Beloved Silver
Chapter One: "I Just Found Out Looks Can Kill"
A/N: And I thought I had a few good years left before my midlife crisis. Guess not. Sometimes you just need high school Punk!lock, though. It will, however, deal with some subjects that may be triggering and/or too heavy for some of you, and although it won't appear in the first chapter, I will put warnings accordingly. This one is pretty clean, aside from some language.
Happy reading,
Kim.
The chapter title comes from "Daggers" by The Adicts (yes, that's how the band's name is spelled).
Sherlock began his day with a mistake. A series of mistakes, actually. He shouldn't have slept in, he shouldn't have left late, and he shouldn't have wasted time getting to class. Really, he shouldn't have gone to class, period. Because since Greg caught the flu, getting his seat in the back where no one else sat depended all on Sherlock.
Usually, he and Greg shared a table (which really was just a few desks cramped together for space purposes), and the other students didn't want to sit there with them for a number of reasons. The two would sit with four empty seats while the other tables crowded themselves to the limit with no room to spare, some students going as far as to pull an unoccupied chair from Sherlock and Greg's table and taking it to another.
But when he arrived, after arguing with the front desk about late slips for five minutes, the students had unevenly spread out all around, with no tables left empty—only seats at the tables.
Sherlock ambled past the teacher's desk and carelessly threw the late slip down in front of her, not even stopping to do so, and she scowled at him undoubtedly, without attempting to hide it. But after that, he stood away from her desk awkwardly and scanned the room, surveying to see who would be the least irritating group he could withstand for the next hour. It was an advanced chemistry class, Sherlock's favorite, after all, so he didn't have to worry about the going-no-where's, who he only had to deal with in the halls and at lunch.
Luckily no one watched him as he meandered around the classroom, endeavoring to look like he was going to take a seat, though he had no intention to do so. If only he could get away with doing it for the rest of the class.
"Sherlock," Mrs. Abney snapped as Sherlock stood in between the Rugby Boys and the Pretty Girl tables, enunciating every syllable and stretching the ones that were present. "Sit down." She had never liked him. Ever since the first day, when he (correctly) corrected her after five minutes of hearing her speak, she'd been out to get him. But the boy was simply unbreakable. You could give him twice as much work as the rest of the class, and he'd do twice that just to spite you.
Sherlock glanced between the two tables, the girls glowering at him, while the boys looked at each other with amused faces, then turning to Sherlock with another, rougher scowl. All but one, who moved his things from the only empty seat and smiled at Sherlock, a smile that seemed to apologize for his friends, and threw his head to the side to tell him to sit. He had kind, bright eyes, with an indiscernible color from this distance, and slightly messy blonde hair that glistened as the under the harsh fluorescent lights that mimicked the Sun in the aspect that they could probably blind you if you stare for too long, the light almost shining through it, it was so thin and light.
Sherlock didn't trust him. He recognized him from all of the rugby pictures and news, even though Sherlock knew nothing about the sport and never attended a game. He was the type of kid who teachers would give a cut to their workload just to let them help with something "important", like sorting books or going down to the lunch room to pick up lunch for the entire staff. Sherlock resented those kids. Not because he wanted it for himself—God, no—but just because he was bitter about special treatment.
With trepidation and an untrusting, yet quick, glare in the boy's direction, Sherlock sat in the empty seat, pulling it away from the table and sitting on the edge of the chair with his whole body hunched forward and his arms wrapped around his own small frame. He could have put his things on the table in front of him like everyone else, but he decided to try and balance it all in his narrow lap instead.
The rugby table usually got called down every day for disrupting the class, whether it be talking too loudly or having a paper wad fight, much to Sherlock's dismay and annoyance. But now they sat in silence, all previous conversation dispersing like air from a balloon. One looked like they were going to say something, until the sound of a hideous tapping on a microphone sounded from above, the microphone now screeching, causing some students to plug their ears and curse.
Someone at the front office whose name was probably Vicky droned on and on through the morning announcements, talking about upcoming events that no one cared about. All Sherlock could hear was the faint whistling sound of the cheap microphone in the background and the sound of heavy breathing into it. He could imagine it, soaking wet and confined in a hot, stuffy room with barely enough air to breathe. For once, it relieved him because even if it only lasted a few minutes, he could look at the floor and forget where he was.
"Why the fuck would you put a needle through your eyebrow and nose?" one boy called after the announcements were over and coversations began to heat back up, spreading like fire across the classroom, whistling once and snapping a few times to get Sherlock's attention, which he did not receive. "Are you even listening to me?"
Sherlock blinked a few times before returning to reality and lifting his head to find four unnaturally handsome faces looking at him, a few snickering. He didn't answer and looked down again, playing with a loose white string on his blue school blazer. Royal blue blazers with white trim, a white shirt, a matching blue tie, and black trousers. They all looked like sailors in their uniforms.
"He's not gonna talk to you, mate. He's mute or something."
"Not when he wants to talk shit," another boy mumbled, earning Sherlock another few glares.
Then he heard the blonde boy, Jack or something (Jared? Jacob?), clear his throat and tried averting their eyes, as he didn't look at Sherlock at all, even though he was right next to him. "Right, so, the homework last night . . ."
Sherlock offered his thanks with his eyes while the other boys dug through their abyss of a bag, and the boy nodded and smiled softly.
