Author's Note: This is the final chapter! Please enjoy. :) Once again, this was written for queenchaos on tumblr as he prize for winning FuckYeahTeenlock dot tumblr dot com's Punklock contest. Please check out her work!

Oh, also, there be smexin' ahead. You've been warned.

...

xv.

Listen.

Sherlock was avoiding him.

John checked all the usual places—the library, the private practice rooms, the tree under which they ate lunch—but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John was lucky if he caught a glimpse of black curls walking briskly ahead of him in the corridor.

During lecture, Sherlock stared resolutely at the professor, never so much as glancing in John's direction. When they were dismissed, he packed up his violin like it would explode if he took longer than ten seconds and then sped out of the auditorium, leaving confused murmurs in his wake.

After five days of this, John finally had to admit the truth. While the other students packed up for the day, chatting and laughing easily, he sat perfectly still, staring at the door Sherlock had just raced out of like hell hounds were licking at his heels. John flexed his fingers to keep them from trembling. The signs were clear. Sherlock obviously wanted nothing to do with him. John must have been mistaken about him. He'd honestly thought they were friends.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Greg was standing next to him, sympathy obvious on his face.

"I told you," he said, not unkindly. "I told you not to let Sherlock get to you. You're not the first one he's got bored of."

John knew Greg meant well, but the words made his chest burn with an acute mixture of shame and jealousy.

"I'll be fine," was all he said. "I should have known better, after all. Sherlock's a virtuoso, and I'm just a third clarinetist. Why would he ever want to waste his time with me?"

"That's not—" Greg started to say, but then he stopped, an odd look on his face. "You'll work it out eventually. Let me know if you want to sneak a beer from the kitchens sometime."

John nodded, already knowing he would never take Greg up on the offer. Perhaps Sherlock had rubbed off on him in their brief time together, because John could tell just from looking at Greg's face that he knew it, too.

xvi.

Listen.

Sherlock had memorised the letter by the third time he'd read it, yet he couldn't stop staring at it.

It mocked him from where it lay on the bed before him, so innocuous with its unadorned letterhead and plain eggshell colour.

Mummy worries so, Sherlock . . . hope you're remembering to behave yourself and form useful connections . . . expect you to perform at the Duvall christening . . . wouldn't do to have you make a display of yourself in front of . . . Remember the most important rule: caring is not an advantage . . . .

Sherlock's lip curled up in disgust. If only he could delete Mycroft's patronising tone from his memory. As if he needed his bi-monthly letters to remind him what awaited him at home: an endless parade of tedious social gatherings with affluent families and plastic smiles. It would have been easy for Sherlock to acquire a private tutor and hone his skills from home, but he knew with utter certainty that it would have driven him mad to stay in that sterile hospital of a house for a moment longer than he had to.

Sherlock reached forward and crumpled the letter in his fist, squeezing it until his knuckles turned bone white. His mental voice changed from Mycroft to their father, his sharp, booming baritone ringing in his ears as clearly as if the man were in the room with him. Caring is not an advantage. The common masses will drag you into the mud if you let them. We must remain above them, Sherlock, as is our place.

He could imagine the look on his father's face if he knew what Sherlock had done with John: poor, low-class John. Sherlock had never feared his father, but he knew quite well what he was capable of. If he got so much as an inkling that his precious prodigy of a son was mucking about with a boy with no connections, John would be expelled from Sonnet Academy before day's end.

It was stupid. It was medieval. It was ridiculous. And there was nothing Sherlock could do about it.

Never before had Sherlock felt such burning hatred for the people he was forced to call family. Their godforsaken politics had taken away the first shred of happiness he'd felt without having his violin on his shoulder.

Sherlock closed his eyes and fought against his tightening throat. Images of John kept flashing through his head: John smiling warmly at him, John playing his clarinet while water dripped like diamonds from his hair, John fisting a hand in his shirt and kissing him until all the oxygen in the world abandoned him.

Sherlock wouldn't let them get to him.

Sherlock would protect him, even if it broke them both in the process.

xvii.

Listen.

John had never minded the rain. He wouldn't have survived seventeen years in England if he did. He'd always found it strangely soothing: the steady but erratic beat of it against his window, the electric smell of an oncoming storm, the way it seemed to wash everything clean and leave the world looking fresh and new.

The problem wasn't that the days since Sherlock had stopped talking to him were rainy and miserable. It was that they weren't.

The sun had risen every morning in a clear, cloudless sky. The grass seemed bright and luminous beneath it, almost neon green, and everywhere he looked colours were crisp and vivid. Students laughed in the corridors and lounged outside in the gardens, soaking up the precious sun while it lasted. Even the professors seemed more relaxed.

