"Sherlock, I know this is kind of late, but I did want to apologize for hitting you so hard with that pointer stick." John muttered at last, the words sounding so forced that he could hardly part his lips to utter them. Sherlock frowned, finding such an apology not only to be out of character, but also wildly overdue. Should he not have apologized just as soon as he knocked the poor boy to the floor?
"I can feel it healing already." Sherlock muttered, patting his cheek and pretending to look surprised that it still hurt. "Oh...well maybe not. Words are just that."
"I didn't mean to hit that hard, momentum got the better of me. I feel bad, actually." John muttered, his voice now rising to be a bit more confrontational. It was as if he was prepared to argue about his apology, trying to ensure that Sherlock understood his shame. Perhaps hitting him on the other side of the face would make things right again, or at least even them out.
"You feel bad?" Sherlock clarified at last, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Surely this had to be some sort of trick; John Watson wouldn't just go out of his way to be a human. This had to be a setup, an invitation to another round of mockery. Sherlock studied him, noticing now the sunken eyebrows, the sagging mouth as if down turning into a frown, the way his back was bent in an almost submissive way. Was this really happening, a true apology?
"I do." John agreed at last, in a small voice that only further emphasized his shame. Perhaps it was difficult for him to formulate so many intelligent words at a time, without a curse or a sex joke. He here was, talking about feelings in an adult like manner...what had happened to John Watson? Sherlock hesitated, but nodded his head at last.
"Well then...apology accepted." Sherlock muttered at last. His voice trailed off, and finally the typing from the back corner ceased. Sherlock had almost taken the background noise for granted, never once taking into account the fact that their conversation was very likely overheard. The reappearance of Molly Hooper brought them back to their senses, with Sherlock standing up a bit straighter and John getting to his feet once more.
"Boys, I'm so sorry for the mix up here. I thought that I had asked John to come in after school, it just slipped my mind." She admitted with a little smile. She looked apologetic, though Sherlock could never take her as seriously as he ought to. Especially not when her hair was tied up in two lopsided ponytails, looking more like a cartoon character than any self-respecting adult.
"It's fine." Sherlock offered quickly, noticing that her eyes continued to wander from him and back to John, a bit more rapidly than one would if they were attempting to hold the attention of the room. It seemed as if she was inspecting them, looking them over as if for similarities and differences.
"What were you typing just now?" John wondered at last, stepping forward a bit threateningly while Molly hesitated. Her smile wavered, as if that was too personal a question to be answered honestly.
"Oh, just a little project I'm working on. Say, how about Sherlock stays here and gives his interview, and John I'll have you in tomorrow?" Molly suggested.
"That's fine." John agreed with a little shrug, as he undoubtedly had nothing better to do tomorrow than talk about himself.
"Splendid! Sorry again." Molly muttered, giving him a little frown as if to demonstrate her regret of the mix up. Seemed to be a lot of apologies going around, too much for this tiny little closet to handle. John nodded, seeing now that his time had expired.
"Alright then, see you guys around." He agreed at last, giving Molly a little smile and Sherlock a mere passing glance. With that he slid back out into the hallway, without a farewell from either of the room's occupants.
"Lovely, isn't he?" Molly wondered when the door was shut, looking up towards Sherlock expectantly.