The other boys got out the homework and talked about it for a while. Well, they copied each other's answers that they got off the Internet and filled in the gaps. They had one answer wrong, and Sherlock bit his tongue trying not to say anything about it, and he hadn't even used the Internet on it.
"So, John," the boy who tried to get Sherlock's attention earlier said with a smirk. He's a handsome guy, until he opens his mouth. First, you see the strong jawline and muscular arms, with deep, foresty green eyes and dimples. But then you hear his screeching, judgmental voice shout homophobic language at you in the hall, and it's all shot to hell. "You see Sarah last night?"
John smiled politely and shrugged. He obviously felt indifferent about this girl, Sherlock noted. "Yeah, she wanted me to go to dinner with her. I did."
"Well, you sound thrilled about it," another boy with dark hair and glasses said sarcastically.
Another shrug, this time putting his pencil down and resting his arms on top of the table and cradling his face with his hands. "I just don't think Sarah's right for me, you know? Like, it doesn't feel right to me."
"That's what you said about the last one," Homophobe said.
"And the one before that."
"And the one before that one, too."
John swatted at the chorus of voices who continued on. "Yeah, I know, I get it. Now shut up." He sighed. "Do you think I should stop talking to her completely?"
The boy with the glasses bit his lip, but laughed, despite his best efforts, along with the others. "You do know that she's been going around telling everyone—and I mean everyone—that she's dating John Watson, right?"
"What? We've hung out together three times. And that's all it was: hanging out."
"Which is why you've got to string her along for at least another week," Glasses Boy said. "Who knows? You might actually like her. It's always awkward at first."
"Plus, you might get a good shag," Homophobe suggested.
John rolled his eyes at that. "I'm not going to have sex with her if I know I'm going to break up with her."
Sherlock couldn't help but have the ghost of a smile play at his lips. He found it rather noble of John. Not many people were like that, especially the kids like Homophobe who fucked at any chance they were given. He had probably shagged the female population of students in its entirety, and no one batted an eyelash.
"You're fucking stupid, John."
"Maybe," John said. "But I don't have any children or STDs, so."
"Oi, neither do I, you wanker."
John smiled, the light now not only focusing on his hair but on his teeth, glimmering on it and illuminating his whole person, and it was the best thing Sherlock had seen all day, surprising himself, as he pushed the thought away, cramming it into the very back of his mind, buried under all of his other thoughts, but it kept fighting through and climbing back to the surface, only to be pushed back again.
"Didn't say I was talking about you, but if you have something you want to talk about . . ."
"Whatever," he quickly interrupted, earning another smile from John. "I'm going to do my work now like a good little boy because Abney keeps staring, and it's freaking me out. You can work with Holmes." He had whispered it with a smirk, but John didn't return the gesture, and Sherlock had to hold back a sigh of relief.
John simply shrugged again and turned to Sherlock, smiling brightly again, although not with his teeth as he had done a few seconds ago, the one that struck a chord in Sherlock's mind and sent it into anarchy.
"Do you want me to work with you? I doubt you'll need my help, or anyone else's, for that matter."
Sherlock held back a grin and settled with curving the corners of his lips ever so slightly. He noticed that he was intelligent. Actually noticed and didn't mock him or hate him for it.
"Well, I missed the instructions, apparently, so you can help me with that."
John leaned in slightly so he could actually hear the boy in front of him. He must have only wanted John to hear him speak, as it always became an opportunity for students to gawk and whisper whenever he actually spoke more than a word or two.
His voice initiated a feeling of mild insecurity in John as he listened to the low, sultry sound and compared it to his own voice. Even Sherlock's voice sounded smart, which was another thing for John to now be self-conscious of, especially since he wanted to be a doctor, and if this is what London had to offer, he would be doomed to a life of poverty.
"Right, well, it's just a worksheet. If you need help with any of the questions—"
"I disagree with the idea that you should lead Sarah on," he abruptly said, still only speaking loudly enough for only John to hear, which wasn't that difficult in the now quite loud classroom, and he looked John in the eyes. The color of his eyes were just as complex and layered as he was, with blue, green, gray, and even some brown around the center swirled around, putting John in a trance. "And although I respect your morals of not having any sort of sexual relations with her, it's incredibly inane of you to let someone else decide the duration of the relationship for you. Obviously, this girl has some sort of importance to your family, maybe your parents know each other, and you're feeling obligated to date her." He stopped and looked John up and down before nodding slowly and grinning. "No, I have it now. She doesn't hold importance to your family; they don't even know each other, and you don't plan to introduce her. This is an experiment for you. You're hoping to prove . . . something to yourself."
John stopped breathing for a few seconds until his brain suddenly scolded him and reminded him that he needed air to live. He said so little, but he had said so much. And he'd been vague, but he knew that Sherlock was only doing that because he didn't want to announce it to everyone, surprisingly. Sherlock always knew, and if he could tell what time a teacher went to bed two nights ago what they had for breakfast that morning, he knew what John was trying to prove to himself.
"Um, I suppose so. We were set up by friends. I'm still not sure whether I'm completely interested or not. But she is. Very much so, honestly. I guess I'm worried about hurting her."
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and focused on one of the flickering lights on the ceiling, as if staring at it intensely enough would finally put it out of its misery and make it burn out. "She doesn't really like you. She just likes the attention she's getting because of you."
With a sigh, John said, "You're probably right."
"Not probably. Definitely."
Another, deeper sigh. "You're definitely right."
Sherlock smiled again, softer this time, and it actually managed to look delicate. "And I thought today would be a bad day."