It was beautiful, and John loathed it.

He wanted lightning and floods and howling wind. He wanted the Earth to shudder beneath his feet and crack apart. He wanted a sign, an acknowledgment from the universe that something important had happened.

Instead, all he got was the odd, unsettling feeling that he'd forgotten something. Or that something had forgotten him.

xviii.

Listen.

Sherlock watched him, even though he'd sworn a thousand times that he wouldn't. John was a creature of habit, and it was a simple matter to deduce where he'd be at any given time of day. To anyone else, it would look like John had settled into life at the academy splendidly.

Sherlock knew better, of course.

He saw the way John's left hand occasionally trembled, the way he clenched his fingers to hide it. He saw the baleful looks John cast towards the perfect blue sky outside the library windows and the way he only gave the professors the most cursory of answers in class. During meal times, John sat by himself in the mess hall and left as soon as he was finished, retreating to his room before anyone could invite him to join them. He spent the majority of his time in the private practice rooms with his clarinet, and Sherlock sometimes dared to stand at the door and watch him through the narrow pane of glass. John never so much as glanced up, his eyes riveted on his sheet music as he played for hours. It was those times, when John thought no one was looking, that he allowed his face to fall just slightly.

Sherlock kept hoping John would go to one of their places, the ones Sherlock had shown him and invited him to use, but John never did.

Every day, Sherlock would watch him. He'd see him walk past the observatory on his way to lecture or gaze out towards the water, to the bit of beach that led to their cave. John never made any move towards them, however. It was as if he'd forgotten they existed or at least was making a damn good show of it.

Every day, Sherlock was hit with a fresh wave of disappointment. It was illogical and superfluous, but no matter how hard he tried to stop it, there it was.

He had no right to feel anything at all, Sherlock told himself as he lay in bed at night and tossed restlessly.

This was what he'd wanted, after all. He had no one to blame but himself.

xix.

Listen.

John knew it was stupid, pathetic even—no, beyond pathetic—but he just couldn't stop himself. It was bitterly cold outside but calm in a way it only ever seemed to be in the dead of night. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and shivered, trying not to think about what a bad idea this was. He approached the academy's south dorm, his shoes crunching the grass with each step, and counted windows: two from the bottom and four from the left. Sure enough, the light was on in the one he sought, just as he'd known it would be.

Sherlock always kept late nights.

John bent over and searched the ground for a suitable rock, big enough to make some noise but not to smash the window. He located one and gripped it tightly, studiously ignoring the voices screaming in his head for him to forget this and go to bed.

He'd tried to move on. He'd tried to focus on his clarinet and forget that he'd ever known Sherlock. Really, he had, but he couldn't stop thinking about him, remembering the sound of his voice, picturing his frightened face when he'd apologised in the cave. John would never be able to rest until he knew why Sherlock had ended their friendship, and so here he was, standing outside his dorm like a loon. Sherlock would probably take one look out the window and tell him to piss off. He might not even say anything at all, just shut the light off and pretend John wasn't even there. He might tell the other students that John was obsessed with him, that he'd come crawling to his window at night like a stray dog. John was effectively handing him the means to turn him into a laughing stock.

Still, John had to try.

He reached back, aimed as carefully as he could and threw the rock. It hit Sherlock's window dead-on; John was never so grateful for all his years of rugby. He quickly reached down and scooped up another one, tossing it just like its predecessor. Three times he hit the window, then his next two shots went wide, but still he kept gathering rocks and lobbing them at the glass. He was on his tenth rock, elbow cocked and ready to throw, when he saw a flicker of movement.

John paused, lowering his arm. He thought he might have imagined it, but then he saw an unmistakable crown of dark curls pop into view. Shit. He hadn't considered that Sherlock's window might be too high up for him to look through. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. He was just considering making a dash for it when a slender hand appeared, grabbed some sort of lever and threw the window open. John heard a voice in his head like an echo: I scale that wooden beam down there. Sherlock had a particular talent for climbing seemingly unclimbable surfaces.

A moment later, Sherlock hoisted himself up and poked his head out the window.

"John," he called, "I had a feeling it'd be you."

His face was carefully blank—John could tell even from a distance—without a trace of the panic it had displayed last they spoke. John reined in a stab of pain at Sherlock's nonchalance and then took a few tentative steps forward. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You know damn well there is!"

John couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw Sherlock shift uncomfortably. "I don't know what you want from me. I've made it abundantly clear that I've decided to sever our acquaintance. Please believe me when I say it's for the best."

John's eyes began to burn, but he refused to acknowledge it. "I just want to know why. Why did you act that way in the cave and then completely ignore me? At the very least I deserve an explanation."

