Hands on Education
Chapter one. New Beginnings
The sun was shining, the grass a vibrant green and the sky a clear blue peppered with fluffy clouds. He could hear birds singing, and Sherlock smiled and laughed happily.
'Sherlock.' It was his mother's voice, calling him from some unknown direction. 'Sherlock,' she called again.
'Mummy,' he replied. 'Mummy where are you?' he asked.
'Sherlock, where are you? Sherlock help me, I need you, I need you Sherlock, help me, help me Sherlock,' she cried. Sherlock began to panic.
'Where are you? Where are you, Mummy? I can't see you.' He looked round desperate for a glimpse of his mother. He ran, ran, and ran, tears stinging his eyes his stomach in knots from pure worry and desperation. He needed to find his mother, he needed to find mummy and help mummy, but he couldn't see her. Where was she? Why couldn't he find her? How could he help her if he couldn't find her?
'Help me, Sherlock. Help me.'
Sherlock woke in a cold sweat, the momentary relief that it was all a dream flooded him, that damn dream. He had had that blasted dream again. 'How many more times?' he wondered to himself. How many more times would he wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because of that blasted dream again? It was pitch black in his room, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the lack of light. Reaching over to his bedside table, he clicked a button on the small alarm clock that rested there. The light lit up the clock's face and told him the time was three in the morning.
He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, kicking the duvet off himself as it was making him much too warm, his bed sheets sticking to his sweaty skin. The old t-shirt he slept in felt clammy and damp with sweat as did his pyjama bottoms. 'The dream isn't real,' he reminded himself, 'its okay, you are safe now.' He stared round his room in the darkness, making out the shapes of his wardrobe and desk. The curtain was drawn across his window.
He so desperately wanted someone, anyone, to talk to. Staring up at the ceiling and running a hand through his curly hair, he was reminded how incredibly alone he was. He could always text Mycroft, but he didn't think his elder brother would want to be disturbed by his brother who had simply had a bad dream. Mycroft had run away to university as soon as he could. Sherlock didn't blame him, he longed to do the same thing and would have done nothing different had he been in Mycroft's place, yet he still felt the sting of abandonment. He resented his brother for doing what he longed to do. Hated that he had been the one left behind. He longed to grow wings, to one day just pack up his things and go, leave all this behind and just go. Oh god, how glorious that would be — to leave this small town behind. No more school or those imbeciles that were his class mates or the even bigger imbeciles that were supposed to be teaching him. They were all idiots, all small minded idiots, and he probably knew more than all of them put together. One day, he promised himself, one day he would leave, and he would see the world and everything in it. One day.
He had not told Mycroft about this reoccurring dream he had. He told no one. In fact, he told no one anything, keeping so many things close to his chest, so many secrets. A sixteen year-old boy carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even before she died, his mother used to remark that it was not right for a son to be so closed off from the rest of the world, but Sherlock had liked it this way, liked being alone and being dependant only on himself. Now it seemed he had no other choice. He had been this way for so long, he didn't know how to be any different. As if the wind had changed, and he was now stuck this way.
No one would understand, not his father or his brother or even the librarian, Mrs Hudson. He was entirely alone. He pulled up the duvet back round himself and tried to settle back to sleep. Not for the first time he wished there was someone in his bed with him. Not for sex, he had never had sex, he hadn't even kissed. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him or even spoke to him in an affectionate way. He was not like Moriarty who boasted to the rest of the school about his conquests, boasted that all he needed to do was say a few words to girls in those silky Irish tones and knickers would drop. He wore the love bites that littered his neck like a badge of honour. Sherlock groaned slightly. Thinking of Moriarty reminded him that the new school year started on Monday. No doubt, as soon as the first bell rang, St Bartholomew's would be filled with gossip about how Moriarty had spent the summer shagging for England. He seemed to see it as his personal mission to deflower the entire English countryside.
Maybe Moriarty would tease Sherlock for still being a virgin? He teased him about everything else: his unruly hair, his funny name, lanky limbs, non-existent social skills, even his dead mother. But, unlike other boys his own age, Sherlock didn't want sex. Well, he did, but just to see what it was like, just to experience what everyone kept banging on about. He didn't like having gaps in his knowledge, and he was curious about it he supposed. No, the reason he so desperately wanted someone in his bed was that he just wanted someone there to hold him, to put their arms around him and comfort him after a nightmare, to tell him everything was going to be alright. But there was no one, he was entirely alone. Sherlock Holmes, a solitary figure, a social outcast, alone, always alone, and he resigned himself to the fact he always would be.