"That's not a word I would use, no." Sherlock debated. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" 

Saturday's theater class proved to be more of a hassle than it was worth, for Mycroft was in a business meeting all day and was unable to drive either of his usual burdens. Therefore the two were forced to walk, scraping their feet along the sidewalk all the way to the auditorium. Once there, the practice was highlighting some of the more minor characters, perfecting their acts and making sure the extras knew exactly how to walk across the stage and interact with the props. The set designers were in, constructing large constructions of wooden backdrops, fake market stands, and the balcony for the most notable scene in the whole production. Sherlock and the rest of the main cast mostly did the directing, instructing others what to do and critiquing them on just how normal they looked when interacting with one of the fake brooms or the bags of apples. Sherlock worked the whole practice, often while Victor and Jeanette would mess around with other props or watch YouTube videos in the back corner. They were never one for bossing people around, despite their egotistical nature. Well, at long last Sherlock decided to send everyone home who wasn't an extra. Victor obviously was more trouble than he was worth, for his outbreaks of laughter would interrupt the lines of Friar Laurence, and Jeanette had taken simply to brushing her hair in the back most rows of the auditorium. The rest of the production continued on without much interruption (except of course Victor's tiresome farewells, making sure that Sherlock would be able to walk back home safely by himself), and when at last it was time to clear the stage and head home it was nearly five o'clock. Sherlock took some extra pains to make sure the sets were going along nicely, staying behind to examine the handiwork of their volunteers. Finally, after taking advantage of the empty theater to practice some of his soliloquies, he decided that he had better head home before dinner was ready. Besides, his parents would start to worry if he wasn't home before six. Loading his backpack with the extra scripts, Sherlock stepped outside to find that the weather had clouded up tremendously, and what had last been a sunny day had turned into a very ominous looking sky, threatening imminent thunderstorms. The last time he had been outside had been when he arrived at the school, somewhere around nine o'clock this morning. How the time had passed, with the world changing just as rapidly outside as in! Sherlock decided to walk quickly, for he could already hear the warning rumbles of thunder overhead. His phone was in his pocket, though he figured Mycroft wouldn't be out of his meetings just yet. There would be no one to pick him up even if he did call for help, which right now didn't seem so necessary. Certainly he could make it home before the storm hit; he just had to muster up all of the endurance he had. As Sherlock made his way down the street the lights began to turn on, each one sensitive to both time and light exposure. As the clouds began to grow denser and darker they flickered to life, illuminating the shadowy path that Sherlock was now walking agressivley down. He only had a couple more blocks to home, though already he could feel rain drops beginning to drop from the sky, splattering upon his jacket and wetting his hair. Sherlock grumbled, his ears perking as the rain became heavier and more frequent, the drops widening and the sidewalk steadily beginning to turn dark. Sherlock craned his neck up to the sky, hearing a deep rumble of thunder in response, and he shivered against the cold rain. His backpack was full of paper; certainly he couldn't risk getting the scripts soiled if the rain continued to grow stronger. Sherlock had broken out into almost a run by the time the sky began to dump its rain, turning from a light drizzle to a downpour in the matter of a couple of seconds. All of the sudden Sherlock found himself running for the shelter of a plastic bus stop, figuring that the awning would provide enough protection for him to wait out the storm. Now almost sprinting through the rain, Sherlock skidded into the bus stop and fell onto one of the benches, breathing heavily now as he ripped his backpack off to check that the scripts were not yet ruined. Thankfully there was but a little dribble of water running down the topmost copies, though the rest seemed relatively untouched. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, setting his backpack aside and shaking the water droplets from his hair. What wouldn't shake away began to drip down the back of his neck, sliding down his back and freezing him to the bone with the cold fall rain. Well, it wasn't too bad a state to be in. Sherlock texted his parents to explain the situation, just to make sure they wouldn't worry, and then proceeded to draw his knees up to his chest, curling into a little ball in an attempt to fight off the few raindrops that were able to make their way under the short little ceiling the bus stop provided him with. He told himself it really could be worse, over and over again until he must have jinxed it. It could be worse, yes, and it would seem as though the world intended it to be. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one with the genius idea of hiding under this little roof, and his solitude was finally ruined by a short figure running wildly across the road, indistinguishable through the heavy rain. Sherlock sighed heavily, pulling his backpack up against his side as the stranger ducked his way under the cover of the bus stop, shaking out some fast food bags as if to make sure his dinner wasn't entirely ruined. Sherlock tried to mind his own business, that was until the blue hood of the stranger was peeled away, revealing an ever familiar blonde head.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Sherlock groaned, his voice forcing John Watson to turn around in an almost astounded reaction. His face broke out into a smile, though Sherlock instinctively huddled farther down into his knees, hiding his face as best he could. Perhaps if he hid a little better John might mistake him for any other passerby.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, his voice rising a bit nervously as he set down his bags of food, running his hand through his bangs and forcing the water droplets to fall in little showers down to the wet concrete below.
"John." Sherlock breathed in agreement, rolling his eyes and trying to further ignore the boy as best he could. That rain just had to continue, didn't it? Now would be the perfect time for a short hiatus, long enough for Sherlock to dash into a doorway or a storefront! But of course it wouldn't halt, not now that Mother Nature had trapped both predator and prey inside of a tiny little bus stop.
"What are the odds that we would end up in the same bus stop, in the same storm, at exactly the same time?" John chuckled, sinking down onto one of the benches and arranging his food onto his lap.
"I'd say at least one percent." Sherlock grumbled.
"Maybe a little higher." John guessed, to which Sherlock gave a short, sarcastic smile before falling into his usual moping ways.
"I like the rain; it's a good backdrop to deep thoughts." Sherlock muttered, his eyebrow creasing at such a strange sentence. That wasn't something he would be ever ready to admit to John, though now that the words were out he could hardly take them back.