John definitely wasn't imagining it now. Sherlock's expression was clearly distressed. He hesitated for only a moment longer before saying, "Use the side door. Knock four times in rhythm so I know it's you. If a teacher catches you, I won't bail you out." His head disappeared a moment later, and the window slammed shut.

John hurried to obey, his heart already pounding in his chest. He managed to get inside and to the southern wing without any trouble, but as he approached the dorms, he had to duck behind a heavy curtain while two stewards—laughing obnoxiously at some joke he couldn't hear—passed by. Once the coast was clear, he made his way to the isolated room he recognised as Sherlock's and raised his hand to knock. He tapped out four steady quarter notes, and the door opened almost immediately.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deceptively soft. He was wearing a plain grey shirt and cotton pyjama bottoms that hung low on his hips. A blue dressing gown was thrown over his shoulders carelessly.

John swallowed and tried not to stare at the strip of creamy stomach that peeked out below his shirt. "May I come in?"

Sherlock nodded and stepped back. John realised belatedly that he'd never been in Sherlock's room before. They'd always gone to his, and it was immediately apparent why. Every surface in the tiny space and most of the floor was completely covered in junk. There were stacks of books, papers, dishes with half-eaten food and some of the infamous mould cultures John had heard so much about.

"Blimey," John said. "If the administrators caught sight of this, they'd throttle you."

"I'm aware," Sherlock replied in a smooth tone. "That's why I make a point of never giving them cause to come here."

"What about the quarterly room inspections?"

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to bribe the stewards."

They fell into awkward silence, both decidedly looking anywhere but at each other. John toyed with several opening lines, but nothing seemed quite right. So, was I just complete rubbish at kissing, or what? Did I play an E flat when it should have been sharp? Was our whole friendship a lie?

Thankfully, Sherlock broke the silence. "Look, John, I know you don't understand, but what I did was for the good of us both. A relationship between you and me would only end in disaster, and it's in your best interest to stay far away from me."

John felt a frisson of anger. "I can decide who I want to be friends with for myself, thanks."

"You don't have all the facts. You simply cannot make an informed opinion on the subject."

"Oh, and you think you're entitled to make one for both of us? Because you're this unparalleled genius who knows everything? Look, if you didn't really want to kiss me, just be a man and say so. I'd rather hear the truth than some bullshit story designed to spare my feelings."

John braced himself. Sherlock wasn't known for mincing words, and John had seen him bring grown men to tears.

Sherlock, however, looked genuinely taken aback. "John, you must know that wasn't it at all."

John hesitated, feeling something akin to hope for the first time in days. "It wasn't?"

Sherlock huffed and ran an agitated hand through his hair. "You're an even bigger idiot than I originally assumed if that's what you thought. I mean, I . . . I so obviously . . . How could I not—" Sherlock cut himself off, his cheeks flaming. "It's not that I don't want you, John. I do. I just can't want you. You don't know what my family is like. They'll hurt you, and—"

John didn't hear another word. He felt a pulse of something deep within him, like a bolt of lightning that fizzled low in his belly. Sherlock wanted him. No matter what he said, there was still a chance.

John took a step forward, and Sherlock's eyes shot immediately to his face, assessing him warily.

"Sherlock," John said calmly, "let me kiss you again." It was a brash move that he honestly expected to backfire, but Sherlock's lips parted as if in invitation. John watched, hypnotised, as a pink tongue slid out and wet them slowly.

Encouraged, he continued, "If you can kiss me and still tell me afterwards that you don't want to be with me, I'll leave you alone. I'll never bother you again. But," he took another step, "I'm betting you can't do that."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deepening to the black-velvet baritone that made John's whole body burn, "we can't. We just can't. Much as I would love to spit in the face of decorum, what I do affects you as well. My family leaves me be so long as I don't decimate their social standing. If my parents knew about you, they—"

"Your 'family' can piss off," John said, still advancing. "They can do anything they want to me, but if they think they can keep me from you, they're barmy. God, Sherlock, please say I can. Please say I can kiss you."

As John moved forward, Sherlock attempted to retreat in the small space. The backs of Sherlock's calves hit his bed, and John closed the last of the distance between them. They were both breathing raggedly, heating the air between them. Sherlock's pupils were so dilated his eyes looked black. John tilted his head up until their lips were a hair's breadth apart. The tension between them was electric, sparking in the mere centimetres that separated their bodies.

"I need an answer," John said quietly. "If you want me, you can have me. Christ, you know I'm already yours, but I need you to say yes. It would kill me if this were one-sided."