'This is the last box,' John Watson promised, handing the removal man a brown box simply marked 'Kitchen.' His wife, Sarah, was loading up their car. Their dog, a Springer Spaniel named Poppy, was running around generally getting in everyone's way. She was young, barely out of the puppy stage, and very excitable. She kept barking and running through everyone's legs, almost tripping John up a few times. He thought it was funny, as if she could tell something very big was happening. She was not used to her now-adult body, occasionally tripping up over her legs. She had long ears, the same chocolate brown shade as the patches that covered her otherwise white fur. John loved her, he loved the big, bright, intelligent, brown eyes and her wet nose. He was grateful for Poppy; moving so far away didn't seem so daunting when he was taking something so familiar with him.
It was slightly odd, John thought as he looked at the removal van, seeing all these things, his whole life, packed away into neat little boxes. The house gutted of his presence so it was no longer recognisable, no longer felt like home. All he owned was in that van. An entire life brought down to a few pieces of soft furnishings.
John looked behind him at the house that had been his home for the past five years. He didn't want to leave, he loved London, loved the noise and the traffic, all the people and the constant hum of life. He would miss his friends, the coffee shops, monuments, museums, bars, restaurants, everything. He might even miss Harry though he barely spoke to her. He kept this to himself, of course. Sarah had already packed up and moved months ago, in her mind at least. Bakerford was nice, she kept telling him. They would love their new lives in a quiet, small town deep in the English countryside. It would be good, or so she kept telling him. She had accepted a position at the local surgery, and he had taken up a teaching post as the new biology teacher at the local secondary school. St Bartholomew's its name was.
'Ready?' Sarah asked.
'As I'll ever be,' he replied, smiling slightly, his fake reassuring smile that he seemed never to lose. Sarah's mother lived a few villages over from Bakerford, and the silly woman falling over and breaking her hip had started this whole 'let's move to the countryside' plan in the first place. Why Sarah wanted to be so close to her John did not know. She could still fall and break her hip if they lived in Bakerford, London, or bloody Timbuktu. He wanted to stay in London, he didn't want to be anywhere else, but Sarah was defiant.
'We'll be there by tea time,' Sarah commented then leaned over and kissed his cheek. She had promised to share the driving, and they would need to have regular breaks to stretch their legs and walk Poppy. They had given the removal men directions to their new address and set off.
It took them four hours to get there, their new home was a small, three-bedroom, red-bricked house just on the outskirts of the town. Small and cosy, just the way Sarah wanted to have it. It was a million miles away from their old house which was a new build, all shiny appliances, marble tops, laminated wooden floors, and spotlights in the ceilings. Magnolia replaced the white walls he was used to, and he would have to adjust to the dusty pink carpet that ran through the entire house.
The removal men arrived shortly after they did, and he left it up to Sarah to decide where they wanted their furniture placed. He simply made himself as useful as he could, carrying the boxes into their new house. He would leave all the actual unpacking for tomorrow, right now he felt tired and irritable. He wanted a good sit-down and a cold beer. Maybe even a small snooze, though he knew Sarah wouldn't let him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple approaching his front garden. The man, in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, had a head of silver hair. His wife looked a couple of years younger.
'Hullo.' She smiled at John. 'We're the neighbours,' she added cheerily.
'Greg Lestrade. This is my wife, Kate.' He reached a hand out, and John took it. The handshake was firm and strong.
'John Watson.' He smiled. 'My wife, Sarah, is in there somewhere,' he added as he gestured to the house.
'Nice to meet you, John. Welcome to Bakerford.' Formalities over with, they slipped into an easy conversation. He quickly learnt that Lestrade worked at the local police station and, because this town was small, it had a low crime rate so his job was actually pretty boring. He told John that he was goalie for the Sunday football team, and that John should try out as they were looking for new people. He also asked if John fancied coming along to the local pub, The Brown Bear, as it was quiz night on Fridays. John politely declined, but said he would next week. He didn't know why, but he immediately took a liking to this Lestrade fellow. Maybe living here wouldn't be too bad if all his neighbours were like this.
He took Sarah out that night, neither could be bothered to cook after the long journey and stress of moving. There was a small Italian restaurant called Angelo's in the centre of town. A smiling gentleman, who John assumed to be Angelo, greeted them.