"I'm sure you have plenty of those." John said in a bit of an awkward response. Sherlock forced himself to smile, though by now his eyes were watching John a bit more intensely than he would have preferred. He found himself noticing the little things, like the orange watchband around his wrist, the indent of a football helmet lining his brow, the rub of receipt ink on his forefingers. Sherlock wanted so desperately to look away, though it was as if his eyes had their own agenda. Even his head wouldn't move, presumably not even if he forced it manually.
"That's your dinner then?" Sherlock asked, biting down hard on his lip just as soon as the words had left his mouth. He didn't want to make conversation, though it would seem as if this awkward silence was too much for his subconscious mind. Evidently some part of him wanted to use the sound of heavy rain as a backdrop to a more lively conversation, though why he would want to entertain John Watson was far beyond him. Having been so determined to run off into the storm a moment ago, it was as if a switch had flipped within his brain, rewriting his priorities to fit a third party's agenda.
"Yes well, I'm usually on my own for meals." John agreed. "This one's for me, this is for my sister." He held up two bags, weighing them out with that goofy smile he always wore.
"Doesn't your mother cook?" Sherlock wondered.
"Well, she does sometimes." John muttered, his voice fading away as if there was much more to that story than he would readily admit. Sherlock decided not to pry; or rather he thought he decided that. But there his lips were again, disobeying him!
"I didn't know you had a sister." He said quickly, much to the despair of his poor little heart. It was quivering in anxiety, wishing that this strange social autopilot would just turn off and allow him to run. Surely he didn't want to be rude, but being rude was much more preferable than entertaining John Watson in a bout of strangely personal small talk!
"Ya, Harriet. She's in seventh grade now." John agreed.
"I never knew." Sherlock admitted. "Is she anything like you?"
"Certainly you're asking if she's a jerk?" John presumed. Sherlock hesitated, his eyes flashing with some offense and huddling up a little bit more. Oh just stop talking!
"No. Athletic, I meant." He muttered. John nodded, muttering a little "Oh" before thinking about his answer for a moment.
"She's not really, no. She likes music, and art." He admitted. "A bit more like you, really."
"Good to hear there's at least one redeemable Watson out there." Sherlock chuckled, thankfully recognizing his own voice and his own intent. Perhaps he still had some control over his mind after all.
"What are you doing out and about, caught in the rain?" John asked when the silence began to dwindle; looking over towards Sherlock with that doe eyed expression he used to look as innocent as possible. Well, like it or not, it was quite effective. Even with many years of history, Sherlock still took that face to be a hint of some humanity within the body of John Watson.
"Coming back from theater." He admitted. "We've got Saturday practices too."
"I'd say you thespians work just about as hard as we do" John commented in some surprise.
"I'd say we work harder." Sherlock corrected, to which John grunted doubtfully.
"Maybe not physically harder." He suggested. "But time wise, perhaps you've got us beat."
"I don't see any of the benefits of dedicating yourself to sports. You get all...muscly." Sherlock shivered, sneering at his own statements. Even John found that to be a bit out of character, though before he could process there was already a return statement issuing from his mouth.
"You don't like muscles?" he clarified. Sherlock blinked heavily, his stomach beginning to turn as this conversation downturned for the worst.
"Well, no, I think they're fine on...on other people. Though I would never ruin my own physique. The idea of not fitting into my shirts is just, well it's unfathomable." Sherlock shuttered. John nodded for a moment, his eyes darting this way and that so as to observe Sherlock's body as indiscreetly as he could manage.
"I fit into my shirts alright." John pointed out, his words followed immediately by his hand clenching into a rather tight fist. He seemed to hate his words as well, as if both sides of this conversation were unwanted and unscripted.
"Perhaps you have to lift more, then." Sherlock suggested, at last finding the strength to turn his head away and stare down at the pavement. He was feeling quite strange, the first true image popping into his head was one of his brain all tied up in puppet strings. It was as if someone was controlling his lips, though that was too fanciful to even contemplate. Certainly he was in control of his mind and body, but why on earth was he spewing such nonsense? He didn't care about John's workout routine, he didn't care about John's family life! If he was in control he wouldn't even be sitting here, much less conversing!
"Do you hate me, Sherlock?" John asked, still out of sight as Sherlock's focus settled more definitively on the cracks in the concrete below, those which were turning into tiny moats with the collecting rainwater.
"Maybe just a little bit." Sherlock muttered, happy to hear a relatively believable answer leave his mouth. John hummed, though waited for a moment to respond. Perhaps he didn't like to hear that answer, and was thinking about ways to remedy Sherlock's overall opinion. Lightning flashed overhead, a great forked illumination which was followed quickly by an aggressive rumble of thunder. Sherlock was thankful for that interruption, though evidently it wasn't enough to stop their conversation just yet.
