Disclaimer: We own no part of the BBC Sherlock universe and make no money off of this art. We hope you enjoy!
A/N: This is my most recent co-write with KittieHill. It's a lot more plotty, but still has some sexy times for your enjoyment.
This is 8 chapters long, and I will be posting one (or two) chapters a day like we did over on AO3. We'd love to hear your comments as each chapter appears, though, so don't be shy!
John walked in from his shift at the surgery, pushing open the door to Baker Street and almost standing on a small pile of letters and bills which still waited on the welcome mat. Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's laziness, John picked them up and continued up the stairs to their flat, taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes as he looked over at Sherlock who was sitting silently in his chair.
"You forgot to get the post," John grumbled, putting the letters on his chair whilst he moved to make himself tea, subconsciously moving to make Sherlock one, too.
"Mrs. Hudson normally brings it up," Sherlock responded, his voice deep from lack of use. Obviously he had spent the entire day sitting around in his mind palace in silence.
"She's away at her sister's, we talked about this," John sighed, making the tea and returning to his chair where he handed Sherlock his cup and then began to sort through the mail. "Oh, there's one here for you."
"Dull," Sherlock complained, taking a sip of his tea and putting it aside, "It's probably another of those tedious fan letters."
"Yeah, maybe..." John frowned, realising that it looked far posher than the ones they normally received from their fans. Opening the letter quickly, John blinked and skimmed the words before clearing his throat, "It's from St. Benedict's school. For you."
If John didn't know Sherlock as well as he did, he would not have noticed the tightening of his muscles and the fight to keep his face impassive, "Dull," he repeated.
"There's a school reunion," John continued, reading out a little part, "combined with a surprise retirement party for a Professor Ellis."
Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, his mouth opening before shutting, "I don't know him."
"It says here that you did. He taught science," John responded, narrowing his eyes, "Is there any reason you don't want to go?"
"I've told you, I don't know him! I have no knowledge of a Professor Ellis, nor am I interested in returning to the school of my boyhood. It was a boring and uneventful period of my life that I have managed to ignore due to its tedium. Now, kindly forget it."
John blinked at Sherlock's quick refusal but nodded, "Okay, that's fine; I'll just leave it on the mantle if you want to look at it. It's not for another two months anyway, so you have plenty of time to try and remember."
"I'm sure I won't," Sherlock huffed, taking his tea and strolling into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
John simply sat staring at the empty hallway - at the closed door - for far longer than he probably realised. Something about Sherlock's behavior had his sense of curiosity nearly bursting with unanswered questions. He sighed heavily, drinking his now-cold tea with a grimace before placing it off to the side.
What in the world could cause Sherlock to lie to him like that? John has had countless occasions throughout the years to watch Sherlock come across information that he had deleted (like the solar system) to make space for "more important" things (like 243 types of tobacco ash), and this hadn't been like that at all. This was a lie. This was acting. This was repression. John was resolved to figure out why.
Sherlock, once in his room, placed his tea on his bedside table and fell face-first onto his bed. He groaned lowly, but was careful to keep it quiet so that John didn't hear. That invitation was an abomination, and all of his carefully repressed memories from that point in his life were quickly flooding back in.
Because John was right (for once); Sherlock had not forgotten any of it at all.
He closed his eyes against the memories of fists flying at his face, his stomach, his groin, but it did no good since it was his mind playing the images on the backs of his eyelids for him to see. He attempted in vain to not hear the taunts, the laughter at his expense, coming from his classmates. His mother had tried to tell him that they were just jealous of his intellect and didn't know how to properly express it. Sherlock was convinced they were simply a bunch of arseholes.
With a heavy sigh of his own, he finally turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, remembering Professor Ellis. The older man's kindness was all that got Sherlock through that blasted school, honestly, and now he was retiring?
What was Sherlock going to do?
The case had not helped the underlying emotion in Sherlock's mind. A young boy had been bullied at school, tortured almost with accusations of his sexuality and personal failures which had led him to kill himself. The death itself was standard, but the scene was set up to look like a murder with various clues pointing towards his bullies. Sherlock had worked the case alongside John, shouting and raving deductions at the police as he whirled his way through the scene and interviewed the young men and women who had led an innocent boy to take his own life. At one point, John considered pulling Sherlock away from the interview room as he softly told a young, popular boy and his mother the intricacies of the case, showing him photos of the young victim's swollen face in death until the young boy vomited and his mother fainted.
When the case was over, Sherlock was subdued and extremely quiet. He entered Baker Street and toed off his shoes, hanging up his coat and heading for the kitchen and the bottle of scotch they kept behind the microwave. Sherlock never drank, preferring other intoxicants, but he sat at the kitchen table and poured himself two fingers, throwing it back and then adding a second.
