John Watson had never been a fan of sport.
Needless to say, he played it. Rather well, actually. Give him a physical activity and he will accomplish it skilfully; he can thrash you at tennis, tackle you in football, and splash you in a pool any day. And he did all these things by choice- but, that didn't mean he had to like it.
He just felt obliged to.
His team mates were the only friends he had; the only friends he ever had a chance at getting. And so he pushed through the grueling exercises, adamant to impress in order to find comforting companionship.
But one thing he was uncomfortably aware of, was that as soon as he made his dislike of sport known, he would be friendless. They were only interested in his talent, and so it was all they ever talked about. That, and updates on different sportsmen and athletes, refreshing the scores and thriving on collective victory. So when they no longer seemed to share that interest, John would be left alone, struggling in the stormy sea that was his teenage years.
Sixteen now, he hadn't even plucked up enough courage to tell his parents he didn't like sport. He had a feeling his mother had figured it out, but he couldn't bear to see the disappointment in his father's eyes if he spoke up. The man would get over it, but he did enjoy slapping his son's back after games, and taking his family out on celebratory dinners.
He knew he had to let them know some day, before they ship him off on a rugby scholarship or begin training him for the Olympics. He just didn't know how to express his passion for science, for biology and all it's information about the body. He didn't know how to tell them of his desire to become a doctor, to study medicine and be able to sign letters with Dr. Watson, M.D. He didn't know. And that was that.
Sometimes he wished he had Harry's confidence- she came out with gusto at just thirteen, proclaiming her sexuality with her hands on her hips. Their parents were shocked at first, but they recovered quickly and nodded, smiling. He thinks they had suspected all along.
If only he could own up to his near-hatred of sport, and then he'd be free.
But alone. Unfortunately.
So when his parent's announced he was moving to Baskerville boarding school, an academy renowned for sport and science, he withheld a groan; he'd have to get through the whole sporty friend-making process again. But then he perked up visibly, because of the latter title: Science. He could secretly concentrate on science without stressing his parents. Without them ever knowing he was striving to heal, and not drive into the ground.
Scowling, a curly haired boy watches his father's car speed off, half-pleased to be free of his inexplicably idiotic family and half-dreading the next days to come. It was two days until class started, and that meant orientation, mingling, and socializing. His inability to socialize was only partly his fault; if people would refrain from punching him on sight then maybe he'd get to the 'hello' part.
Sometimes, he wondered if his classmates actually knew his name. They called him 'freak' and 'psychopath' so often he was certain they thought these were the names he was christened with. Sometimes, he even believed that yes, that name was written somewhere on his birth certificate. Not that he ever told anyone it affected him.
Dragging his suitcase behind him, he offers a small smile to a red head by the door. He only receives a sneer in return, so he scowls, vowing not to try that again.
Ugh. Social niceties.
It started to drizzle as he made his way over to the looming grey building, that wasn't inviting in the slightest and sent shudders up his spine. The pathetic show of rain seemed to symbolise his life, so he glares at the approaching thunder clouds with disdain; extremely offended that the skies had decided to remind him of his miserable existence, summing up his insignificance in one dismal pathetic fallacy.
But he would be significant one day. He would be so bloody significant that if he were to die, the world would fall to its knees in defeat.
People would need him. And that's all he wanted. To be needed.
As he climbs the stairs to his dorm, several younger students back away, as if he carried a violently contagious disease. In all honesty, the only thing he possessed that separated him from his peers was his astounding intelligence; and if genius could rub off, then they should be throwing themselves at him. But, idiots will be idiots, so he withstands the mild shoves and hissing whispers as he reaches the top of the stair case. Heads pop out of doors to confirm the gossip- the freak has in fact arrived. He pierces each student with a calculating stare, deductions rolling about his mouth like sweets ready to be unwrapped. They're his only weapon, and so he will save his ammunition until absolutely necessary; should he be confronted with any outbursts of violence.
Fortunately, he makes it to his room unharmed. Rolling his eyes in what could have been victory but resembled something more like relief, he throws his bags onto his bed, dumping most of his things on his desk and tidily placing his clothes in his wardrobe. After his sock index has been established, he eyes the room- nothing much has changed. Carpet a dull red, beds a faded blue, and varnished desks scrubbed to almost a sterile quality. I wonder what unlucky fella is rooming with me this time he thinks sarcastically, slumping onto his bed and stroking his violin case. At least he wouldn't have to deal with them long- he can attain from the small amount of data he's collected previous years that most species of student will request a transfer within the second week. It's what everyone else does, so what makes this year any different?