"Why?" John asked at last.
"Why?" Sherlock clarified, chuckling his surprise. "I would have thought..." whatever he was going to say was lost to a strange sort of hesitation, as if his vocal chords were resetting themselves and continuing on their own, independent path. "Because part of me knows that I have to." Was his final response, to which he sneered and continued to stare at the ground. Hopefully John realized just how uncharacteristic Sherlock's responses were; hopefully he realized that there was a strange mood in the air, one which seemed to be fostering communication instead of the normal silence and snarky answers that Sherlock would usually produce.
"Come here, Sherlock. Let me see your hand." John offered, reaching into his pocket and producing a ballpoint pen. Sherlock's first and eventually defeated instinct was to pull away immediately, to withdraw into the corner of the bus stop and insist that he would never trust a piece of his skin to John and his artistic abilities. If he was to extend his hand out he would come back with some obscenity drawn onto his flesh, one which would undoubtedly linger long enough for his mother to notice. Though he felt himself drawing closer, pulling his hand from his pocket and allowing it to fall towards John's direction and eventually into his grasp. John's hand was very rough, with skin calloused from his time in the weight room and fingernails trimmed almost unreasonably short. Nevertheless, those strong hands managed a strange sort of gentleness, not one that Sherlock would have expected should his hand ever fall within the other boy's grasp. He held in more of a cradle, and as he clicked the pen their eyes met very quickly. Sherlock's blood ran a bit cold, seeing now that John's gaze would not subside, and try as he may Sherlock could not tear his eyes away either. Their gaze was locked, their hands interconnected...oh this was unbearable! Was it not?
"Here's my phone number." John said at last, pressing the pen into Sherlock's palm and beginning to scrawl very loopy, almost illegible numbers onto his skin. It proceeded for a long while, for the pen didn't like to write on wet skin very much, though at long last Sherlock's hand was released back to his side, and he could read the makings of a phone number inscribed very forcibly upon his palm.
"Alright." He muttered immediately, followed by his more uncharacteristic, "Thank you, John."
"Maybe you'll see me in a different light one day. Maybe that number will help the transition." John muttered.
"You're expecting me to text you?" Sherlock presumed doubtfully.
"I'm not really..." John coughed a little bit, "Any time you need me. For anything." Sherlock nodded, twisting his hands uncomfortably together and feeling against his raw skin, feeling the spots where John Watson had just held. He opened his mouth, probably for another spew of nonsense, when a gigantic clap of thunder left them in sudden darkness. For a moment Sherlock thought that all light had left the world, that perhaps the thunder had blinded him and he would be stuck in darkness for the rest of his short life. Though no, his eyes began to adjust and he was able to determine more shapes in the faint sunlight, still not yet vanished over the horizon. The world was returning, though darker than before.
"Street lights went out." John commented at last, stealing the words from Sherlock's lips. He nodded, finding to his relief that he felt a little bit more normal. His mouth seemed to stay sealed when he willed it to, at least. He looked out from the bus stop, trying to determine in the fading daylight if the rain had subsided at all. The noise had lessened, though he couldn't tell if that was a necessarily good sign. He and John were both stuck within this bus stop for the same reason, the possession of items which were not meant to get wet. Certainly John's fast food dinner was comparable to Sherlock's scripts, being the fact that they should not be toted around in a downpour. The subsiding of the rain was the only chance both boys had to getting out of this bus stop and back home to the comfort of their solitude. Sherlock got to his feet reluctantly, walking over to the side of the bus stop and sticking his hand out into the world beyond. He noticed that each of the houses was dark, and the traffic lights which should have been glowing were instead a strange, lifeless gray.
"Only a little drizzle, now. Probably going to pick back up soon." He commented, walking swiftly to retrieve his backpack and sling it over his shoulders. If their time together had been half as silent as he had wished, Sherlock would not have lingered to force out a goodbye. Though now as he looked quickly at John's little figure squished up in the plastic bench he couldn't help but feel a farewell was in order. After all, their conversation had been more personal than he ever would have allowed in other circumstances. It needed a conclusion, something a bit more final than a simple power outage.
"Well um, I guess I'll see you on Monday." Sherlock muttered at last, happy to hear that his words rang true to his intentions.
"That you will." John agreed quietly, nodding his head but staying seated. Perhaps he didn't think it was time for him to make his departure yet, as if trying to ensure the two boys weren't stuck together in another bus stop, three blocks down the road. Sherlock nodded, giving the boy one last glance before racing out into the world beyond, thankful to feel but a little drizzle as he dashed the finishing stretch back home.