'Haven't seen you before.' He shook John's hand a little too enthusiastically. He caught a slight East End accent, which reminded him of home. Angelo's itself was small and intimate, all soft lighting and rustic decor. He liked it. It was homely. No pretence, no pomp and circumstance, just a quiet little restaurant.
'We're new,' John informed him, slightly uncomfortable at being seen as an outsider. Clearly this town was one where everyone knew each other. He pined for London where even the most recognisable face could get lost amongst the crowds. He didn't like the idea of walking down the street and everyone knowing who he was and his business.
They took a table by the window and placed their order. He had a pizza, Sarah some sort of pasta dish and some wine.
'We are going to fit in here just fine,' Sarah said, squeezing his hand. John was not so sure but again said nothing.
The wine Angelo provided was good, he had a few more glasses through the meal and felt light headed and slightly drunk as they left. He giggled all the way home in the car and tripped slightly as he walked through the front door.
The wine coursing round his system made him bold as brass later that evening. As they changed for bed, ready to put this long day behind them, he kissed a trail up his wife's neck, running a tongue over the pulse and nuzzling into her neck, breathing in her perfume. He fondled her breasts slightly through her night clothes, pinching the nipples gently, wrapping another arm around her waist. He felt his cock stir to life.
'I think we need to christen this house,' he spoke suggestively. She sighed and lay down on the bed, plumping up her pillow with her hands.
'I'm tired. Maybe tomorrow. I have a light headache,' she trailed off a list of excuses. John sighed and turned out the light, lying down in the darkness.
'Typical, just typical,' he thought.
Sarah woke up early that morning. She let John sleep in and fixed herself breakfast. After a cup of tea and a few slices of toast, she decided to take Poppy out for her morning walk. As soon as she stepped out, she breathed in a deep breath, and the cool September air rushed into her lungs. Clean and crisp, not like the heavily polluted air of London. She walked with a spring in her step, excited at the start of her new life in the countryside. She knew her husband was not so keen on the idea, but she would convince him eventually. They were close to her mum. Family was more important to her than John, who barely spoke to his parents or his sister, Harry. Bakerford was nice, they could be happy here, maybe even start raising a family of their own. John just needed to give it a chance.
She was snapped out of her daydream by Poppy, who had taken an interest in a young man, running up to him and sniffing his hands and legs. He was leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette. A plastic bag lay at his feet filled with what looked like library books. That was odd she thought. Poppy was normally weary of strangers yet seemed perfectly at ease with this boy who was currently patting her head. She went in for a closer inspection. He was a teenager, fifteen, maybe sixteen. He had angular features and sharp cheekbones but otherwise a rather boyish face. He had a crop of rather unruly, curly, black hair and the most mysterious eyes Sarah had ever seen. They were blue or possibly grey or maybe even green, her mind just could not decide. He was tall despite being so young. He was almost six foot, but he didn't look comfortable with his size. He looked awkward, as if he was used to being much smaller. 'Growth spurt,' she thought with a smile.
'Hello.' She smiled brightly, greeting the boy. He looked up at her, she felt his gaze on her and marvelled at how it seemed to see everything all at once. It was almost unnerving.
'Hello,' he replied.
'This is my dog, Poppy.' He continued to pat the dogs head, she nuzzled her wet nose into his hand as a sign of affection. He tilted his head, paused for a few moments, then began to speak.
'You're new here. You're a doctor, only arrived here yesterday from London.' He went back to petting Poppy as if what he had done was nothing at all, as if he had just made a comment on the weather.
'Wow. How did you do that?' Sarah asked, amazed at the boys skill. He shrugged. Sarah had never seen anything quite like it.
'What's your name?' she asked.
'Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.' That was a funny name Sarah thought, but she was far too polite to mention it out loud.
'It's nice to meet you Sherlock. I'm Sarah. I say, do you go to St Bartholomew's?' It was not out of the question, he was the right age.
'St Bart's? Yes, I do. Why do you ask?' He raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if unused to anyone taking an interest in him.
'Oh, no real reason. It's just my husband starts work there on Monday. He is the new biology teacher. I'll tell him to look out for you.'
'Oh,' Sherlock replied, obviously uninterested. She couldn't blame him, she remembered her days as a schoolgirl. Summer holiday stretching out in front of her as if it would last forever, then the familiar dread of returning to school, ignoring anything vaguely school related even in the dying days of summer.
