His brother had told him to ignore them. Ignore the people who shouted abuse at him because they weren't worth it and they just didn't understand. Getting into fights with them and getting sent to the principal's office just wasn't worth his time. He was too smart to sink to their level.

But he'd tell you that it was getting harder and harder to ignore their constant teasing and bullying. The spit balls that land in the back of his ginger hair and the paper balls that pelt his arm every day during school was taking its toll. They made fun of his bright red hair and his glasses and his long face. He was thin for a 14 year old, but it wasn't his fault- how could it be?

The last straw was when a boy in the year above him insisted on calling him Strawberry. On the walk home from Baker Street Academy, he stopped in a corner store and bought black hair dye. Of course, he made a mess of his bathroom trying to do it. Lucky for him, though, his brother caught him and offered to help before he went out for the night.

His parents had a fit. He didn't bother to explain that he was getting bullied because his father would just threaten to go and have a "talk" with the bully's parents, which really meant he would get them fired. As much as he tried not to care, that would just get him made fun of more.

He especially hated his Biology class. He was in grade seven, but there were kids from grade nine in the class as well, including the boy who called him Strawberry. Anderson, his name was. He called him a freak often. Sherlock was waiting to bring it out that he knew his parents were both having affairs, both disappointed in their only son.

Well, he told himself he was waiting. He didn't want to call attention to himself. That would just make everything worse.

He looked up when he heard the class around him give mixed responses to whatever the teacher had just told them. A few groaned, mostly the female percent of the class, and the other shouted in excitement. He searched the chalkboard in front of the room for any signs of what they would be doing, and groaned when he saw.

They were dissecting frogs.

The teacher, Mrs. Hudson, had began to read off names.

They'd be working with partners.

"Sherlock Holmes-"

He looked up when he heard his name. The gray haired woman noticed his now-black hair and her eyes widened. She cleared her throat and went on.

"-and John Watson."

"Have fun working with the freak." Anderson chided to the blond boy seated in front, who ignored him, writing something in the notebook on his desk. He was wearing a white knit jumper-Probably something his mother knit for him, Sherlock figured. It was close to Christmas, so he had no doubt his mother was making jumpers for him and his sister, who he had seen walking around with his brother, Mycroft, and his boyfriend, Greg.

Mrs. Hudson insisted they get into their groups. Sherlock stayed planted in his seat, showing no signs of movement. John, though, gathered his bag and notebook and trudged through the desks until he found his way to Sherlock. He put the bag down on the ground and sat in the one in front of him. He smiled.

"Hello."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He didn't say anything. John still smiled. "Mycroft is your brother, right?"

He grunted, nodding slightly.

"He and Greg spend a lot of time with Harry- my sister. They-"

"I know."

"Oh."

Before he could go on, Mrs. Hudson had them all pack their bags and move to the laboratory down the hall. They all filed in, claiming different benches to work at. Sherlock chose one at the very front of the room, John following like a lost puppy. It wasn't too good of a decision, though, considering Anderson and his partner, a girl in grade eight named Sally Donovan, sat directly behind them.

Sherlock kept his back to them as the teacher passed out their supplies, including a dead frog covered in plastic wrap, a scalpel, and a tray. She also passed out instructions that simply stated to cut the frog open and remove the designated organs.

"I want to be a doctor when I get older," John said, "so this is good practice."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I am grown up."

"Oh. Well, alright." he paused, looked around awkwardly and tried again: "You dyed your hair darker."

"Obviously."

"How come?"

"Because I chose to."

"It's not because those wankers were calling you Strawberry, was it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John nodded, as if his silence gave the answer. "I get it. Getting made fun of sucks."

"Because you would know?"

"I would."

Sherlock looked at him, his blue eyes narrow. But John was still smiling as he went on, "I like your dark hair better."

"No one-" Sherlock stopped himself. "Thank you."

The project was planned to last every bit of three weeks. That meant that every day for an hour Sherlock would have to cut and investigate a frog with John Watson. He was a short boy, kind of frumpy, but not so much as to be unappealing. He held his head high, like he had high expectations for himself. Really, he did. He told Sherlock about his ambitions and dreams, even if Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear them.

But he listened, trying to be polite as Mycroft instructed. But he drew the line when, at the end of the three weeks, the week before Christmas vacatoin, they had to write up the entire project, which involved meeting up after school to get it done. John asked if he wanted to meet at the library, and he refused. Well, why don't they go back to Sherlock's house? No, that wasn't good either. John's house? No.

"Well, I'm not doing this all on my own, Sherlock." John folded his arms on the black counter in front of them. "So we either meet up or it doesn't get done at all."

"Fine." Sherlock hissed. "Fine. We'll go to your house."

"Good!" John beamed, like he'd won. "It won't be that bad, Sherlock."

It wasn't that he didn't want him to go to his house for some stupid reason. He was more worried for John. He had unfortunately grown a bit attached to the boy, despite his better judgement. He already heard Anderson and Sally whispering behind them about the "two fags with no friends," and didn't want John to be subjected to that kind of torment.

John didn't seem to care, though. He always ignored the two, like they didn't even exist. Sherlock didn't know how he did it.