John followed Sherlock into the kitchen and sat opposite him, silently watching for a moment before speaking, "What's going on in your head? Talk to me."
Sherlock looked away, staring at the fridge for a moment before twirling the glass in his hand slowly, "That - the victim, it could have been me. If I wasn't stronger - if I didn't have…" he winced as though he didn't want to admit it, "if I didn't have my brother. I could have ended it the same way."
Feeling a curl of anguish in his stomach, John leaned over to touch Sherlock's hand, "What happened?"
Sherlock looked up at John, shaking his head and then inhaling, "I was an odd child. My parents were - well, you've met them. They're good people, but we were isolated in the family estate. For the first years of my life I was home-schooled by my private tutor along with Mycroft. We learned Latin and Greek and we were allowed to follow our passions. Mine was science, Mycroft's was law and politics, but once we reached the age of 11, our parents insisted that we attend a local school. Obviously it was private, expensive in fees, but good for education and social standing."
"Right…" John replied, wondering what Sherlock would think about his school's run-down building and terrible exam results record.
"Anyway, I was excited at first. I wanted to attend the school so I could have access to the laboratories there. My parents wouldn't let me have a full-sized one due to an incident with a crab and some solvents…but once I got there I realised my mistake. The children were horrible. Vulgar and crass, they made constant barbs about my sexuality and mannerisms, claiming I was a faggot because of my hair style and how I wore my tie. Ridiculous," Sherlock gestured angrily, "but…Professor Ellis was there to support me."
"The guy who is retiring?" John said, flicking his eyes to the mantle.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "he was - kind to me. When he found out that I was eating my lunch in the toilets to save myself from having to fight, he said I could sit with him in the science labs. We had in-depth conversations about scientific methods, disproving some and just generally enjoying one another's intelligent company. He was too good for that school; he was an Oxford educated professor, you know."
"He sounds nice," John smiled warmly.
"He was. Actually, my first published work was done alongside Professor Ellis. We worked on a paper together documenting the effects of enzymes on the - you're not interested in that part. It's dull and tedious and was discounted a few years later. By me," Sherlock chuckled, "Professor Ellis sent me a card of congratulation for that and we stayed in touch. He's a good man."
"So you should go to his retirement," John insisted, "I'm sure he'd love to see you."
"John…I can't," Sherlock sighed, "I can't go back there, not after the - torment. I don't want to see those same people who made my life hell."
"But you're different now; you're successful and famous and respected across the country, even the world. You could show off!" John hinted, knowing how much Sherlock loved to show off.
"No. No I - I don't think it's for me," Sherlock said in a hurry, taking another sip of his alcohol with a wince.
"What about if I came along, too? Moral support and backup?" John asked, "And if any of them say anything, I'll shoot them in the knee."
Smiling shakily, Sherlock looked up at his friend with a soft blush on his cheeks, "Really? You would do that?"
"Of course! Yeah…I don't want you to miss out on this and it's an excuse to get out of the flat for a bit. Go somewhere different," John smiled, "Shall I RSVP for us both?"
Glugging his scotch, Sherlock nodded quickly and stood up, swooping into his bedroom and closing the door once more, leaving John feeling helpless and saddened in the kitchen. He had thought getting Sherlock to agree to go would lift some stress from both of their shoulders, but he had been wrong. He went to his own bedroom with a heavy heart, remembering his new-found knowledge of Sherlock's past.
"What exactly happens at these reunion things?" Sherlock asked rather abruptly the following afternoon, apropos of nothing while working at his microscope.
John looked up from the paper and turned his head to the left to see his friend, "I'm not really sure," he admitted.
Sherlock looked up from his microscope and towards his friend on the sofa in an accusatory manner, "What do you mean you don't know? You're supposed to help me through this!"
John rolled his eyes in exasperation, paper falling to his lap as he sighed heavily, "I will help you through this, but I never said I had personal experience."
Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly back and forth as he deduced, finally finding the answer, "Afghanistan," he said in understanding, not even a question.
John nodded and hummed in agreement, "The Army in general, really; I was gone for all of them, either training or fighting."
"Would you have gone, if you had the chance?" He asked as he turned on the stool to face John instead of the table.
John tilted his head to the right as he considered, "I think so? I don't have any reasons to avoid them."
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed bitterly, "you were the popular rugby player whom all the girls wanted to shag and all the boys wanted to emulate."
"Well that's not fair; some of the boys wanted to shag me, too." John joked lightly, mostly to savor the blush it put onto Sherlock's cheeks.
"Crass," Sherlock accused before turning back to his microscope, pretending to go back to his experiment.
John simply chuckled and turned back around himself, lifting his paper to keep reading.