'I better be off. It was nice meeting you. Goodbye, Sherlock.' She smiled at him before continuing to walk. The young man nodded and gave her a small smile before going back to his cigarette.
She fully intended to tell John about her meeting with the strange boy when she returned, to tell him about how he had worked out everything about her just by a look. She knew John would call her crazy and that the boy had probably been told about them and that's how he knew, but there was something about this boy she just could not shake. She thought of him all the way home, but when she walked through the door and saw that mountain of brown boxes that needed to be tackled, she just forgot all about him. She forgot to tell John anything about their meeting this morning, and the name Sherlock Holmes was never uttered. John Watson was still completely unaware of his existence.
Sherlock didn't really like dogs, not usually. He didn't like the way they looked at you, as if they knew all your secrets with one glance. There was something about them, the way they looked at you as if they could see right into your very soul, that was quite unnerving. But he liked this dog, he thought to himself as he patted her. The brown eyes looked friendly and inviting. Brown and white fur, a spaniel of some kind. What had the owner said its name was? Poppy, that was it. And the owner? Sarah. She was called Sarah. Apparently her husband was due to start work at his school on Monday. The old biology teacher, Mr Turner, had retired at the end of term, so the woman's husband was obviously the replacement. Should be interesting, he supposed. School was always the same thing, day in, day out. It would be nice to have at least some change, some excitement, if only for a little while. Soon this new teacher would fade into the background and become part of the furniture, but, for now, while he still had the novelty of being new, he was a little bit interesting.
There was a slight spring in Sherlock's step as he walked towards the library. He spent most of his summer days here, staying away from home as much as possible, and he swung the plastic bag full of library books slightly. The library building, a small, compact, bricked building, was like everything else in Bakerford in that it looked old and slightly quaint, as if it should be painted on the lid of a chocolate box. He pushed those familiar doors open.
'Hello, Sherlock,' came a warm-sounding voice from behind the desk.
'Hello, Mrs. Hudson.' Sherlock smiled, genuine this time. He liked Mrs. Hudson. She was the only person in the entire world who seemed to like having him around. He handed her the books from the bag.
'I've come to give these back,' he said brightly. 'Anything new?'
'No, I'm afraid not.'
He pouted slightly. The library was his most favourite place in the entire world, but most of these books were as old as Mrs. Hudson! He settled himself into a familiar chair by the true-crime section. If there was one thing that fascinated him, it was these books. They were the only things that caught his attention for any length of time. He loved the murder cases and robberies and heists. The why never bothered him, people themselves were boring and tedious, it was the how that really captured his imagination. He loved the police procedure, dusting for fingerprints, looking at things under a microscope. Working everything out like pieces of a puzzle. It was all so very exciting. The excitement and danger of the big cities were a million miles away from the quiet boredom of Bakerford. He wished he lived in a big city. He loved these books, loved these cases, he loved the cold hard facts, felt safe amongst logic. Hours past, and he lost himself amongst the pages.
'Here you go dear.' Mrs. Hudson popped a mug of tea beside Sherlock. 'Brought you some tea, and I thought you might like these.' She handed over a little plate of biscuits.
'Thank you.' Sherlock smiled.
'Just this once dear. I'm your librarian not your housekeeper.' Sherlock gave a small chuckle, and went back to his book. Over the hours, she brought him some more cups of tea and even the odd sandwich or two until, alas, it was closing time.
He walked back down the winding streets towards home, hands in pockets, head down, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. He snuck down the streets like a ghost or a shadow. Walking up to his front door, he tried the door handle and gave a slight sigh of relief as he realised it was locked. That could only mean one thing — his father was not home. He would have the house to himself for a bit, and that filled him with joy. Being able to come home without having to step on eggshells or worry about his father's mood was nice. He whistled as he turned his key in the lock and walked indoors, hanging his coat up on the rack.
He wandered towards the kitchen, but, as usual, there was very little in terms of food. He made do with a glass of orange juice, an apple, and a couple of handfuls of dry cornflakes before wandering up to his room. Despite being alone, he walked as softly up the stairs as he could, out of habit more than anything else. He entered his room, his sanctuary. Light blue walls and bare essentials in terms of furniture, a single bed, wardrobe, a desk, and a bedside table. No posters or photographs, nothing personal, a few books scattered about and some items of clothing that needed to be put to wash, but nothing that gave anything of his actual personality away. It was sparse and rather bleak. Sherlock quite liked it this way.
