Elvis Presley was crooning Blue Moon when John's quiet night of studying was interrupted.
"Where on earth is Harriet?"
John looked up from his carefully written Biology notes. His mother was standing in the doorway to his room, leaning heavily on the wood. Even from three meters away, John could smell the whiskey on her. He glanced back down at his textbook, flipped a page, and pretended to copy down the finer details of DNA reproduction. "I don't know," he lied easily, not looking up. "She might be up on the roof again."
He heard his mother's angry exhale, then her heavy footsteps stomping down the hall and back into the living room. John waited until the slam of the door to their flat announced her departure, then vaulted out of his bed. He raced into the kitchen, and then was back in his room, perched at his desk and hunched over his notes when the door slammed again. Elvis had moved on to Tryin' to Get Over You, but he had turned the volume down on the record player enough to hear the clink of glass in the kitchen. He waited until the murmur of the telly started before he lifted the needle off the record and turned the player off.
John padded out into the kitchen, then went through the motions of making a cup of tea.
"I wish you wouldn't play that awful music," his mother called to him as he passed. "That Elvis boy…" There was a drunken pause. "…Is simply disgraceful," came the end of the sentence.
"It helps me study, Mum," John said, not even halfway paying attention. It was an old argument, and the reason that he had readily paid for the record with his own money rather than ask for pocket change from his mum. Not that there was much pocket change to be had. He opened a cabinet, then closed it and walked back into the living room.
"We're out of tea." The box of teabags was currently hidden in the back of his dresser drawer, shoved behind the obscenely red pants Harry had given him for his birthday.
A half-hearted grunt was the response, his mother's eyes not wavering from whatever late-night show was on the telly.
"I'm going out to get some more." He was going to Annabel Howard's house, where a bash was taking place.
There was another grunt, and John slipped back to his room. He jammed his feet into shoes, slipped his wallet into his back pocket, and shrugged on his jacket. As he moved back into the living room and towards the front door, he glanced at the clock. It wasn't quite late enough for Harry to have gotten herself completely sloshed, and as he trotted down the metal stairs to get to the pavement he sent up a silent prayer that she'd be reasonable tonight. He had a big biology test the next morning and didn't feel like dealing with the headache Harry was sure to bring with her.
John sighed, shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and picked up the pace.
Before he even got to Annabel's block he could hear the music. Loud rock n' roll spilled down the street, and cars lined the pavement. There was a flock of motorbikes parked nearer to the house, and a couple greasers standing next to them, smoking their cigs and glaring as people walked by./
John ducked his head as he passed, feeling conspicuous in his conservative trousers instead of jeans and his carefully combed and parted hair that lacked any product. The closer he got to the house, the more out of place he felt. There was next to no one that didn't have on Chucks or leather of some sort, and it seemed that everyone was holding a drink of some kind or a cigarette. By the time John made it into the house, he was shouldering his way past others in order to walk by.
The party that was going on inside of the house was incredible. The sheer amount of people was overwhelming. Blaring music drowned out almost all conversation and seemed to take up as much room as all of the bodies. Little Richard was singing his love to Miss Molly as John wedged through dancing throngs, scanning the crowd for his sister as he did. He almost got hit in the head by a flying high heeled shoe, thrown off of a foot by an over-enthusiastic kick from one of the school cheerleaders.
John sighed internally, reminded thoroughly of why he didn't come to these things.
He eventually found Harry curled up in a corner, giggling with Annabel and holding a brown bottle that definitely wasn't a Cola. If he hadn't been her brother, John would have assumed that they were just drunk best friends. However, he was Harry's brother, and could tell right away that this was the most recent in Harry's string of secret-so-help-me-God-if-you-tell-anyone-I'll-murder-you girlfriends.
John didn't have a problem with it. You love who you love, he supposed, and didn't bother to think beyond that. But this party had a large number of people, and he knew that the greater percentage of them would not think like he did if Harry was to be found out.
John bent his knees, squatting down so that he could talk to her. "Harry," he said, nudging her gently. His sister rolled her head towards him.
"Lookie here," she slurred. "It's my perfect baby brother. What're y'doin' out on a school night?" Harry reached a hand forward, grasped him, and gasped dramatically. "Does Mum know you're here?"