So, that afternoon when school let out, Sherlock was walking with John and Harry to the Watson residence, ignoring their talk of whose turn it was to do the wash or put away the clean dishes. John argued that he had a friend over so he shouldn't have to do it.

Sherlock had heard that, though, and looked to him with wide eyes. "Friend-you said friend."

John looked back at him, his eyebrows knit together. "Of course I did. Why-aren't you my friend?"

"I wasn't aware that I was your friend."

"Oh. Well, yeah."

Sherlock didn't answer. He stared forward and kept walking. He saw Harry look down at her brother, who shrugged. Just looking at their home told him that they definitely weren't wealthy. One car in the driveway, and no garage. A two story house-probably just large enough for a family of three. (Sherlock had deduced weeks ago that they had no father. If John had a father, he would have argued with John about wearing those dreadful jumpers.)

Once inside, John led Sherlock up the stairs and into the first door on the left-his bedroom. It was spotless- almost compulsively clean. The bed was made, the blue comforter tucked in around the sides. He had a desk with one chair, but John said that he would get another one-just stay here. He ran outside and came back in a moment later, pushing a red swivel chair he said that Harry wouldn't mind them borrowing. He pushed it up to the desk, and then sat in the wooden one beside it. He looked at Sherlock.

"Well, come on, then. Are you sitting or standing?"

After a moment, Sherlock put his bag on the ground and sat in the chair. He sunk in the cushion, and adjusted himself to sit up straight. John was already getting out their papers to begin the report. He pulled out a pen and wrote both of their names on the top.

"Your last name has an L in it, right?"

"Hm? Yes."

"H-O-L-M-E-S. Yes?"

"Yes."

He wrote the date down, and then smiled. "Christmas is in a few days."

"So it is."

"Are you doing anything special with your family?"

"No."

"Oh, how come?"

"We never do."

"Oh."

It was quiet for almost a full minute (49 seconds- Sherlock counted) before John read off the first question and Sherlock told him what to write, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He just wanted this to be over so he could get home and nag Mycroft into taking him to the morgue if he wasn't snogging his boyfriend.

They got a few questions done, before John put the pen down and cracked his knuckles. saying, "Let's take a break. The words are beginning to swim."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but was thankful for the break. He looked around his bedroom, but kept his deductions to himself. If John really was a friend, he didn't want him to go away or get scared.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"Your brother is gay, right?"

"Yes."

"So-" he paused. "Never mind."

"You're gay."

John's face turned pink. "What? No, no, no, of course not." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John gulped. His adam's apple bobbed. "Yeah."

"I know."

"How?"

"You asked about Mycroft and then blushed."

"It doesn't... change anything does it?"

"What would it change?"

"The way you think of me."

"How do I think of you?"

"...As a friend, I thought."

Sherlock took a moment to answer. "Your being homosexual doesn't change the way I view you."

"Oh- well, good then."

"What does change it a bit is your frankly obvious what people our age call it crush on me."

John's face went from pink to a violent shade of red. He avoided Sherlock's eyes and focused instead on the pen he was twirling in his fingers. "How... how did you know-"

"I didn't know. I noticed."

"How did you notice?"

"You kept glancing at me as you wrote. Your foot touched mine and you moved it so quickly that you hit your knee on the desk, but pretended that it didn't happen. And let's add that you decided to tell me about your sexuality in the comfort of your own room, where there is no one around to hear you confess, because you probably haven't even told your mother. Your sister knows, though, she can tell. And you started to sweat and blushed even worse."

Sherlock waited. Usually, this was when someone told him to piss off or keep his mouth shut. Last year, someone punched him in the face when he rattled off how he could tell that his father had lost his job due to the state of their clothes. But instead, he heard John said, "That's brilliant."

Sherlock looked at him, furrowing his eyebrows. "Is it?"

"I never would have been able to think of something like that."

"It's just common sense, John."

"Oh, well, I guess I haven't got a lot of it, then." he chuckled to himself, trying to lift the mood.

"I don't know what to say." Sherlock said bluntly. John swallowed again, looking away.

"I suppose I shouldn't have told you."

"What difference would it make?"

"Well, then it wouldn't be awkward."

"It's awkward?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't think so."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Are you-are you gay?"

"Yes."

John looked at him, wide eyed, but his eyebrows were furrowed too. "You're kidding me."

"Why would I be?"

"Well, why the hell didn't you bloody say that before? Blimey, Sherlock." but John laughed quietly again, shaking his head.

"John."

John looked. "Yeah?"

Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. He knew John hadn't either, because, really, if he was that nervous to tell him he liked him and that he was gay, then there was no way he had kissed someone before. His nerves would have gotten the best of him, even though Sherlock was sure he would some day grow out of those very nerves, especially if he wanted to be an army doctor.

Sherlock knew from spying on his brother that he was supposed to close his eyes. After pressing his mouth to John's, he shut his eyes, and waited for John to react. Finally, he felt John's hand on his shoulder, and he pressed back against him lightly.

When Sherlock pulled away, John's eyes stayed closed for a moment longer before peeling open. He smiled. Sherlock felt a smile tugging at the corner's of his mouth, just before John put his hand on his neck and pulled him into another kiss.