John felt like he was seconds away from bursting at the seams. He wanted, needed, so badly, and Sherlock could end his agony with a single word, if he would only—

"John," Sherlock finally whispered, his eyes wide and feral, "yes."

John didn't need to hear it twice.

He crushed their lips together like he needed Sherlock's to breathe. Sherlock made a half-strangled noise before grabbing his shoulders and gripping them hard, as if they were his anchor to reality. It was almost painful, the way his long, slender fingers dug into his flesh, but John was too aroused to care. There was an ache deep within him, sharp and intoxicating, that only Sherlock could satisfy.

John caught Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled until he whimpered, the desperate sound shooting straight between his legs. John hadn't realised how much he'd come to need this, need the feel of a sinewy body against his and a soft, full mouth. He licked Sherlock's bottom lip as if tasting it, earning a quiet groan. Sherlock parted his lips a moment later, and John mimicked the motion, deepening the kiss hungrily.

Sherlock swept his tongue into John's mouth and rolled it in a way that made his knees tremble. God, it was infuriating how much Sherlock turned him on. How had he not realised it sooner? John returned the kiss as well as he could while his brain was rapidly shutting down. He managed to grasp the hem of Sherlock's shirt and tug it up, allowing him to slip his hands under the soft fabric. He raked his fingers along the taut skin of Sherlock's abdomen and tried not to smirk when the other teen made a helpless noise.

John wasn't going to be able to hold out for much longer.

He pulled his lips away from Sherlock's and let them drag along his neck, mouthing over his pulse. The other boy was shivering despite the heat rapidly building between them. Sherlock's hands buried themselves in his hair, and his fingers clenched, as if they were desperate to pull him forward and close an imaginary distance between them.

John swallowed thickly and through the haze of his arousal allowed his fingers to drift down until they settled on the waistband Sherlock's of pyjamas, toying with the elastic. The other boy sucked in a breath as if John had shocked him, and God if that wasn't hot.

"Sherlock, can I . . . ? This is so fast, but I want to—"

Sherlock cut his sentence off by crushing their mouths and hips together simultaneously. John let out a startled moan when his own heavy, swollen prick was nestled into the crease of Sherlock's thigh as if it were designed to fit there. The friction was so good, so hot, but he knew he needed more. John fumbled forward, and Sherlock fell back onto his bed. John crawled over him immediately, lining their hips up just right so delicious friction rocked through them both. He then pushed at Sherlock's dressing gown and shirt, stripping him of both in seconds. Sherlock was ripping at his jeans, trying desperately to get them open. His nimble fingers made short work of the button and zip, and Sherlock snaked a hand down into his pants. John saw stars the moment slender fingers wrapped around him. Sherlock stroked him like he stroked the fingerboard on his violin, and John thought he might die from how good it felt.

Before his brain could process it, he felt cool air and realised Sherlock had managed to work his jumper up to his neck with one hand. John pushed his hand away and yanked it over his head, nearly shivering when Sherlock's intense gaze latched onto his chest. His years of rugby had given him broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, and the look on Sherlock's face was nothing short of ravenous. John had to hold back a full-body shudder as arousal spiked sharply through him.

Sherlock was working at his own pyjama bottoms now, his blue eyes glazed and his full bottom lip caught between his teeth. John took a steadying breath and reached to help him, pulling the soft fabric down and thrusting one hand below the waistband of his pants. Sherlock's prick was velvety hot and fit perfectly in his palm; Sherlock gasped and threw his head back, exposing the length of his milky neck. John couldn't help but lean down and nip at the skin, feeling nearly dizzy with need. Fuck, he needed more.

Sherlock pressed them close again and reached back into John's pants, drawing out the leaking head of his erection. John had to look away, or he thought he might come just from the sight of those pale, slender fingers wrapped around him.

"I've never done this before," Sherlock whispered. His eyes were so intense, they seemed to burn.

"Right, yeah," John sputtered ineloquently. "Me neither, but I think—like this. Do it like this." He clenched Sherlock's hip and pulled him up until their pricks lined up, nudging against each other. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning at that light sensation alone. He took Sherlock's hand and guided it to the base of their pricks. Sherlock caught on a moment later and wrapped his hands around them, sending a shiver down both their spines. John wrapped his own hand around what Sherlock's couldn't reach, interlocking their fingers where he could.

There was an awkward pause as they tried to coordinate their hands, but then they began to slowly stroke together, each choking back moans. The rhythm increased with their laboured breathing and pounding hearts, and Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck. John felt hot, much too hot, and something was building in the pit of his stomach like a crescendo. Sherlock's body was all willowy lines and creamy skin, splayed beneath him like a wanton thing. He could hear his breath hitching as their hands worked faster, wringing aching pleasure out of them both. God, he'd never felt anything this good in his life, not when he touched himself or during any of the few awkward groping sessions he'd been a part of. This was a whole new level of pleasure, and all he wanted was more.