John frowned, taking her hand on his shoulder and using it to pull her up. "No," he said tersely. "She thinks I'm out getting tea. Now say goodbye to Annabel, it's time to go."
Harry wobbled once she was on her feet, and it took a moment for her to gather her thoughts. She did, though, and made a pouty face at John, her blonde bangs falling over her eyes. "C'mon, Johnny. Don't be a party pooper."
"Yeah, Johnny," Annabel echoed faintly. "Don't be a party pooper."
John frowned. He hated the nickname Johnny. He opened his mouth to say as much when a cry went up in the room. The horrible noise of a needle being carelessly pulled cut Elvis's warnings about stepping on his blue suede shoes short, and suddenly people were shouting.
"It's the coppers!" "Run!"
Harry's eyes got big, and suddenly she was gone, leaving John to fumble around, unsure of where to go or even what to do in this kind of situation. He got knocked backwards by the wave of people trying to run by, and was pushed along with the crowd. He was just starting to lose his footing, and becoming worried about being completely trampled, that there was suddenly a hand on his. John looked up, and met a pair of startlingly pale blue eyes.
"This way," the greaser said, and John found himself pulled along, the crowd seeming to part for this mysterious boy as he towed John along.
The greaser expertly weaved through the people, until he made a sharp turn and they were in a slightly less populated hallway. He continued tugging John along, then shouldered his way through a door, and suddenly they were outside again. John could see the blue and red lights bouncing off of the houses on the streets, and fear raced through his system."Which way now?" he asked, turning to the greaser.
The taller boy gave him an odd smile. "If you wait for another minute, I can guarantee you won't get arrested," he said.
John glanced nervously at the flashing lights, then back at the greaser. "How?" he asked.
The greaser lifted an eyebrow, and then the door they had just come out of burst open and another boy a little bit older than they came tumbling out of the house. He spared one look at John and the greaser before sprinting off in the other direction, leaping over the fence and into the neighbor's back yard.
The greaser gave John a delighted grin. "Like this," he said, then gave chase and vaulted over the fence after the other boy.
John stared at the spot where the greaser disappeared. Then, he decided to leap over the fence after the other two, reasoning that it was surely better than the back of a police car.
It hadn't taken long for John to catch up to the greaser, and now they had made it out of Annabel's neighborhood and were chasing the other boy down an alley.
Ten meters away, John saw the boy trip over something and roll his ankle. He shoved aside his initial wince of sympathy and put forth a burst of speed, then rugby tackled him. They both went down hard, and there was a short scuffle before John had the older boy on his stomach and was sitting on his back, holding his wrists together.
The greaser then swooped down. John heard two sncks, and when he stepped back handcuffs were secured around the pinned boy's wrists.
John stood up and brushed off the knees of his trousers. He turned towards his partner and stuck out a hand. "John Watson," he said.
The greaser regarded him with his cool gaze for a moment, then took John's hand. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, and now that John wasn't running or afraid of being arrested, he registered that Sherlock Holmes's voice was almost sinfully deep, and his face was striking. Sherlock nodded towards the handcuffed boy. "There's a police box at the corner of this street. Help me lug this idiot over there, would you?"
John shook his head minutely, dragging his focus from sharp cheekbones and agreed, pulling the boy up off the ground. He was whimpering, but able to walk on his own. John kept one hand fisted tightly in the boy's jacket anyway, and followed after Sherlock as he led the way out of the alley.
"Where'd you get the handcuffs?" John asked.
"Nicked them," Sherlock said simply. His tone didn't encourage John to ask anymore questions, so they walked in silence.
True to his word, Sherlock led John to a police box just a few meters from the alley. The handcuffed boy went into the box with no resistance. Sherlock opened the telephone compartment and lifted the receiver. He waited for a few minutes, and then apparently got someone on the other line.
"Ah, Sergeant Donovan. It's Sherlock Holmes. Listen, tell Lestrade I've got his jewelry thief in the box on the outside of Speedy's, would you?" Sherlock then hung up, not waiting for a response from the sergeant on the other end.
John looked at the box, then back at Sherlock. "That guy's a thief?"
