back when he'd first moved in they'd all accused the detective of using John sexually, now what would they think? What would they say about his boyfriend? Would they call him a pervert? Would they be disgusted? Worse, would they make Sherlock feel disgusted?

He tried not to think about it. Sherlock had been most adamant about their declaration and had provided John with numerous reasons to feel so. The detective reasoned that their friends would want to know and that it was aggravating to pretend they weren't together in front of them. In his heart John knew that it was wrong, that secret relationships were doomed to failure, so of course he'd known that his attempts to prolong the announcement were pointless. It didn't matter how long they waited, people were going to say what they were going to say.

Besides, more important than being honest with his friends was making Sherlock feel safe. It might have sounded blarmy, claiming the world's greatest detective needed his boyfriend to make him feel safe, but it was true. Sherlock would probably never admit it but he was nervous. John had once been very keen to seek out any female attention, and as irrational as it was for the man to think the blonde would even consider leaving him for a woman, he could tell the detective feared it. That had been made more than clear last week when the blonde haired blue eyed embodiment of every heterosexual boy's fantasies had hit on him during a case. Sherlock, he recalled, had been less than pleased…

Blonde hair, blue eyes, lush lips, and one spectacular arse. This girl was everything John had wanted about a year ago, right now however she was just being annoying. Her hand had shot to his thigh seconds after he'd seated himself next to her on the park bench and she seemed to have no intentions on moving it. John needed to be polite; he needed to know if she had in fact been at the football mach last week. Sherlock had noted that John was far friendlier and far more used to getting what he wanted from pretty girls (not that he sounded too pleased about that), which was why John was the one asking her about her where-abouts that day while the detective observed from the bench just a few yards away.

The girl seemed nice enough, she was certainly friendly enough, and John couldn't really see her as the one who'd lopped that professor's head off if that's what the detective was thinking. However if it was really necessary for the case to find out if this girl had attended some football match, then he supposed he could put up with a bit of harmless flirting. He'd seen Sherlock do it plenty of times in the past, mostly to Molly the poor girl. So he mindlessly flirted just as he'd used to back in college, secretly leading the conversation back towards the football match, to the night the professor was murdered.

"You go to Middlesex University yeah?"

John asked casually as he moved away from the girl's chatter about some band or another.

"Yes, guess my brother mentioned that too, yeah I am. Why?"

She asked bright eyed and scooted just a bit closer to him. Yes, John felt a twinge of guilt, he was pretending to be a friend of the girl's brother, but it was for the good of the case Sherlock had said.

"Well I heard that professor had been murdered a little while back, near one of the girl's dormitories even; guess I'm just a bit curious if you saw anything. I don't mean to upset you, the case just seems to strange is all."

John explained as innocently as he could manage. This whole lying business had never been his thing, but he was starting to get the hang of it.

"Don't worry love no offense taken, I understand perfectly. It's a bloody mystery is what it is. My friend Donnie had a game that night so I was no where near the place (thank god), but they closed the whole building off for the investigation so now we're all sleeping at this shitty hotel. So, in short, no I didn't see a damn thing. However to put it in longer terms, that geek loosing his head means I'm desperate for a decent bed with something other than bugs trying to crawl in with me."

She finished with lowered eye lids and a very purposeful rimming of her lips with her tongue. John must have looked too closely at that pink muscle because it wasn't moments later that she'd taken it as a cue to swing one leg over his own and bring her knee in direct contact with John's very unassuming crotch. Her hands were on John's shoulders and her face was far too close to his own than he'd liked. Her breath smelled of coffee and cherry lip balm as it drifted across his face.

"You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions would you?"

She asked seductively and pressed her body closer to his so that her breasts came to right bellow his neck. John fought the urge to gulp but instead feebly attempted to gently remove the girl.

"That's a very nice offer, but unfortunately-"

"He's taken."

Sherlock's baritone growled out so harshly that both the girl and John were a bit frightened. She moved so that she could see the detective but remained on top of John and observed him curiously.

"Who are-"

"His boyfriend, obviously."

Sherlock hissed and lurched forward towards the two. She let out a yelp when the man yanked her off of John and tossed her to the side as though her very skin were poisonous. She glared at him but the detective didn't seem to mind, he only had eyes for the boy.

"John, let's go."

Sherlock demanded tight lipped. Normally John would refuse to be ordered around in such a fashion, but given that the detective seemed so upset he figured it was an argument for another time. He stood and offered an apologetic look to the girl that he thought for a moment Sherlock would strangle him for before the man grabbed him by the sleeve. He led the two of them through the park at a fast pace and without saying a word. To say John was worried was a bit of an understatement.

"She touched you!"

Sherlock had snarled once they'd returned back to the flat.

"Yes, but like you said it was for the case. Besides I got-"

"Sod the case! I don't want to see another girl touch you for any reason! You are mine John Watson, and mine alone; there should be no doubt in anyone's mind about that!"

Sherlock had barked out as he cornered John in the living room. The back of the boy's knees were pressing against the arm chair as the detective loomed over him menacingly. He was just about to suggest a relaxing cup of tea when his lips were assaulted by the man's in a most demanding manner. He fought to stay standing for a while but Sherlock was insistent and soon he was sitting in the arm char with a lap full of detective. Sherlock's tongue was fast and claimed every last millimeter of John's mouth before pulling out completely.

"I don't like to share John."

He'd said darkly before descending upon the boy's bare neck.

Yes, John was fairly certain that Sherlock was uncomfortable with people not knowing their status. The hickeys he'd received that day were proof enough for John. Sherlock didn't like the idea of anyone else with John, the boy assumed it stemmed from the fact that there was more evidence that John mightenjoybeing with someone else. There was no need for the detective to worry, but saying that wouldn't do much good (besides he'd tried that already). Sherlock needed proof and that's why despite his own hesitance John was going to go through their list of people who "needed" to know. With that in mind he took one last glance at himself in the mirror and let out an anxious sigh. It's going to be a bad week.