"Sherlock," he stuttered when he felt a tightening in his gut, "Sherlock, stop, I'm going to—"

Sherlock dragged his teeth down John's neck and then bit the junction of his shoulder.

All the air left John's lungs, and he didn't orgasm so much as dissolve into pleasure. He cried out, unable to stop himself, and jerked helplessly as Sherlock pushed his hand away and stroked him through it, his fist moving quickly over the head of his prick.

John's arms nearly gave out, but he managed to hold himself up as Sherlock milked every last drop of pleasure out of him. He sucked in deep breaths, willing his heart to stop racing. Christ, that was the best orgasm of his life. For a moment, John was too sated to do anything but stare at the beautiful teen beneath him. When he came back to himself, he glanced down at Sherlock's prick, red and glistening at the head. He hesitated for only a moment before he slid down and wrapped his lips around it. He suckled at it gently, uncertain of what to do, but it seemed that was enough. Sherlock practically howled the moment his lips touched his prick, his back arching off the bed. A burst of something hot and bitter hit John's tongue, and Sherlock groaned throatily.

John forced himself to swallow the mildly-unpleasant substance on his tongue just as Sherlock went boneless beneath him. They both breathed heavily for a moment, not-quite-comfortable silence stretching between them.

John flopped down onto the small bed next to Sherlock, tired and satiated in a way he'd never been before. He turned his head to look at Sherlock and found the other teen studying him. His eyes were as sharp and unreadable as ever.

"I was right," Sherlock said slowly.

John blinked. "What?"

"A week ago, when you applauded my performance, I thought to myself that you were going to ruin me. I was right."

John's brow furrowed. "Sherlock, I don't understand. Did you not like—?"

"Don't be daft. You felt for yourself that I liked it." John flushed bright red, but Sherlock went on as if he didn't notice. "I've spent the past three years avoiding forming interpersonal relationships at this school so nothing would distract me from my violin—and so my family wouldn't crucify anyone I decided I liked—but then you came along and mucked everything up."

John felt a pang in his chest. "Look, Sherlock, if you regret this or something, we don't have to—"

Sherlock silenced him with a gentle kiss. John couldn't stop the pleased noise he made when Sherlock pulled away. He felt like he could kiss those lips for ages. "Like I said, don't be daft. I don't regret anything." Sherlock hesitated, a familiar uncertainty creeping across his expression. "Do you?"

John toyed with the idea of torturing Sherlock a bit, but the look on his face was too open for him to take advantage. In the end, John merely grinned and said, "I only regret not transferring sooner."

xx.

Listen.

For two blissful weeks, everything was perfect. Sherlock hadn't known it was possible to feel so utterly content.

He had John by his side, with his warm smile and steady gaze, always ready to listen to Sherlock rant about protein complexes or go dashing off into the night. They shared kisses in back corridors and held hands when no one was looking. As the days stretched on and they spent their nights curled up in bed together, sneaking out just before the stewards made their rounds at dawn, it seemed as if nothing could stand in their way.

Until their secret got out, of course.

Sherlock had known from the very beginning that it was a matter of time. As discreet as they were when in public, they could only fool the student body into thinking they were unusually close friends for so long. Whispers began to follow them as they strode down the corridors together, and Sherlock knew word would reach his family within the week.

Two days later he was called into the head administrator's office halfway through morning lecture. He calmly packed up his violin and made his way to the front office, forcing his expression to remain neutral even as his heart pounded in his chest. A secretary directed him towards an imposing mahogany door, and without hesitation, he pushed it open.

To the right, there was a tidy desk placed in front of a set of curtained bay windows, and the far left wall was covered with shelves of books. There were two large wing back chairs in the centre of the room, set before a crackling fireplace. The head administrator was nowhere around, but Sherlock already knew that wasn't who he was really here to see.

Mycroft Holmes was sat in one of the chairs, his legs crossed at the knee and his hands folded over his slightly-protruding belly. He was wearing an expertly-tailored three piece suit in charcoal gray with a blue-gray waistcoat the colour of rainwater. His hair had been neatly parted, the ginger locks combed carefully to the side and back. His watch and shoes were posh but not obviously designer. Every detail of his appearance was intended to make him look both authoritative and nonthreatening, the perfect disguise to allow him to infiltrate the government's top ranks at the tender age of 24 without them even realising it.

The sight of him made Sherlock want to gag.