Kicking off his shoes, he collapsed onto the bed, lying down and staring at the familiar spot on the ceiling. One more day then school would begin again. He was already dreading it. He remembered how it seemed he had all the time in the world, and summer stretched out for what felt like an eternity. Then suddenly the new school year had snuck up on him. He didn't want to go. There was nothing new they could teach him. He didn't want to see all his old teachers who he knew secretly sneered at the strange boy. He didn't want to do schoolwork, or homework, or exams or having to play rugby in the freezing cold. He didn't want to have to put up with Anderson and Sally Donovan snogging in the hallways, and, most of all, he didn't want to see Jim-fucking-Moriarty who, no doubt, would make his life miserable, as per bloody usual. He picked up his pillow, put it across his face, and screamed, the sound muffled by the material. He wished yet again he was far, far away from here.
He wondered what to do tomorrow, the last day of his summer holiday. It was a Sunday so the library would be shut. Maybe he could go somewhere on his bicycle? He had already been to the stationers to get some new pens and school equipment. His old bag had finally fallen apart, and he couldn't ask his father for money for a new one. He would never give it to him, and besides, that would go against the vow of independence he had taken. So he had snuck into Mycroft's old room and taken a black shoulder bag. It was big enough to hold all his school books and things. It was smart, black leather with two white stripes across the middle. He didn't know why Mycroft had left it behind, after all he had taken those ridiculous umbrellas. Then he remembered Mycroft commenting on how his old bag was falling apart and realised it had been left for him to find.
He decided to leave the decision of what to do till morning. Right now all he wanted to do was relax and enjoy the time he could spend without his father being around. He read one of his books, a dog eared copy of In Cold Blood (a present from Mycroft one Christmas), smoked a Marlboro Light out of his bedroom window, then took a long bath before getting ready for bed. His father returned minutes later, making an horrendous noise, so he took out his iPod (another relic from Mycroft), put the headphones in his ears, put on some music, and turned up the volume as loud as he could till his ears rang. He even hummed along, anything to drown out the sound of his father crashing about. He wondered if he would have that dream again and wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. He gave another brief thought to the woman he had met earlier that day and her dog, but only very briefly, then succumbed to sleep.
John woke up late on Sunday morning. It seemed he had spent the entire day yesterday unpacking, yet everything was still a mess. He wondered if it would ever end. Oh god, please let it end. If he saw another brown box he thought he would scream. Luckily for him, Sarah didn't start her job till next week. He hoped while he was busy at the school she would get it all done or at least give him a house which was remotely liveable. She was off visiting her mother. He'd declined the invitation and wondered why she had to leave so bloody early. It was eleven o'clock for god's sake, on a Sunday.
Poppy jumped up onto the bed and lay down beside him. He looked over at the clock again and realised that by this time tomorrow he would have finished his first two lessons. He felt another wave of nerves wash over him. It was a small school, only form groups in each year. He could manage that easily, but he still worried. As if by magic, as if she could read his thoughts, Poppy gave a small whine and nuzzled his ear, as if to say, 'Stop worrying. It's just new job nerves. You'll be fine, and, in a few weeks, you will look back and wonder what all the fuss was about.' She was right, as usual.
He spent the day lying around, wanting to savour having no stress at all, nothing to do and nowhere to be. He watched crap on TV, listened to the radio, read the paper, normal mundane everyday things. Nothing special. He stared outside his street occasionally and watched life go by. There was an old couple walking slowly down the street, one of them using a stick, their arms interlocking. A few families pushing prams around, taking their children to the nearby park. Some dog walkers and a young man with curly black hair riding his bicycle down the road. All very normal. All quite dull. He made tea and waited for Sarah's return, constantly wondering what the next day would bring.
A few streets away, in another house which may as well have been a different world, Sherlock Holmes also wondered what the next day would bring. He had cycled and cycled till he was exhausted. Cycled round the town then over the countryside, over hills and fields, through small surrounding villages. There was no particular direction or place he wanted to go, he just rode and rode, savouring the ache of his limbs as he lay in bed that night. Again his father came back late, and again he switched on his iPod to drown out the noise from downstairs. He ignored the noise and thought about the next day. He wished he could stop worrying about it. If he just kept his head down and kept to himself it would all be okay. Maybe things would be different this year? 'Yeah right,' he thought to himself. Yeah right, indeed.
Thanks to Marie for being my Beta.