Little did he know that this year was to be very different. Very different indeed.
When John walks into the dormitory building, everyone falls silent. Standing at the door, slightly dampened by the rain, he eyes the room, blinking when the students begin whispering and shooting him pitiful looks. Frowning, he makes his way over to the staircase, only to be stopped by a frizzy haired girl with a perpetual smirk on her face.
"John Watson?" She asks, her voice loud and tainted with a thick London accent. John nods, gulping and gripping his bags so tight his knuckles paled to bone white. "Ah, just came to wish you good luck."
"What?" John narrows his eyes, tilting his head in suspicion. "What would I need luck for?"
"You're rooming with the freak." She studies her nails, completely dismissive of the fact she just insulted a fellow student. "Don't worry, you can request a room change in ten days time."
"Who are you?" John says more forcefully this time, apalled by her apparent disregard for morals and other such lark. The girl striaghtens up, quite easily an inch taller than John, and pushes her tongue into her cheek.
"Sally Donovan," she states, holding her hand out. John doesn't take it; instead, he looks at it in clear disgust. Withdrawing it, she smiles, her grin cat-like and all the more unsettling. John peers over her shoulder- ignoring the fact he had to stand on tiptoes to do so- and sees the majority of the room witnessing the whole conversation. Widening his eyes, he ponders who exactly this boy could be, and why he had become so infamous. It wasn't every day you met someone who was ridiculed to the point of stardom, your name so unbecoming that you are granted a new one. He feels a pang of sympathy for his mystery room mate- no one deserves to be treated in this way.
"Well, Sally, I feel sorry for whoever's roomed with you," he snaps, pushing past her. "God knows I couldn't stand such a bitch."
There's a collective gasp, and John smirks, pleased with his comment. There's only a moment of silence before the room striked up conversation again; and John has to resist the strong urge to see Sally's face. He reckons it's priceless, because there are two students snickering, giving him a thumbs up and winking.
Well, at least not everyone's a total ass.
He takes out the key he had collected from reception earlier, grunting as he tries to balance all his bags while twisting the lock. For a split second, he marvels at the glinting gold letters on the door: 221B. The corners of his lips twitch up into a smile. Welcome to your new home, he thinks, before pushing through into the room.
Once over the threshold, he releases his bags with a loud moan of relief, kicking the door shut behind him. Dragging the bags slightly further into the room before leaving them with a dismissive grunt, he looks up, only then acknowledging the painfully skinny boy on the bed.
He had unruly dark curls against alabaster skin, and that alone was beyond mesmerising. His head was buried in a book, and he hadn't the courtesy to look up upon John's arrival. He had an air about him, one of silence and intelligence, but also of proclamation and reluctance. John could tell from just one look that the boy was important, but that didn't mean he had to have just one look. So he had several, glancing away but always being drawn back, like he couldn't help but watch the eclipse taking place on the bed; so bright and stinging but too mesmerising to tear your gaze from. Eventually these broken looks became constant, each blurring into one, gawping, stare.
Then he lifted his eyes from the page, and that's when John almost lost it. Blue, but green, but grey eyes regarded him coldly, washed out but almost luminous in the dismal room. John blushes furiously, very aware of how long he had been gazing at the boy. Ducking his head, he clears his throat, waiting until his face has cooled down before looking up shyly.
"Hi. I'm John, John Watson," he says, beaming at the face full of angles and cheekbones and colours of the sea. The boy puts down his book slowly, lifting himself from the bed with a captivating amount of grace. By God, he's tall, John thinks, and he notices the boy's slender frame once again. It's thin, very thin, and John worries for just a moment before he's drawn back up to his eyes, which are studying him almost cautiously. He doesn't take John's hand, and so the shorter boy drops it, his smile faltering.
"Sherlock Holmes," he says, his voice deep and unwavering. He speaks in a monotone, which John should have found unnerving, but didn't. Sherlock then turns, throwing himself onto the bed again with inexplicable fluidity (considering he was all spindly limbs and no muscle) and reopens his book.
John's about to go to his own bed, a little disappointed and hurt by his new room mates apparent hostility, when he's interrupted by the baritone voice once again.
"You should really tell your parents you don't like sport," he says.
A/N So okay, this is my first Teen!lock, and I hope you like it! Sorry if updates are slow, I will try and update as much as I can! Thanks for reading, and please leave reviews- I adore hearing from you!
-tapeandblades x