Sherlock made an affirmative noise, leaning against the wall to the cafe they were standing outside of and pulling out a package of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and lit it before digging into the pocket of his leather jacket and tossing something at John.
He caught it with a minimum of fumbling and looked closer at what it was. Then John reared back. Then looked closer again. He gasped. "This is-"
"Your mother's necklace," Sherlock finished. He blew smoke out of his mouth with practiced grace. "Owen in there nicked it off your sister at the bash. Couldn't resist another prize, apparently."
John looked up at Sherlock. "How on Earth d'you figure that?"
"Same way I know that your family's tight on money, there's a streak of alcoholism that runs in your family as well, and you want to go to a good uni and get out of the situation you're in. I observe."
John's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Hearing his family's problems spoken about in such a nonchalant fashion was almost like a slap to the face. "Sorry, but how do you know all that?"
Sherlock sighed, then flicked ash off of his cig before raking his eyes over John. The immediate feeling John got was like being a bug pinned under a microscope. Sherlock took a large breath, then started rattling off facts. "I know you're having financial problems by the state of your clothes. Very cube, and appear to be bought from a outlet store at first glance, but if you look closer, you can tell that your jacket is secondhand, likely found in a thrift shop. Your jumper appears store bought, but is actually handmade. A talented aunt or grandmother, most likely. Most giving is the fact that your pants have been hemmed, and multiple times at that. There's a subtle give to the fabric where the original hem was, and if you look the right way, you can see that the current hem is crooked and the stitches vary in length the way that they have a tendency to when the person making the hem pulls the fabric too quickly through the machine.
"As for the alcoholism, I noticed your sister at the bash. She approached alcohol with a familiarity that the average high school student doesn't have, and was one of the first ones to be drunk to a nearly inebriated level. Typically those behaviors towards drink points towards an alcoholic in the family, but I wasn't entirely convinced until you arrived. The way you acted and treated her obviously indicated that you'd done this multiple times and that it was a recurring problem.
"Now there's you. Obviously you've no interest in parties, the entire time you were at the bash you were incredibly uncomfortable and, frankly, out of place. You were at home instead, studying for a biology test tomorrow. You've graphite smeared all along the outside of your hand from where you've been taking notes. The only teacher at the local high school that plans on giving a test tomorrow is Mrs Rechard, and not even all her classes, but only her second-level biology and up. From there I can conclude that grades mean quite a lot to you, and you're likely going to go into some kind of scientific field, likely medical."
John stared at the greaser opposite him. "That...was incredible," he finally said.
Sherlock looked up at him with alarm, though it only showed for a split second. It was replaced with a schooled mask of mild intrigue. "Really? You think so?"
"Yeah," John said, a smile breaking over his face. "Truly brilliant."
Sherlock leaned back against the wall, an amused smile quirking over his lips. "That's not what people usually say," he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
"What do they usually say?" John asked, curious.
Sherlock flicked ash off his cigarette once more, then dropped it and ground the stub under his shoe. When he was done, he looked John straight in the eye and deadpanned, "Piss off."
John stared at him for a moment before breaking into giggles. One half of Sherlock's mouth twitched up, as if he was going to smile for real for the first time that night. John discovered that he wanted to see this boy's real smile. The grin was abandoned, though, when a police car pulled up next to them and a man climbed out. Sherlock's focus was immediately on him, a frown creasing over his face. "Took you long enough," he said crossly.
The man sighed. "Yeah, well, someone called in an out-of-control party a few neighborhoods over. I was in charge of overseeing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please, I called that in. It was the only way to get Owen running."
John gaped at Sherlock, while the policeman just sighed. He walked over to the police box and opened the door, then pulled Owen the Thief. "You're under arrest for the thieving of Maxwell's Jewl-" The man cut himself short, staring at Owen's cuffed wrists. "Sherlock," he said, in a very controlled, even voice. "Why is this boy already cuffed?"
"It was the only way to ensure he didn't try to run again," Sherlock responded. "Dont worry, they're your cuffs. Anyway, I've caught your thief, and now he's yours to deal with. Goodnight, Lestrade. John Watson." And with that, the greaser swept away, leaving John with the irritated policeman.
"Is he always like that?" John asked the man.
The policeman gave an almighty sigh. "Usually, he's worse. Now get on home."