Mycroft gave him an unctuous smile. "Hello, brother dear. I trust you're in good health." He flicked a hand lazily at the chair across from him in invitation.

Sherlock clenched his jaw but dutifully went to sit down. He pulled his violin case onto his lap and opened it, removing the glossy instrument. He stroked it absently, more for comfort than anything else. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I've heard some disturbing rumours over the past few days," Mycroft continued, his voice measured and careful, as if he were speaking to a child. "It seems you've been oft seen in the company of a young man of little social standing by the name of John Watson. You two have become quite close, have you not?"

"He's my friend," Sherlock said defensively. His fingers drifted from the body of his violin to the E string and plucked it. The sound was clear but slightly flat. He adjusted the fine tuning peg below the bridge until it was correct. Mycroft watched him all the while, and Sherlock struggled not to let his indifferent expression slip for even a moment. If Mycroft had bothered to make the trip all the way here, he likely already knew something was going on, but there was a chance Sherlock could hide the extent of his relationship with John.

"Mummy and Father are worried about you," Mycroft continued in the same bland tone. "As am I. You've clearly fallen in with the wrong sort and forgot your purpose here. You are not attending this academy so you may consort with the lower orders. If you're going to have 'friends'," he said the word as if it were some distasteful slur, "they should be ones who can provide you with useful connections."

"I'll be friends with whoever I want, Mycroft," Sherlock bit back acidly. "I'm nearly eighteen. You can't stop me from - "

"'Nearly' is indeed the operative word," Mycroft interrupted. "You are not, as of this date, a legal adult, and it is only through the generosity of our parents that you're permitted to attend this academy. They may cease tuition payments at any time, and then you will be in quite the difficult situation indeed."

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes from widening slightly. He'd known it was likely they would try to expel John, but he'd never considered they might remove him from the school. "They wouldn't. Mummy and Father would never do that. They're too proud of my playing."

Mycroft studied him for a long moment before he answered. "I'm quite certain there is little they wouldn't do to prevent you from falling into what they believe to be disreputable company. Bear in mind, your ability to play is not contingent upon your attending this school. They may decide your education would be best continued elsewhere, away from . . . distractions."

His tone made Sherlock pause. Mycroft almost sounded like he was trying to warn him. His gaze flickered over his older brother's face. He'd always thought of Mycroft as nothing more than the prize show dog their parents had groomed him to be, eager to take his place at their vapid dinner parties and discuss politics over brandy and cigars. Loathe as he was to admit it, there was a chance he'd not been entirely correct.

"John is not disreputable company," Sherlock responded, forcing his voice to remain calm. "He may not be from a wealthy or connected family, but he's not a vagrant. Their views on class are antiquated and needed to be abandoned in the last century. I will not allow our parents to separate me from the one good thing I've found at this school."

Mycroft suddenly leant back in his chair. "You love him."

Sherlock started. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I don't. He's just slightly more interesting than the rest of the vacuous student body."

"There's no need to pretend for me, Sherlock. I already know it to be true." Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You know I make periodic donations to the school to ensure you're staying out of trouble."

"You mean you pay the staff to spy on me."

Mycroft held up a hand. "Call it what you will. The point remains, I know quite well that you and your rather attractive young friend have been nigh on inseparable these past weeks, and more than one individual has seen you sneaking from each other's rooms at night. If you're trying to claim your relationship is platonic, I would bid you to at least put some effort into your lies. You're boring me."

Sherlock's mouth clicked shut, and he felt heat bloom in his cheeks. Bollocks. He'd thought they'd been more careful than that. "That doesn't mean I love him. I'm at an age in which my transport has certain urges." He flinched. God, he was really discussing this with Mycroft. "I see no harm in indulging in an adolescent dalliance whilst I finish my schooling." He felt a pang in his chest and quickly shoved the feeling away. He would apologise to John later, though the boy would never know what he'd been forced to say.

Mycroft's facial expression shifted slightly, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he looked sad. Then he climbed smoothly to his feet and brushed imaginary lint from his beautiful suit.

"I'm afraid our parents do not view your relationship with John in such a harmless light. They sent me here with an instruction. You are to cease your association with him immediately, or you will be removed from the academy and sent home to work with private tutors."

Sherlock shot up, his case falling to the floor with a clatter. He held his violin to his chest like a mother holding an infant. "They wouldn't do that! They know I hate it there."

"Yes, they would," Mycroft said carefully. "That is how determined they are to sever your ties with John Watson. They refuse to watch their youngest son sully the family name. You must now choose, Sherlock. You can end your relationship with John and continue at this academy until you graduate - at which point you will be an adult and free to do as you choose - or you can cling stubbornly to this rebellious streak of yours and be sent home."