"Should I take a gift?" Sherlock asked a few days later, obviously clicking around the internet in boredom, "For Professor Ellis?"
"I'm not sure. I assume the faculty will be arranging a gift, but if you wanted to take something, then you could?" John answered, giving a half shrug.
"What does one buy a retiring person? A watering can? A set of soup spoons?" Sherlock huffed and folded his arms.
"Well, what sorts of things does he like? Or did he like when you spent time with him?" John responded casually.
"Golf," Sherlock shrugged, "Molecular biology and golf."
"Well, get him something golf-related then. That will be nice," John answered with a smile, "it'll be a nice gesture."
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, not really paying attention anymore.
John started to pack the night before their trip, folding his clothes carefully and placing them into his overnight bag along with his toiletries and a book just in case they retired early. The suit that Sherlock had insisted on buying him hung on the wardrobe and John cast his eye over it. It was obviously expensive, a designer that John had never heard of but who had his very own boutique on a fancy street in Central London. John had stood nervously whilst a short Italian man took his measurements and hummed something to himself in his own language when he measured John's inside leg. John was sure he heard Sherlock chuckling but he immediately pushed the thought away as he was given swatches of fabric to chose from. Deciding on a blue pinstripe suit with a colourful inside and a white shirt, Sherlock had paid with a flamboyant swipe of his debit card and they were told to collect it in a fortnight.
The suit was perfect - better than any John had ever owned in the past - and it made him feel like royalty when he slipped it on and modelled it for Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in the living room.
Now, packing everything away, John wondered how he would look standing next to Sherlock, both in their suits and dressed to the nines. He hoped that he wouldn't let Sherlock down or make him a target for more bullies. The thought of Sherlock being bullied made John's insides clench and a flare of anger burn up his spine. Sherlock didn't deserve to be bullied - though he did occasionally deserve a slap - but the thought of anyone physically touching Sherlock made John want to vomit.
Pushing the thoughts away, John finished his packing and carried the bags downstairs, knocking on Sherlock's door, "Sherlock? Are you packed? Do you need a hand?"
"No," Sherlock's voice boomed through the door, "I'm fine, perfectly capable of packing for myself, thank you very much."
"Alright, you arse," John huffed, walking to make a coffee, "You better have an early night tonight. It's an early start in the morning."
In his room, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at an old picture in his hands. It's of his graduation from the hellish school he's meant to be revisiting, standing next to Professor Ellis. The older teacher standing with his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, smiling with genuine pride, as Sherlock stands there trying not to look too pleased with himself. It's the only physical evidence he has of how relieved they both were to get Sherlock through that school without anyone coming to (too much) physical harm.
With a deep, shaky inhalation, Sherlock came out of his head with purpose. He set the picture aside on his bed before picking up the gift he had finally chosen: a red notebook with orange and yellow microbe designs littering both front and back. Inside, the pages were gridded on the left and lined on the right; perfect for notating discoveries, both pictorially and descriptively.
Symbolic but useful. And not nearly enough.
He had debated getting him a DNA necktie (in the event that he continues to guest lecture after retirement) or a stupid molecular-themed coffee mug ("Yet another year older...and still just as twisted!" with a double helix), but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Besides, his well-meaning family members have probably gotten him the gamut of the available options as gifts over the years.
He opened the notebook to the first page and re-read his note. His scientific side had hated to waste the paper, but he felt it better than including a card that would most likely get lost or thrown away.
Prof. Ellis,
Congratulations on your retirement. I have no idea how you put up with the imbecilic and unmotivated youth of England for so long. You deserve much more than some silly notebook for it - like a medal or a knightship. I'll see what my brother can do for you.
I think we are both aware that I would not have made it through my time at St. Benedict's without your assistance. I have thanked you, but I have never done so properly. I'm honestly not sure what that even means; what is enough?
Regardless, know that I am still eternally grateful for all of your help throughout the years. I know I am not the only one. You are a great man, and I wish you all the best in your continued endeavors.
Most Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
With a heavy sigh, he closed the book and laid it atop the piles of items in his packed bag; his formal suits hung in their garment bag on the wardrobe, ready to be whisked away tomorrow morning. They would be heading to his parents' house tomorrow, with the reunion taking place the following evening. He felt both grateful and fearful for John coming with him; the support is appreciated, but he didn't want John to bear witness to any bullying that may yet come his way from his former peers. It's not that he thinks John will believe their tales or take their side, but...it just seems humiliating. He truly cares for John, deeply - could possibly even love him - and he couldn't stand it if he lost his favor.
With a shake of his head, Sherlock moved his bag to the floor before crawling into bed, a restless night's sleep surely ahead of him.
A/N: Check out more of KittieHill's works by searching her on AO3 - she is brilliant!
Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)