John's POV
I feel like my body has shut down. My mind keeps hiding its thoughts, my heart keeps hiding its feelings, my eyes keep altering my view, and my lungs continue concealing each breath. I roll to my side, revealing my bedroom to my wary soul. Yet another attempt failed. I groan to myself as I go to sit hunched over, hearing each bone in my body snap into place as I do so. Glancing at the alarm clock, I note the time to be 5.23 in the morning. 'Why bother going back to sleep?' I ask myself. 'I have to be up in an hour anyway.' I stand in the darkness of my room, desiring it to swallow me once and for all. Climbing over the sheets I have tossed on the floor from the previous nightmare, I reach my small, overly-bright restroom. The lights sting my eyes, so I flinch from their rays, stumbling over my laundry basket and into the wall. I check around to see if anyone had witnessed the embarrassment that is me. You idiot, of course no one saw you. All the normal people are sleeping right now. Sometimes I with I would stop breathing. But alas, every attempt fails. The rope snaps. The blade breaks. My parents find me. Why do I have to be here? Why do I have to keep trying if I don't want to anymore? How is suicide selfish? Other people want me to stay, completely disregarding how I feel, yet I'm the selfish one. I shove the thoughts from my head. It's better not to feel. Feelings mean pain, and Lord knows I have enough of that.
I disrobe, looking at my bare form in the mirror briefly, before stepping into the burning shower. I have the water as hot as it will go, and I sit on the floor, letting the piercing drops cut through my already open wounds in attempt to wash each and every scar away. By the time I get out, the water has been cold for a while. I wrap a towel around my waist and drag my legs out of the lit room and into the dark one. Some light is leaking though the blinds, but not much. I dry myself off in a much to thorough way and dress in my clothing for school. I have my red and navy plaid blouse with my navy blue sweater vest. But where are my trousers? Not able to find the jeans I was looking for, I settle for a pair of casual looking khakis. I then look to the clock for the first time since my shower and realise it is now 7.49. "Shit!" I think to myself "I'm going to be late!" I flatten my hair with one hand as I attempt slipping my red converse on with the other. All this multitasking manages to do is force me from my bent over, strange position, to a face-planting one on the floor. I actually fell though my half-opened bedroom door and into the hall where my mum stood, giving me a look of bazaar questioning. We made eye contact for a second before I rolled into a sitting position, fixed my shoes, and stood up. Grabbing my book bag, I ran out of the house without saying a word.
I ran to my bus stop, only to see the bus pulling away. I sigh to myself and decide to walk to school instead. Putting my ear buds in, I press play on my iPhone and start the trek to hell. The lyrics sounding through my cluttered head seem to fit my mood perfectly. The song playing is I'm Not Okay by My Chemical Romance. "Oh well, I breath to myself, at least I have 7 hours of learning ahead of me." My sarcasm is practically visible as I spew the words from my tongue and into the atmosphere.
I reach school and the typical taunts begin. I hear a few of them over slight breaks in my music. They include the words "faggot", "gay lord", and "nerd". Honestly, if you want to bully me, at least try to be a bit creative. Hearing the same cliches over and over is quite tedious to be truthful, though I don't mind being teased and taunted. However, there is one boy that gets on my nerves. That boy is Greg Lestrade. He isn't even mean, but rather overly kind. So much so that he seems to be mocking you. I admit, I do have a bit of a trust issue, but tell me it's not suspicious when you are obviously hated at school, and a perfectly okay, sport-playing guy walks up to you and starts being kind. I would rather deal with being called faggot and shoved in my locker than have to juggle that with someone deciding to be nice. Besides, I learned my lesson last time someone was kind to me. Jim Moriarty was kind. He strung me along as his friend, then humiliated me in front of the whole school. He switched my clothing when I was in phys ed, so when I came back all sweaty from a rugby match, I had nothing to wear but a pair of pink booty shorts that said 'bootylicious' on the back and a skin-tight white v-neck tee-shirt. That's why all this faggot stuff comes up to this day, an entire year later.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the school bell. At least I won't be late on the first day back. Until, as I should have guessed, Anderson and Moriarty lock me in my locker, leaving me with a high five and a douche bag sounding laugh. Oh well, at least it's my locker this time, and not that weird Mycroft guy's that was three grades ahead of me. I sigh for what seems like the twelfth time today and slide down the narrow walls of my newly found, yet depressingly familiar prison. When I reach the ground I mumble "This is going to be a long term." Until I hear someone just outside my locker door. They lean against it and ask if someone is in here. I jump up in excitement, hitting my head on the forgotten low roof atop of me. "Y-Yes! Please help me out! The code is 36-22-28!" I then hear the lock twisting and soon open. I clumsily fall out, accidentally tackling the person that helped me escape. I landed with my face on their stomach. I turned so red that the colour itself couldn't compare to my face. The kind person slid out from under me and stood up gracefully, reaching out a hand to help me up. I was about shoulder hight to them. They wore black skinny jeans with a baggy, dark purple jumper. They were pale with cheek bones that could cut something and a raven coloured mop of thick, curly hair. A few pieces fell onto their face and over the electric storm clouds of eyes that burned a hole through mine. Realising I was staring, I broke the silence. "I-I-I'm John. John Watson. Thanks for helping me mate." I reached out my hand, but this figure merely looked at it before continuing with a smirk and the words,
"Hello. I am Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." They seemed to be mocking me, but in a playful way. Their voice is neither masculine nor feminine, but that's probably because they look like they are only 11. I suddenly notice that I have no clue if this is a boy or a girl I'm talking to. I give them a quick look-over again, searching for any sign of gender, but I found none. Then I remember they told me their name. Sherlock. What an unusual name. Then an idea hits me.
"Sherlock? Isn't that a girl's name?" I cheekily smile, hoping they don't take it in the wrong way.
"Depends on your opinion." They reply. Damn it. Still clueless. Whatever, I guess it doesn't matter.
"So where are you off to Sherlock?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. They reply,
"Advanced Maths. How about you?" Okay, they're clever. At least we have that in common.
"With Mr. Messer?" Sherlock looks shocked but replies with a nod. "That's where I'm heading right now. Want to walk there together, seeing as we're both officially late?" I suggest, trying not to sound too needy. I'm just intrigued by this being. Curious, if you will, to learn more about them and what made their eyes turn such a hardened colour. They don't reply, but we continue walking together anyway, so I guess this person can tolerate my presence.
When we reach the classroom, we can luckily sneak to our seats without the instructor noticing. We sit right next to each other in the back corner with an empty table by us in all directions. Good, nobody to disturb our future conversations. I glance at Sherlock, who seems to be texting, and think maybe this year won't be so bad after all. Perhaps I thought it too loudly because as soon as the thought crossed my mind, Sherlock gave me a strange look, almost like I was eating a kitten. After a while though, they turned their attention back to texting and I turned my attention to figuring out how to think in a much quieter fashion.