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. He could tell from the sharp look in Mycroft's eyes that he was perfectly serious. His parents were prepared to withdraw him from the academy in order to keep him from John.

Sherlock felt as though time had slowed, though he knew it was impossible. The smart thing to do would be to lie. Tell Mycroft what he wanted to hear. It would buy them a few weeks if they were careful, if they hid their relationship more diligently. But then what? Mycroft had eyes all over the Academy. He would find out eventually that Sherlock and John were still seeing each other, and then Sherlock would have to go back to the cold, lifeless museum he'd been forced to call a home all his life.

Perhaps he should just break up with John. It would only be for a few months, until they turned 18 and could take control of their lives. He would have to make the break up convincing, would have to make even John believe it, or Mycroft would see right through them. John would be furious with him at first, but even if it took him years, Sherlock would make him understand.

It was for their own good.

Sherlock gazed down at the violin in his hands, its cherry wood gleaming from a fresh polish. The scroll curled elegantly into the fingerboard, and taut strings gleamed gold in the firelight. This violin was his most prized possession. It had been his only friend for more years than he could count, and when he played, the world grew quiet, still, and all the noise in his racing mind yielded to the melody. His parents had never had to pressure him to become a violinist. The moment he'd taken the instrument in hand, when he was too young to even properly pronounce its name, he'd known he'd found a lifelong love. And now it was keeping him from the only person he might ever love more than it.

Sherlock traced one finger tenderly down the planes of wood, toying with the F holes. He brought the scroll carefully to his lips, kissed it reverently, and then with an almost lethargic flick of his wrist, he tossed his violin directly into the fire.

Wood hit wood in a cloud of sparks and smoke. The fire roared cheerfully like a beast that had just been tossed a delectable treat.

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he saw his brother's composed face morph into a look of complete shock. Sherlock burst out laughing. He'd never seen a man look so ridiculous in his life. Mycroft scrambled to the fireplace and attempted to drag the instrument out of the flames. He cursed as the fire burned him and covered his perfect suit in soot.

Sherlock just stood there and laughed - harder than he ever had before in his life - as waves of confused emotion flooded into him. He felt light and panicked and appalled and liberated. He collapsed back into his chair and shook it with the force of his laughter.

Mycroft eventually succeeded in rescuing his violin, but not before it had garnered some impressive scorch marks and two of the strings had snapped.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Mycroft bellowed, red faced and clutching the burnt violin away from Sherlock as if he were afraid he'd try to throw it back into the flames. His hands were black, and inexplicably one lock of his hair was sticking up. It nearly sent Sherlock into another fit of laughter.

"It's really quite simple, Myc," Sherlock said when he finally managed to catch his breath. "If our parents try to separate me from John, I will never touch a violin again. They may be able to remove me from the school, but they can't force a bow into my hands. I shall forsake all instruments for so long as I live unless you all get your exceptionally large noses out of my life."

"Liar," Mycroft hissed. "You love the violin more than anything and anyone in the world. You wouldn't throw it away over some ordinary boy."

"I believe, brother dear," Sherlock drawled lazily, "I just did. Tell our parents precisely this: if they want to hold onto their precious virtuoso, they're going to have to let me live my life as I see fit. I'll come home for holidays, I'll play for their insipid friends, I'll even smile, but I will do it on my terms."

Mycroft breathed heavily for a moment, staring at him as if he'd never seen him before in his life. Gradually, the deadly serious look in Sherlock's eyes must have sunk in. Mycroft slowly straightened up and handed Sherlock his much-abused violin. He took it and stroked its back as if he could soothe it, feeling a frisson of guilt.

To the teen's absolute surprise, Mycroft smiled. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. I had hoped one day you would find someone worth standing up to them for. I've not yet been so lucky myself. I shall tell them what you said, more or less, and I suspect you will not be hearing from them again for quite some time."

"Excellent." Sherlock returned the smile, and without another word, Mycroft exited the room.

Sherlock sat in his chair for a long moment afterwards, contemplating his actions. He hadn't fully understood what he intended to do until he was already doing it. He'd never suspected he would one day willingly sacrifice all his years of hard work for the normal, slightly bumbling blond teen who'd stumbled into his music class one day. It was impossible to say what precisely had changed within him, but Sherlock could feel it every time he looked at John's face. There was something light and bubbly within him now where once there had been only bitterness. He supposed Mycroft was right about one thing. Perhaps this was love.

He traced the pattern of smoke and scorch marks on the back of his violin.

Now he had physical evidence. Sherlock Holmes had a heart after all.

xxi.

In the end, Sherlock got his wish. He graduated from the Sonitum et Furore Academy of Music and moved into a flat in London where he could play his violin every day, even if it was only on street corners. More importantly, he brought a dashing, blond clarinetist with him, and they both managed to earn a place in a small but up-and-coming youth orchestra. It was there that they began composing their first joint piece: a duet for violin and clarinet, inspired by the clash of storm and sea.

But that, of course, was only the first movement.

Finale.

The Cadence of Your Heart with Mine in D Major.

John glanced at himself in the mirror for what had to be the hundredth time and adjusted his red bow tie nervously.

"Really, John, you look fine," called a deep voice from the other room.

John frowned at his reflection. There was no way Sherlock could see him. "How do you do that?"

"Believe me, it's a trifle." Sherlock strode into the room, looking elegant and even taller than usual in a deep blue tuxedo and white satin tie. John had had to force the tie around his neck, but once Sherlock put it on, he'd admitted how well it complimented his eyes and skin tone. "You've been fidgeting with yourself for the past twenty minutes."

"I don't know how you can be so calm," John grumbled. "Actually, yes, I do. You've done this loads of times, Mr Prima Ballerina."

"While I must admit I do have a certain level of experience when it comes to live performances, I cannot claim to know a pirouette from a promenade."

Sherlock strode up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, grinning at him in the mirror. "You'll be brilliant, John. I know you will. And you'll have me to back you up."

"But it's the Sydney Opera House! It's one of the most famous venues in the world! What if I get one step on stage and freeze?"

"Simple. I'll fake a seizure, and we'll try again at a later date."

John burst into only-slightly hysterical laughter. He tugged once more at his bow tie before turning about in his boyfriend's arms. "You're right. I'm acting like a kid at their first recital. With you leading the way, I don't see how I could possibly make a mistake."

Sherlock leant down and kissed him gently. "You underestimate your talent. It takes both of us to make this duet beautiful."

John didn't bother arguing with him. They'd had that conversation more times than he could count. Instead, he looked around at the other people getting ready—leaning to peer into mirrors, adjusting costumes, arranging props—and he wondered for the umpteenth time how he'd ever got lucky enough to be here.

"It wasn't luck," Sherlock murmured, pressing his lips to John's ear. "We've worked so hard these past years, and you especially have made incredible leaps as a musician. I can't believe I once thought you were merely above average."

"Stop reading my mind," John protested, but he shivered at the feel of soft lips against his skin.

"Never." Sherlock nipped his earlobe and took a step back, reaching for his hand. "Shall we?"

John took it firmly and turned towards the large metal doors that would lead them to the stage where, for the first time ever, they would perform their duet - the one they'd concocted all those years ago in a cave during a thunderstorm - before an audience of thousands of people.

John took a deep breath and squeezed his lover's hand. "I'm ready."

Sherlock weaved through the crowd with John in tow, dodging men with headsets and women shooing performers into the proper queue. A harried-looking man—the stage coordinator—was waiting for them by a heavy curtain that blocked them from the audience's view. Once they stepped beyond it, all their hard work would come to fruition

"You're late," the coordinator hissed, gesturing at a table beside him. John's clarinet lay next to Sherlock's (still scorched) violin and bow, and they quickly scooped them up. The man paused to say something into the small microphone at his mouth and then made a dismissive motion. "The rest of the orchestra is already on stage. Take your positions at the front, and then when the duet is over, go to your seats, just like in rehearsal." His tone was harsh, but even he was obviously giddy with excitement. The thrill of performance resonated in the air, contagious to all who encountered it.

Sherlock flashed John a conspiratorial grin, and then they were off, past the curtain and onto the stage, the heels of their shoes clacking against the polished wood. The bright yellow glow of the stage lights obscured everything but the orchestra, seated in a neat semi-circle, and the gleaming metal stands waiting for them. The audience was a black pit before them, nothing but whispers and rustling clothing.

John felt his stomach drop, his heart flutter in his chest, but all he could see was Sherlock in front of him, his face bathed in golden light as he glanced back at John and smiled. His eyes were filled with so many emotions: exhilaration, glee, anticipation and above all else, love. Love for the art he'd devoted his life to and love for John.

They took their places side by side, and the audience fell so silent it was deafening.

John brought his clarinet to his lips just as Sherlock placed his violin beneath his chin, and for a moment that stretched into an age, they were the only two people in the world.

John knew in that moment that he would follow this man anywhere, onto any stage in the world. No matter how small or insignificant the performance, he would trail him like the tail of a comet, forever chasing the brilliance of a bright, bright light.

And he would always, always, burn as brightly as he could.

For both of them.

The end.